CRAGGIN'
In Canberra, on a cold winter's day you can drive out to Booroomba through fog, the air crisp and cool as you wind up the valley. Yet magically, as you walk up from the car to top camp you rise above the greyness. Out in the sun on the North Buttress slabs, looking down on a sea of cloud that entirely covers the city; only the syringe-like Black Mountain tower rises above the mist. Not that climbing above a carpet of what looks likes cotton wool balls convinces you that a fall here on granite would be gentle. On arriving back in the city people are surprised to see your sun burnt face, when they haven't seen the sun all day. You wear a big grin, charged with the beauty of the day, everyone else, flu ridden from office air conditioners, stressed out from Canberra anti-traffic, bored with the grind wears a dour frown.
Patrick and I would occasionally ride out on his bike to local Canberra crags, spend the whole day lying around talking, and then ride back without ever putting our boots on. It was not the act of climbing that was important, merely the act of escaping from the city, work, whatever. The only muscles used all day were those of the face from smiling and laughing and the sphincter from gripping the bike seat on the winding mountain roads.
Not everyone gets to climb Everest or Punks (although lately it has seemed like it). It is in the day to day, or week-end to week-end, experience of climbing that most of us find pleasure. And there are few joys like a day out craggin with a few good friends. I swear I've never laughed as much as when sitting around in the sun at the base of some small cliff, my stomach doing the `just tied the harness on - putting off the inevitable - could hurt myself here' jig. And a bottle of port and a ghetto blaster never went astray.
I remember a day at black hill with Ian and Charlie. The latter and I, creatures of immaculate fashion sense (not to mention breeding) were ribbing Ian about the fact that he was wearing a helmet. "You look just like Chris Baxter" was the worst insult we could think to throw at him, erudite as we are (or think we are at least). Charles was intrigued by a boulder with one solitary bolt way up high, a slick slabby sort of thing that we didn't know whether it had been done or not. Keen to show off his poise and balance and fashion sense he strapped on the foot cripplers and headed up the slab; delicately. Ian and I amused ourselves by singing rewritten Beatle songs like "Imagine there's no bankcard" and "All we are saying, is get pissed and dance." and throwing pithy witticisms at Charlie like "You're going to die."
About a metre from the bolt Charlie's boots decided that friction was a concept they were prepared to accept no longer, and skated off. Charlie, runnerless, started to slip and in mid air, cat like, turned and grabbed a branch of a tree that leaned against the cliff. The branch, all three metres of it and several inches thick, snapped off quietly and followed Charlie in a long sliding fall to the ground, neatly breaking over his helmetless head.
Another time up at Ben Cairn four of us decided we would be Kim Carrigan for the day! This was back in the days when Kim was the tallest poppy of all. So four Kim's piled out of a blue Kombi and made the epic walk up to the cliff. There were a couple of young guys on something, obviously easily impressed.
"What are we going to do Kim?" I asked. The heads of
these young guys snapped around to look at Linc'.
"I don't know." he said. "What do you want to do," and paused; "Kim". The heads snapped back to me. Then looked away, very confused.
I remember lots of times. Going out to the crag with Mike on the back of his bike. One time almost being decapitated by a descending level crossing sign at Little River. Screaming around the ring road at the Youies cradling bottles of Chateau Y'Quem and listening to the theme from Peter Gunn. Long drives home from crags. Safe in the twilight zone of trashed out sleep, someone else guiding the car, me asleep in the back time travelling. Home in five minutes.
Once at Loddon Falls with Phil we put up a new grade 14 called Suck on this Squarehead which was all of 5m long, though we used all 50m of rope as the nearest belay was the bumper bar. I almost died of heart failure jumping into a cold pool. We watched a heavily pregnant sheep impale itself on a long log and then run off dragging the log and then we flooded the car. Literally. Stuck in the middle of the Loddon river. The dog Freebie was no fool. She barked a bit, then jumped out the window and swam to shore to shout encouragement while we pushed the car out of the river. All this and we still got to have scones at my Grandmother's place in Castlemaine and be home in time for tea.
Craggin. You can't beat it. Whilst I don't want to slang off climbing walls, (well not here) I feel they will make the climbing experience, for many, more shallow. Climbs in crowded sheds, under neon, no matter how good, can't compete with a day at the local crag, full of sunshine and laughter.
I now live in Natimuk, and my local crag is the greatest crag of all. But that does not stop a day's craggin. I still drive out and spend the day fuckin around and laughing, never one letting the impressiveness of the place get in the way of a good time.
A young girl in the chip shop the other day handed me a questionnaire for something I assume she was doing at school. The last question was "Why do you still climb?" There were 4 answers. I thought about that question long and hard, then confidently ticked choice D. Fun. I climb for fun.
In Canberra, on a cold winter's day you can drive out to Booroomba through fog, the air crisp and cool as you wind up the valley. Yet magically, as you walk up from the car to top camp you rise above the greyness. Out in the sun on the North Buttress slabs, looking down on a sea of cloud that entirely covers the city; only the syringe-like Black Mountain tower rises above the mist. Not that climbing above a carpet of what looks likes cotton wool balls convinces you that a fall here on granite would be gentle. On arriving back in the city people are surprised to see your sun burnt face, when they haven't seen the sun all day. You wear a big grin, charged with the beauty of the day, everyone else, flu ridden from office air conditioners, stressed out from Canberra anti-traffic, bored with the grind wears a dour frown.
Patrick and I would occasionally ride out on his bike to local Canberra crags, spend the whole day lying around talking, and then ride back without ever putting our boots on. It was not the act of climbing that was important, merely the act of escaping from the city, work, whatever. The only muscles used all day were those of the face from smiling and laughing and the sphincter from gripping the bike seat on the winding mountain roads.
Not everyone gets to climb Everest or Punks (although lately it has seemed like it). It is in the day to day, or week-end to week-end, experience of climbing that most of us find pleasure. And there are few joys like a day out craggin with a few good friends. I swear I've never laughed as much as when sitting around in the sun at the base of some small cliff, my stomach doing the `just tied the harness on - putting off the inevitable - could hurt myself here' jig. And a bottle of port and a ghetto blaster never went astray.
I remember a day at black hill with Ian and Charlie. The latter and I, creatures of immaculate fashion sense (not to mention breeding) were ribbing Ian about the fact that he was wearing a helmet. "You look just like Chris Baxter" was the worst insult we could think to throw at him, erudite as we are (or think we are at least). Charles was intrigued by a boulder with one solitary bolt way up high, a slick slabby sort of thing that we didn't know whether it had been done or not. Keen to show off his poise and balance and fashion sense he strapped on the foot cripplers and headed up the slab; delicately. Ian and I amused ourselves by singing rewritten Beatle songs like "Imagine there's no bankcard" and "All we are saying, is get pissed and dance." and throwing pithy witticisms at Charlie like "You're going to die."
About a metre from the bolt Charlie's boots decided that friction was a concept they were prepared to accept no longer, and skated off. Charlie, runnerless, started to slip and in mid air, cat like, turned and grabbed a branch of a tree that leaned against the cliff. The branch, all three metres of it and several inches thick, snapped off quietly and followed Charlie in a long sliding fall to the ground, neatly breaking over his helmetless head.
Another time up at Ben Cairn four of us decided we would be Kim Carrigan for the day! This was back in the days when Kim was the tallest poppy of all. So four Kim's piled out of a blue Kombi and made the epic walk up to the cliff. There were a couple of young guys on something, obviously easily impressed.
"What are we going to do Kim?" I asked. The heads of
these young guys snapped around to look at Linc'.
"I don't know." he said. "What do you want to do," and paused; "Kim". The heads snapped back to me. Then looked away, very confused.
I remember lots of times. Going out to the crag with Mike on the back of his bike. One time almost being decapitated by a descending level crossing sign at Little River. Screaming around the ring road at the Youies cradling bottles of Chateau Y'Quem and listening to the theme from Peter Gunn. Long drives home from crags. Safe in the twilight zone of trashed out sleep, someone else guiding the car, me asleep in the back time travelling. Home in five minutes.
Once at Loddon Falls with Phil we put up a new grade 14 called Suck on this Squarehead which was all of 5m long, though we used all 50m of rope as the nearest belay was the bumper bar. I almost died of heart failure jumping into a cold pool. We watched a heavily pregnant sheep impale itself on a long log and then run off dragging the log and then we flooded the car. Literally. Stuck in the middle of the Loddon river. The dog Freebie was no fool. She barked a bit, then jumped out the window and swam to shore to shout encouragement while we pushed the car out of the river. All this and we still got to have scones at my Grandmother's place in Castlemaine and be home in time for tea.
Craggin. You can't beat it. Whilst I don't want to slang off climbing walls, (well not here) I feel they will make the climbing experience, for many, more shallow. Climbs in crowded sheds, under neon, no matter how good, can't compete with a day at the local crag, full of sunshine and laughter.
I now live in Natimuk, and my local crag is the greatest crag of all. But that does not stop a day's craggin. I still drive out and spend the day fuckin around and laughing, never one letting the impressiveness of the place get in the way of a good time.
A young girl in the chip shop the other day handed me a questionnaire for something I assume she was doing at school. The last question was "Why do you still climb?" There were 4 answers. I thought about that question long and hard, then confidently ticked choice D. Fun. I climb for fun.
