Meanwhile as fate reared it’s ugly head, I was debating to myself the merits of sport climbing over bouldering±. I’ve heard all the arguments for and against. “If you’re into difficulty, why not just go bouldering? It’s more convenient”. “Routes look cooler”. “Get strong bouldering and you’ll get to look good down the wall”. I always liked Alan Cassidy’s idea that it was down to the amount of perceived effort upon topping out. You can try a 2 move boulder problem a thousand times but when you finally stick the hold, your muscles can instantly relax and you’re left wondering why on earth you fell off so many times. It felt easy when you did it. Compare this with a burn at your limit on a route. When you come off you’re so pumped that you’re incapacitated for the rest of the day. So instead of 10 seconds of maximum effort and 2minutes of recovery time you put in 1000 seconds of maximum effort and need a day or more to recover from it. I agree completely but in the wider scheme of things than just climbing the difference between a good and a great experience is not just down to perceived levels of muscle fatigue. I think amazing experiences (as opposed to good ones) are about turning a traumatic episode into a positive one. Losing my virginity was pretty traumatic as was redpointing my hardest sport route.
Enlightened, now knowing that to have an amazing experience I must first have a traumatic one it makes sense to go trad climbing in search of that supremely traumatic moment to escape from. Luckily this won’t be hard or dangerous as I’m afraid of heights and gear placements.
For these reasons, I found myself getting up at 5am on Saturday to head to the Cairngorms. Geoff reckoned that the shelterstone would be too cold and suggested we check out Lochnagar to do Eagle Ridge... a severe! Pah I thought. It had better be cold else we might decompose on route. When we get there I’ll persuade him to do Black Spout Wall instead I thought to myself.
The two hour walk in was pleasant if a tad chilly and the crag looked amazing; a super atmospheric snow choked juggernaut playing shy in the clouds. On reaching the snow slopes we were relieved to find them soft enough to kick steps in with our trainers. Climbing on all fours we made quick progress up the slope before the hot aches kicked in really badly. The English language isn’t complete enough to describe how bad they were as pain like that isn’t normally experienced in the west and when it is it usually isn’t talked about¥. I really couldn’t imagine myself making it through. I wanted to curl up and die, quickly. What was I thinking with this search for trauma. Trauma is unpleasant. It’s not fun. Surely there’s enough trauma to be found training in the psychedelic asphyxiation chamber that is Alien Rock 2. I’m just not looking hard enough. What about the hall of mirrors freak show that is the weights gym? It didn’t matter. No matter how hard I tried I was stuck in the only reality the then present moment could offer-a freezing, dripping Bergschrund prison, my hands being fed to piranhas as my mind became infested with misery. We wanted off the mountain. So off we went, escaping up the severe, leaving my icy grave behind.
We topped out chilly but alive having excelled at route finding (found the true line- a better route than that pesky guidebook suggests). Arriving back at the car was lovely as was our well deserved chippy. Team Girl arrived back several hours later. I’m certain death would have set in if I’d had to spend another 3 hours on that route. Well done not dying Clare, Helena and Steve. Now that I’m home looking back on my day out it wasn’t really that bad although next time I think i’ll look for trauma somewhere warmer.
±People often ask me why I walk everywhere instead of catching the bus. The truth is I ponder these hugely consequential questions which, to most, appear inane. Some call it day dreaming (thinking outlawed by state education) and walking on my own is often the only time I get to wallow in my favourite past time without fear of punishment. Incidentally this is why I lost interest in going to Art College. Having always seen Art as a physical manifestation of my day dreaming it was depressing to discover that it was no different from anything else under capitalist education. Graded for how close you could get your work to a tried and tested idea so unoriginal it might just be commercial. For similar reasons the apparent academic cream of the crop are suckered into studying things like medicine where they are taught not to think and are manufactured into automated response robots who support the free market. And why? To protect a. The minds of a fearful hypochondriac nation and b. capitalist society from dangerous thoughts.
p.s. I do not support a violent revolution.
¥Clearly the English language needs a new word. How about- Kruntchsknorve /crunt-sh-norve/ > noun The worstest pain in the world. Previously indescribable-any other word for pain merely describes a lethargic, barely recognisable, relative of kruntchsknorve.