Scenes from climbing at Seneca the other weekend, after I had dropped my camera. This is us cooling down in the swimming hole/river (I’m wearing a cowboy hat, Boer’s holding his camera).
COMING UP NEXT – The much-anticipated arrival of my brand new camera.
You realise what a fragile grip you have on your climbing lead head, when you start up the third pitch of a climb, stick your head out around a corner, and are confronted with a large shiny, sticky pool of congealing blood. It’s bright red still, with flies crawling around it. It’s also exactly where you need to go. You’re 40 metres up the climb already – you knew there was blood somewhere up here, and you knew the guy was fine – he just nicked his ankle apparently, you’d heard him yelling down to his belayer about it. You just weren’t expecting quite so much of the stuff.
He and his partner kept climbing – oh, they certainly did, as there is blood sprayed all over the rest of the pitch. Gingerly following a trail of blood, and trying not to get too queasy as you look down at the rope below you, and the swathes of blood zoom into focus, multiplying. Suddenly everything seems a lot harder. It seems like you’re looking into the future every time you look down, and the pool of blood lying there is yours, waiting for you to fall and create it. Dizziness overtakes you as the queasiness from all the blood goes to your head. You clasp the rock in front of you – it’s still cool from the morning. Your helmet rests against the rock, as you try and calm down, and return to the task at hand.
The climb is supposed to be a 5.5 … well that’s about a 10 in Australia. Even taking into account the Seneca sandbagging, the moves you are looking at doing seem a lot harder… more like 16? Your hands are sweating, and you have no chalk. You look down and across to work out where the traverse is supposed to go, there should be an easier way – oh, there’s the blood again. Getting it together for a minute, letting your belayer know to watch you, you haul yourself through a few more moves, get some more pro in, backed up with one of the ubiquitous dodgy pitons. The traverse here doesn’t look any better. And look, more blood. The sun has moved over, and you lie there, hugging the rock, and wondering what the hell you’re doing there.
A few hours later you’re standing in the river at the bottom of the crag. You got off the climb ok. Everyone is fine. It wasn’t one of the days you climb for, but right now the river is cool, and you can stand here watching the ripples in the water, and nothing else matters.