The Painted Desert - it's a place in Arizona. Blue sands harbouring dinosaur skeletons strewn like confetti, not a MacDonalds in sight. I saw it mentioned in a documentary on fossils (and other things paleontological) many moons ago before I got interested in girls and booze. I wanted to go immediately. The dream never faded despite the acknowledgement of beer and bikinis. For now it remains on the tick list, but if I haven't been within the next decade in may get bumped onto the bucket list. The idea of holding in ones hands the cast remains of something that was alive zillions of years ago is pretty darn incredible. Just think about. Go on, actually think about.
Take an ammonite (old school nautilus) for example. Sure you normally find them in museums, scuffed up on fleamarket stall benches or sliced and buffed up in hippie jewelery, but nonetheless the occupant of said now-stone shell was once cruising around in the sea while the inspiration for Jurassic park was stomping around pre-mammalian lands. Hectic! Equally incredible is how we can dig other stuff out the ground, get it 'Made in China' and use the product to watch images of events on the other side of the planet, in real time. Wow! The wonders of both nature and technology.
Back to the painted dessert. Best served after a fancy meal and over-priced wine at one of those trendy restaurants with complicated, arty menus that don't list Black Label. The font for the delicious, aromatic meal descriptions is also vastly superior to the diminutive font used to inform you how much your plastic will be zapped. Don't worry, the paint is lead free and tested on Norwegian roof rats, not cute bunny rabbits. No offence intended to any Scandinavian readers. Homonyms: can really ruin a blog can't they?
As I grew older, but not ancient (like our bird ancestors sleeping eternally in the colourful sands of Arizona), I became keen to climb on rocks, rather than scrutinize them for signs of life from another epoch. One of the best places to do this is Tafelberg.I have been fortunate to climb in places very far from home, and I can certainly say that some of the very best is in the Mothers cities back yard. If you allow a back yard to extend 250km North past the Boerewors curtain. Anyone who has been will certainly be familiar with the Pillar Box. For the rest of you, it is a remarkable 20m height brick that the builder of Tafelberg left standing upright on the edge of of the property when building the massif. Fortunately this architectural oversight is a blessing for climbers as it offer exceptional routes in a great setting.
Pillar box to the right.
Pic: Joe Mohle
Opening a new line on the Pillar Box has, like visiting the colourful dinosaur cemeteries in Arizona, been on my to-do list for a while. However, the remaining real estate was rather blank, so initially I was lacking in both the strength and skill departments. I banked the idea and ate lank Pronutro. I even managed a campus board session about 4-5 times a year. Fortunately, clocking up hours at the crags seems to osmose some ability, cause I am still ever so slightly scant on the bicep front (sounds better than scrawny runt doesn't it?).
Left of the easy arete is a strangely straight meeting of orange and grey hues on the face - as if made so by brush. Perfect. Joe had also played on this line, but was happy for me to give it a bash. Shot boytjie. Out came the Shunt, across went the sun, emerge did the sequence. Out came the belayer, in went the tiny cam, and off came I - repeatedly. Down went the sun, in went the sun downers, the moon did the nightly glide. Thinner skin, waning patience, more air time, more cussing - more snacks. Wind stronger, arms weaker - last go for the day. Stuck the hold, skirted the banana peels, catching duty done - raindrops - last climb of the trip - perfect.
Painted Desert (26) - orange on the left, grey on the right, no excuses for being off route!
At least finding a name was easy. Now I just need a flight to the visit the namesake.
A big thanks to Brenna for being awesome, and for belaying.
Pic: Martin Kleynhans
