A climbers odyssey from the small walls to Gogarth.

OK, so if indulging in an activity, termed “Deep Play” by sensible psychologists in sensible jackets , where all possible benefits are far outweighed by the penalties for failure, then what do they call just flirting with it?

You know, you’d like to think that you had the head for a spot of Deep Play, but there’s something inside your mind that stops you, draws the line. Big runout, no gear? - no thanks. Easy crack, loads of gear, Mmm yes please, take a ticket and stand in line.

But even then, although you have no wish, well I don’t anyway, to abandon the pleasant feeling of control for uncharted vertical despair there is still a niggling desire. You want to get fitter, stronger, faster, slicker... in a single word - better - but what does this mean?

For the ripped contigent it probably means doing a few more one arm pullups, ticking that 8b+ next year, rising from the oh so low levels of 8a, and perhaps recreationally ticking a few E5s, ironically of course, just to show they’re still in touch with things, retro-cragging perhaps. For the beginners it’s even easier, since virtually anything could be defined as getting better. Hey brilliant, I managed to lace my shoe up first time, amazing, I found the shop, bought the guidebook, found the crag, and even found the route. Didn’t climb it mind, but that’s still an improvement on last time when we failed to even do the shop.

For me, it was in a single word, confidence. I knew I could cruise Hard Severes all day long, unfairly equipped with the modern advantages of wall training; never really close to falling off, gear sort of all right, everything kind of OK - but was it? As soon as I started to try and make progress it all fell apart, a step up in grade resulted in twenty steps down in performance, classic lines became brutal fearsome struggles, and suddenly I didn’t look forward to leading anymore. It was too traumatic an experience to fully enjoy, everything always went wrong, and I was sent scurrying back to the dusty wall with my tail between my legs, spending hours pounding the plastic, licking my wounds and somehow convincing myself that footless bobbing would solve all my problems.

After a few heavy discussion sessions in the pub, plus a bit of logical thought (those psychologists would be proud), a glimmer of enthusiasm for real rock was regained . The problem was that I’d been reared on a wall then spat out into the outdoors, somehow missing out on a big chunk of that famous “climbing apprenticeship”, i.e. Idwal Slabs in the rain. If I lived in Kansas, I could probably sue the wall for lack of care and resultant mental cruelty, perhaps I’d get my million. You see m’lud - they enticed me in, charged me lots of money, built all my hopes up, told me I was a climber, got me addicted then chucked me out, left me defenceless at the mercy of the big harsh world outside. Like a driving instructor never teaching you above 2nd gear then luring you on to the motorway.....

So that was the reason (I’d hate to think it was actually my fault), but what could be done? Not being American suing was out of the window, leaving three options;- a) stick to walls and sport climbing forever b) give up and play golf or c) do some learning of my own. a) and b) weren’t really options, since the glossy mags kept teasing me with glimpses of the mad bad trad world that beckoned., so the answer became c). Great I thought, assuming that dreads, a perma-tan and mad - eyed stare would be acquired somewhere along the line, I need a photo of me on a portaledge looking wild....

But back to reality, a plan evolved. I teamed up with a friend in a similar position , and we went out every weekend. Starting off on things that even we found easy, but practicing the gear placements, the rope management, the stances. In fact we practiced everything but then we had everything to learn and absolutely nothing to lose. Apart from a bit of cred at the wall perhaps when non-E grade routes were mentioned, but hey they could lump it - their E grades were on bolts, and I was heading for a portaledge.

Well, Dream of White Horses really, but if we messed it up I guess a portaledge could come in handy. Looking back Iit was the last route we did this summer. Sounds ominous that, but don’t worry no spiralling fall into Wen Zawn here, no enforced convalescence until the next season, merely the good old British weather. June is not traditionally thought of as the onset of autumn, but perhaps the government decided to turn the seasons back, get us all indoors and working harder earlier this year, avert the recession by global climate change. Intriguing. But anyway, it still was the Summer’s end , and a culmination in more ways than one, of a long standing ambition and a test of our.hard won skills. Would we be up to it? Or would we crash and burn, taunted by yet another sneaky HVS.

Well, we got valuable points early on by a impressive hat trick, of finding the car park, finding Gogarth, and finding the route all first time. Those days of wandering around fitting random bits of rock to guidebook descriptions were finally behind us. Although I still think that Clogwyn y Grochan is Carreg Wastad and vice versa - that makes Crackstone Rib quite challenging I assure you, try it someday.

After a good solid recce, the abseil in went spookily smoothly, it’s amazing how confident you feel when there’s a solid prussik on the rope, not just 8.5 mm ropes slithering a shade too fast through your new ultra-slick belay device...Before I knew it my mate was skipping across the first pitch (we’d started from the notch - I plead high tide) and within the blink of an eye and a few nervous gulps I’d joined her. Started to freak out just a little then, lots of sea, lots of rock, lots of space, the minds imagination expands to fill all available space (just like work). And as my imagination expanded rapidly, I tried to decide where I’d get washed up if I took the ultimate shallow water solo splash. Suspected it might mean becoming wedged in the ominous sea cave next to a tortured buoy getting laughed at by seals, so I diverted my attention to checking the belay instead. Ali had done a good job, all equalised and tight, I relaxed a little, and gently sagged into the harness, gingerly allowing the velcro to rip like it always does and then did it, sat down on my first fully hanging belay. Hey man - next stop Yosemite.

The next pitch went all too well, I managed to avoid crossing the ropes, gear stayed in, body even stayed on, and strangely enough I enjoyed it. It was a feeling I hadn’t had for a while, being out there, being challenged but feeling good. In fact the belay was reached with a small tinge of disappointment, the pitch was over, now just the bizarre spatial mechanics test that is setting up a hanging-ish belay. So if that rope goes there, and I clove hitch here, what happens? Whoops - wrong! it’s the sea cave for you.

But it all went, if you’ll forgive me, swimmingly well and 2 minutes later I was the proud owner of one hanging belay, great view, popular area, small kitchen though. Even the ropes were happy, coiled neatly over a sling instead of being thrown thoughtlessly to the wind, winding unhappily beneath my feet.

Still a hanging belay is a hanging belay, especially in a thin strappy sports harness, and it was good to send Ali scooting off into the land of unfeasibility that is the final pitch of Dream. (I can call it ‘Dream now, I’ve done it). Luckily for me (and I guess her as well) she remembered to extend all the runners. And when I say extend, I do mean extend, it must have felt strange reaching the sanctuary of a gear placement, slipping in a friend, relaxing then clipping in a massive two metre sling - eeek!. But it worked, all her gear stayed in, and it helped her cruise the traverse in top style, no rope drag to slow her down on her final trip above the ocean.

A squeal of delight echoing across the zawn signalled the end for her and the beginning for me. The rope came tight and I was away, attempting to cruise, and almost managing it, a summer’s worth of accumulated movement skills paying off in one single perfect pitch. I even took time out to look down, revel in the exposure, let myself feel it then recover and move on. As I collected Ali’s perfectly positioned gear my mind wandered, drifted back to the beginning of the season. There’s no way we could of done this route then, technically maybe, if it’d been at the wall with red holds, but in practice we’d have probably tied ourselves up in knots, got totally gripped, and undergonesome majorhead stress..

But now, we could climb, in both senses of the word - we could move our arms and legs in random, occasionally smooth motions that seemed to give some upward progress, but even better we could use all the equipment in all the (hopefully) right ways to get into and out of totally mind blowing situations without the grim mental trauma that used to haunt us...So some wild - eyes might say that I’m not climbing hard enough yet, but there’s no mistake I’d got better somehow, my belated apprenticeship had paid off.

Alis’s disembodied head peering down the exit chimney reminded me of the job in hand, so I kicked into gear and headed for the top, leaving the waves crashing in to the big, black, scary sea cave way down below. We sat on top, quietly enjoying the flat land and sunshine, feeling relaxed. The knot of tension in my stomach slowly unwound, we’d ticked it, and ticked it well. Maybe the play hadn’t been deep by some standards, but at least we’d rolled up our trousers and got our toes wet. The psychologists would still disapprove.

The rat had been fed for now and there was only one thing left to do - nip round on to the promontory and laugh at the other parties still halfway across the route. I mean - that’s just the best thing, isn’t it?

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