The Lightest Balance
Spain. First light.
The van door cracks open. Sunlight floods the inside of my house-on-wheels; ripples bouncing and quivering off the silver insulating foil like shimmering fish. Yellow beams of light punch through the gap made by the sliding side door. Dust ignites as it enters the rays, spinning, floating… then vanishing again. The only sound is birdsong. The world wakes.
I rise from sleep and roll my hands in the warmth of the yellow beams. I feel the skin prickle, like the first sunshine on my face after several days spent in the shade of a mountain. It almost feels like life is being breathed back into cold lungs.
***
In recent years, I’ve cumulatively spent months in Base Camps, waiting for good weather in the mountains. I’ve felt my muscles slowly waste away due to inactivity, as I sat hunched in a tent, heavy snow pressing down. Much of my time in India a few years ago with Uisdean Hawthorn and Will Sim was spent in just such a tent, listening to JJ Cale, drinking coffee and saying things like, ‘well… this is a punch in the dick!’
Aching legs and heaving lungs take the brunt of altitude, paying the debt for climbing high. In these moments, despite the thousands of pounds and weeks of traveling to get here, I secretly long for sport climbing in Spain; warm fingers wrapping small crimps above the comfort of bolts.
After many trips, I’ve plunged back into the purely enjoyable activity of rock climbing. But I must have a short-term memory (or rose-tinted glasses), as I’ll soon feel the draw of the high mountains again.
After my trip to Pakistan in autumn 2019 with Ally Swinton, Will Sim, Uisdean Hawthorn and John Crook, I felt ready to go into the mountains immediately afterwards - but I knew I should consciously take it easy. Ally and I had climbed a new alpine route on Koyo Zom (6877m), in the remote Hindu Raj region. When we reached the summit on the fifth day, I reflected on how lucky and satisfying our ascent had been. Our simple exchange summed it up: ‘I’m fucked! That was mega!’
Ally and I had climbed mixed corners, gloved hands pulling on glued-in flakes of granite. ‘It’s like dry tooling with your hands,’ we’d say. ‘Just don’t let go!’ Bullet-hard ice at 6000 metres made me glad we’d brought a small file to sharpen our axes and crampons every evening. ‘How about a rest day tomorrow?’ we joked in the second evening on the route.
Finally, we’d spent two days sneaking through an enormous headwall as the evening sun bathed us; for a brief moment, I tip-toed in my rock shoes in 3D steepness, bridging with hundreds of metres of air beneath me. ‘This is incredible - just like Gogarth! Let’s go Gogarth!’ I shouted into the wind. Bare hands crimped, just like in Spain, and I revelled in the rarity of our position - technical climbing on a new route in Pakistan, at over 6000 metres!
The descent, however, is another story, and I’ve already written about it elsewhere. After Ally was injured whilst falling into a crevasse, we were rescued the following day by Pakistani Army helicopters. I’m glad Ally has a tough head and mind, and we were both relieved to meet up with Will, Uisdean and John back in Islamabad after returning from the mountains. After flying home and taking it easy, I figured Spain would be a good place to start the next trip.
***
Back in the UK, under Manchester airport’s unwelcoming grey skies, I picked up my van. Sliding open the side door, I threw three enormous duffle bags inside, then two red rucksacks. I paused as I put the key in the ignition, wondering if this’d be the time the van died. I was pleasantly surprised when the engine burst into life - at least one of us was awake after the travel and jet lag - and I rubbed my eyes, turning the wheel towards North Wales and home.
A week later, and I’d almost unpacked. Peanut butter, hot showers and techno had distracted me from the bags, and the climbing wall welcomed my focus. I threw myself back into rock climbing, knowing a return to fitness must be created, not simply expected, and punted off most of the routes at the Beacon wall. It turns out spending eight days in the mountains (the last two with little food or water) isn’t great for your crimp strength! At home, I booked a ferry to Europe in a month’s time. Then I walked out to the van, slid open the door, and pulled out the last duffle bag.
***
The van door opened. It was another perfect day in Catalunya; with blue, cloudless skies and tarmac already warm to bare feet. I feel so happy with this sport climbing lifestyle - what’s not to like?! After tea, breakfast, coffee, reading, and then music, I stretched ‘tops off’ in the sunshine. Far away, past the olive groves and still-sleeping village, a chainsaw buzzed lazily, working in the pine forest.
Later, at the crag. From our perch beneath the Montsant escarpment, Adam, Angus and I could see windmills wave in the distance. Raptor vultures thermal overhead like stealth bombers, and I imagine they’re waiting to pluck a climber from the cliff face. Quickdraws and white dots marked the way to the top of the wall, 50 metres above our heads, and we repeatedly threw ourselves up - and off - the route, taking turns.
Amongst the sandbags and encouragement we’d given each other over the past month, there were a few favourites. Adam said ‘I guarantee you’ll flash this’ in Margalef - I fell off. I said ‘the crux is fine’ in reply… and his elbows rose to the sky. I blamed my shoes, the freezing fog, too much climbing, not enough climbing at various stages of the trip, and Angus’s Brummie accent sent me into fits of laughter.
Adam - tanned, strong and looking far younger than his years (was it only tanning cream he applied?) - refined his beta, figuring subtle ways to improve each hand and foot movement on the 8a+. Angus, suffering from a cold, put in impressive redpoint efforts, before falling off and complaining about how weak he was. He’d then cruise to the top of the 8b+ extension, saying ‘it’s a shame this route is so good!’
James McHaffie even turned up to stoke the fire (and take the piss), enthusiastically saying, ‘that’s too hard for you lads!’
Although contentment is found at the chains, we all know climbing in the sunshine is the good life. Even ‘failure’ is still enjoyable and gives us a chance to improve our sequences, get stronger, or admire the view whilst hanging on the rope. Sport climbing is a relatively safe, casual activity, especially when compared to alpine climbing in Pakistan. Of course, I’m pissed when my time runs out and I can only climb the 8a+, falling at the first crux of the extension. But I know I’ll be back, and thankfully this route isn’t likely to fall down any time soon.
***
The van door opened. The French town of Sallanches greeted me with slushy snow and grey clouds which brooded over the limestone peaks up the valley. The drive north from Catalunya was long - I slept most of the way - but eventually I rumbled off the autoroute and into the quiet maze of streets and alleys near Chamonix. Dust from Catalunya fell onto the wet pavement as I pulled out duffle bags and skis - when I’d packed my van in North Wales last November, I had planned to be away for four months. Gear was stashed in four countries, a grand plan for non-stop climbing.
Ben’s incredible house was my base for climbing in the Alps during February and March. I moved my bags into the traditional wood-lined rooms and lit the stove, rubbing my hands in the glow of the fire. It was a contrast to travel from warm, sunny sport climbing… to the big mountains as soggy snow fell outside. I was incredibly glad not to be staying in my van during these months; Ben’s generosity in letting me stay at his place was as warm as the house. I’m still cheered - particularly in the current (corona virus) climate - at the friendship we climbers show each other, united by adventures and the knowledge that life is better shared.
In typical fashion, I was able to climb plenty of day routes and train as much as possible, but the weather in the mountains remained mixed. Chamonix’s bars welcomed us in, then kicked us out into the rain again. I tried to make the most of everything, exploring more areas of France and sleeping on the beach when we cruised to Italy for sport climbing. I was also pleased the event I helped organise (a winter meet for the UK’s mentorship program) went smoothly.
Finally, in the middle of March, a high pressure system blossomed onto the forecast. ‘At last!’ I thought, psyched to be going big in the mountains. But like a storm cloud over your shoulder, the corona virus grew and grew. Italy shut down; I still rationalised I could go into the mountains. The US closed it’s borders; I still hoped I could go to Alaska with Uisdean in April. It wasn’t until French President Emmanuel Macron addressed the nation on Monday evening that I resigned myself to my fate. At 9pm, with my alpine climbing bag ready and waiting, I knew which way the scales of fate had finally tipped. I slid open the van door and began to pack up the house…
***
Calais. The van door opens. The French security guard, gloved finger resting uneasily on the trigger of his rifle, looks inside my van. His face visibly sneers, nose turned up: bags, boots and boxes are all jumbled together, a complete mess of ‘throw-everything-in-the-van’ packing. Yesterday afternoon, I was hoping to spend a week in the mountains. I’d wanted and waited all winter for this. Now, on the day France goes into lockdown, I’ve boosted back to Calais in the glorious sunshine, catching a slow ferry home.
The guard nods and finally, slowly… I slide the van door closed.
