Kraking the Code

Some may consider it rude. Or even arrogant. As if a rite of passage was circumvented, an unwritten yet known climbing etiquette breached. I would disagree, so let me elaborate.

Groot Krakadouw is a wild, convoluted place. I have made two attempts to climb at this magical haven, but the purveyors of wet and icy meteorological phenomena scuppered these plans. Finally, in December 2014, I returned to blue skies and reclusive wind. Now, the expected norm when popping the venue cherry is to first despatch the super-uber classics. It wears the robes of both an ethical code and a ritual. While encouraging the highest return on investment, it also appears to pay some kind of homage to those who forged the great lines. The routes themselves may well have been the catalyst for the pilgrimage. Fair enough. However, I do contest that there is not merit in alternatives.

Douw, Nadia, the Author and Caroline: ready to rock. Photo: Douw Steyn.

In our context, The List whispered down through the Ceder grooves, spreading to camp fires and stitched into the fabric of cyber space would certainly include Coming of Age (21), King Kong (21) and Icthyosaurus (21). These being the prime journeys at each of the three main sectors: Southern-, Main- and Subsidiary Amphitheatres. The monopoly of the twenty first grade could be disrupted by replacing the colossal gorilla with Australopithecus (23). By comparison, the first 3 routes I climbed were Velociraptor (25), Ammonite (23) and Staggersaurus (24). You are unlikely to find route descriptions for these, as I haven’t typed them up yet. On the off chance you could decipher my hand scrawled hieroglyphics, then I would ask how the hell you came across my notebook. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t find it for a week…

Eyeing out the Staggersaurus arete. Photo: Douw Steyn

Douw on the first pitch of the steep Velociraptor.

Back on track, it is undeniable that I have an overt attraction to the virgin spaces of any cliff. The unknown excites me. Menu items in a seductive, foreign tongue. However, it must look like it will of good, preferably outstanding quality. To purposefully start up something unclimbed, that has the clear markings of choss, is plain silly. Well, I think so, and this is my article, so it has been decreed silly. This foolishness escalates if there are great outings nearby that you have not yet done. Fortunately for us Saffers, we have MFTs* of outstanding stone that has never been chalked. So now the scale tips doesn’t it? When the quality is comparable, the uncharted wins for me. Afterwards, it just feels better. It’s the mysterious gift rather than a cheque for an equivalent amount. The satisfaction balloon is that much more voluminous. Where homemade- and restaurant pizza are not discernible by taste, the one from your own kitchen is just more pleasing. Besides, the classics aren’t going anywhere and I will certainly be back.

Quality control 1: Staggersaurus top pitch

Quality Control 2: Velociraptor crux pitch. Photo: Douw Steyn. 

Should you not be convinced, chivalry also comes somewhat serendipitously to our defence. The night before, Douw and I had actually planned to climb Coming of Age, and then check out something he had spied years ago. Visitors Caroline and Nadia joined as, and being the fine gentlemen we are, we insisted they cast off ahead of us. To obey the mantra of “mega-classics first” we could have sat and shot the breeze until the first pitch was availed of the enthusiast foreigners, but that would have meant resisting the pull of the awesome steep crack line that become Velociraptor. And really, you must ask, why resist? If a hypothetical God of climbing decreed that one should not fall into temptation, it would be a disastrous business model. Any followers would have missed a principle joy in playing on rocks. Our choices at the crag are highly dependent on temptation, and that is bloody marvellous. It is what creates desire, and the subsequent pleasure we get from this frivolous pastime. Why did you plan your last trip? Surely you were tempted? It is our daily bread. Revel in it. Be tempted.

Yes, be tempted.

To follow the gospel of classics first is perfect if that is what draws you most. Win. If the magnetism of an excellent route-to-be is stronger, then for heaven’s sake do it. If the unclimbed is clearly worthless junk, and yet you are still pulled its way in preference to known awesomeness; well you get points for being true to yourself but you may want to consult a psychologist. Next you will be trading experience for ego in a strange game of worse is better. It’s not illegal to be a crackpot, but I wouldn’t highlight on your CV.

On day three we did finally climb Icthyosaurus and it was grand. Fortuitously, our position bought a marvellously seductive arête, perched on the edge of the gendarme, into view. Later that day, this became Megalodon (24), and was probably the climbing highlight of the trip for me. Evidently, the explorer is always most happy exploring. That’s just how it is.  

Icthyosaurus, at last some may say. Photo: Caro North.

The edge on the edge. If you listen carefully you will hear it call: "Climb me"

Quality Control 3: Megalodon.

To end, let’s be blunt. These ramblings about the merit of your climbing choices are blatantly superficial to what is most important. Getting out there and having a blast with wonderful folks is where it’s at. We have such amazing natural places. Enjoy them in whatever way makes you wanna shout: “Yeeeehhhhaaaaaa”.  

Post-tempation celebration

Thanks to Malcolm, Amrei, Douw, Nadia, Caroline, Javier, Kike, Elsa, Bryant, Nikki, Eric, Wendy, Willem, Moritz for a trip of vast excellence.

And Douw, Nadia and Caro for the photos

The Krak Crew. Photo: Nadia Royo

* Metric F#$k Tonnes

# u

$ c

Bryant and Malcolm soaking it up.

Err, a rabbit with a growth defect? Photo: Douw Steyn.

Krakadouw skill #1: Grass swimming.

Going for a 'walk' down Long Street.

Cairn Lizard. Photo: Douw Steyn.

Just what is the Slug staring at? Photo: Douw Steyn.

The eThekwini Invasion

Like many adventures, it started with a phone call:

 “Tricky Ricky! What’s cracking?”

“Sup boytjie! [insert small talk]..... So, you got 3 weeks leave for Kalymnos in October?”

“Nah bru, only two hey”

“KZN roadtrip then?”

“Sweet”

Now, Tim Dunnett and I have more niggling injuries than an old age home has zimmer frames, so I can see why it may seem that Marian Penso was recruited for her physiotherapy skills. However, no such coercing was required, and who could blame her for wanting to join two such handsome studs? Honestly, I am surprised we weren’t swamped with requests from nubile vixens, but one has to accept that there are things in this world that just do not make sense.

 

My first encounter with the eThekwini municipality was a sign that read: “Parks, Leisure and cemeteries”. Fortunately we avoided requiring the later, although we did spend considerable time at The Boneyard. This crag derives its ominous name from an incident where one of the area’s pioneers abseiled of the end of his rope. Although rather broken in the bone department, he did not require the signposted graveyards. The Boneyard is also a name shared with several fossil sites around the globe, and indeed the crag does have a rather prehistoric feel about it; with the shrieks and flaps of feathered once-dinosaurs filling the forest canopy. A number of the bolts are from a bygone era, which adds to the feeling of antiquity. Unpacking bags below enormous trees, engulfed in a cacophony of avian calls, one can easily forget that you are only a 10 minute walk from houses with DSTV numbing the occupants. This was a stark reminder of the importance of urban nature reserves. 

Tim strutting his stuff on Dance Macabre (26).

Other than enjoying the ambience, and waiting out rain, we did manage some climbing at The Boneyard. Pretty much everyone suggested Dance Macabre (26), and indeed having revelled in it, I would pass the recommendation on. Tsunami (23) was equally deserving of its star rating. Showing commendable tenacity, Marian slayed The Grim Reaper (23) with a sequence that must be at least grade 28. My lanky lower limbs refused the appendage-origami necessary to use any of the crux footholds, so I resorted to dynoing from a middle finger divot-undercling. It felt utterly desperate, but surely easier than Marian’s way. Only Tim managed the line in something resembling grade abiding justice.    

Marian putting the The Grim Reaper (23) to rest.

Umgeni. How many crags have a walk-in through zebra and wildebeest families? Perhaps I have been hanging out in the wrong places, but this was a novelty for me. We did not spot the giraffe in the valley below, but maybe we were too focused on the great climbing right in front of us. Marian onsighted Age of Paranoia (23), her first of the grade, and Tim onsighted War on Gaza (24), his first in a while. Due to my litany of injuries, I was not gunning for anything too hard, so Nothing Heals like Cold Steel (27) seemed a good compromise. It was encouraging, and strangely anti-climactic, that I wandered up it second go, finding it substantially easier than advertised. However, a good fight was not far away…

Crack Addiction (19)

After 8 days on with only one rest day, it seemed a grand idea to try and onsight Agnes the Skinhead (26). Out the gates I was so cumulatively poked that I fell off the warm-up. This boded about as well as a fat grub making it out from a den of ravenous starlings. Five bolts up, I was hanging on the rope well toasted, most un-warrior-like, but determined. Draw by draw the harness got lighter all the way to the chains. Now, a sensible man would have cleaned the gear and sipped tea for the afternoon. Fortunately, I can’t claim an abundance of sensibility, nor do I like tea. A detailed ascent description would be an embarrassing tale of thrutching anti-style, excruciating non-rests and sensationless fingers. Yet, I did not let go, and that is surely the ultimate beta for any route. Faye also did a remarkable job of pushing Umgeni-zen vibes up the rope from below. It was not pretty, even calling it ugly would be a compliment, but it was the send of the trip for me.  

Speaking of pretty: quote of the trip:

“What’s the point of being a climbing chick is you don’t look hot?” – Marian.

Another quality line at Umgeni

Next: Howick Falls. Faded magazine photos had sold the idea to me several years ago, so it was satisfying to finally turn the idea caterpillar into a climbing butterfly, so to speak. The area immediately surrounding the waterfall appears to have 3 endemic user groups, and a transient population wielding carabiners. The first are tourists, whose primary function is to gape. In addition, they keep the second group, curio sellers, a going concern. Finally, locals from the township wash their clothes in the river. Given the copious quantity of garments hanging on rocks, in a perpetual state of damp, down the length of the waterfall; their track record in returning home with a full quota of laundry is clearly not 100%. Suffice to say all three groups find climbers a bit of a spectacle.

Opening the doors to Stage Fright (20).

Its all about location, location, location.

The narrow base of the Synch buttress is pretty neat. Perched in the middle of a rock wall, the plunge pool below your chalk bag is under constant aquatic bombardment. Regarding the access abseil, Roger’s magnum opus warns that “Everyone shits themselves when they do this rap for the first time so don’t feel bad…”. Either I am more man than Chuck Norris, or I spend too much time doing precarious raps, but my pants remained blissfully unsoiled. However, if you pull your ropes, and then experience catastrophic forearm failure, or an afternoon storm, you may be forced to descend all the way down and swim out. This has happened before. Not that we were in any doubt whatsoever about our cranking prowess, but we did leave a rope anchored at the top. For taking photos, obviously. The prime line, Every Inch a Synch (25), did not disappoint. In addition to exposure, many holds were coated in brown dust rather than white powder, adding to the wildness.

Putting in some effort to onsight Every Inch a Synch (25). Photo: Tim Dunnett.

Tristan Firman kindly let us crash at his current pad while he was off in Europe. This happened to be about 4 mins walk from the crags at Monteseel. I suspect we fell into the trap of neglecting what was on our doorstep, and we did not climb here as much as planned. We did give the trad rack a few outings, but will need to return for some of the unticked gems. 

Marion enjoying our 'local' crag. Photo: Tim Dunnett

My maiden voyage on Granny's Souped up Wheelchair (23). Photo: Tim Dunnett.

Another spot we only partially sampled was Kirk Falls. Owing to the hard work of Roger, Illona and others, the crag is extending boldly where no bolts have gone before, so there will be plenty more to do in the future. The climbing portion of my trip ended abruptly on the second last move of The Final Frontier (25), with a horrendous noise emanating from my gamy knee, followed by a blue-balloon-impersonation. With a remarkable sense of déjà vu, I muttered some foul words and hoped that this was not indeed the final frontier.   

Fortunately, the bend in the leg seems to be progressing better than expected. Already, I am plotting for when I should call someone up about a return trip to this lekker part of the country. 

Starting up the aesthetic Child of Darkness (25). Photo: Tim Dunnett.

Its not over until its over. Then you start something else! Photo: Tim Dunnett.

Big thanks to Tim and Marian for a stonking time, and to the following awesome folks for bettering our trip with planning info, lodging, nutrition, transport, good times and indelible memories:

Warren Gans, Illona Pelser, Brigitte and Matthew, Michael Van Der Ham, Mark Millar, Kath Fourie, Tristan Firman, Faye and Andrew Scott. Also to Roger Nattrass for an excellent guidebook and opening about half the routes we did! 

The Joy Axis

While this is the name of a route we recently opened, this story is not about the route per se, but more about what the name embodies. How much could you really write about a short, easy route in itself? Well, colossal legal tomes have been grinded out over astonishingly little substance, so perhaps the question should be framed around quality. How good would the story be? Now this depends how much is attributed to the skill of the writer versus the inspiration of the muse. Although an entirely separate debate, in this case the route was most excellent, and is in part why we had such an obscenely good time climbing it. If fun were a currency, we were billionaires for a moment, and what provides our fun is what this wee scribble is about. The route was merely  a medium, a conduit if you will, for out enjoyment.

Big grins

Houdenbek is a farm in the Koue Bokkeveld. The owners, Charl and Johalet van der Merwe are most welcoming and the accommodation most comfortable. There is a sport crag right beside a lovely dam, and all this encompassed by subtle yet splendid rocky surrounds. Throw in some great hiking and you have a real winner. But wait, there’s more! The trail to the Heiveld Arch winds its way through a plethora of cliffs 15-45m high. Where better to have fun than in a playground?

The Choice Crag

The last weekend in August saw several overgrown kids squealing and grinning their way up the sandstone jungle gyms. We had not had any drugs (as far as I recall), but one could be forgiven for thinking we had. Our exuberant mood has permeated the growing topo too. Although a tad spicy, So Much of Happiness and So Much of Fun are neither misnomers nor sarcastic, simply an honest reflection of how we felt. Possibly the best part is that I really can’t explain why it was so much fun.  It just was. And that is just it.

Marian's shadow following her on the FA of Little M (15)

Sure, the people, the movement on rock, the discovery, the scenery and vibe were all excellent. Yet this does not explain it all, nor does it need to. The why is almost irrelevant; and the extended moments of fun are a story, and an end, in themselves. Mysterious in origin to everyone, including the kids in the playground. Within the vast complexities and stress of modern life, this particular recreational avenue really does it for me. Finding and climbing great new things with an equally psyched partner is just pretty darn hard to for me to beat.  Inexplicable and entrenched, it is an activity around which great fun can be had: a joy axis.

Thanks to Brenna, Marian, Malcom, Amrei, Claudine, Elsa, Javier, Mel and Rolfe for a grand weekend!

The Backyard

When I was a lighty growing up, we had a section of garden fenced off that was allowed to return to nature. Ungroomed, with tall grass and an aging umbrella-esk tree, it was a tiny patch of urban wild: a convenient escape for mini-exploration. Any visit could reveal new bugs, flowers and critters in the leaf litter. We called it the Wasteland, which was somewhat of a misnomer, as it was hardly a waste of land.

Hexapod in repose

The life one lives changes, as do interests; from wrigglers under little rocks to clinging from larger rocks. Or maybe it’s just the focus – I still marvel at those fantastical inside-outers (the reverse design of wearing your skeleton over the squishy stuff) but they are usually a sideshow now. The search for just the right vertical playground often takes centre stage, at least ostensibly so. I can’t really explain the allure, except that looking for insects in undergrowth, crags in ravines or crystals in the scree are all essentially the same: a treasure hunt. And you never know what you might find.

We turned the corner, and there it was, in all its glory…

Recent injuries to the hanging rather than the walking limbs (for a change) have precipitated a spike in rambling missions of late. I doubt many will understand the drive that leads one to claw through yet more bloody spiky bushes on slanted, grovely ledges. Fewer still that can relate to choosing this over something much more ‘fun’, like doing some real climbing or getting sozzled at a braai – or both. However, it’s really quite simple: you never know what you might find.

Into the unknown

I am not against globetrotting. It would be somewhat hypocritical (and silly) to limit one’s exploration, but I have certainly become pro local trotting. Expense and carbon footprint aside, there is satisfaction in both discovering and enjoying areas close to home. It is the jewels in the backyard that get forgotten while flipping through glossy images of exotic, foreign and enticing places. Yet it is these very gems that may be the bait to someone on the far side of the world. While we all seek variety from what we have, and the sedge always seems to have more chlorophyll on the other side, I have found that the more time I spend in certain places the more I like them, not less. Indeed, maybe it is the search for the detail in the milieu itself that keeps them fresh.

The beauty in the detail

For example, if I had retraced the exact same walk on Table Mountain nine times since June, I would surely have gotten bored. Yet they were all slightly different, with varying amounts of virgin-ness. After each successive quest, there was one less spot I hadn’t visited and another cliff or two that I now knew something about.

In my extended natural neighbourhood I tend to wander alone, lost in thought or the absence thereof. Just the backyard and the reconnaissance choices therein. Sometimes I find something awesome, sometimes not, but the search is always worthwhile. Often I don’t actually know what I am looking for until its right there, and equally likely is that the pathside attractions steal the show. A hidden grove of ancient trees draped in old man’s beard, the micro-dew on a furry protea or the ghost breath of a sugarbird on a cold morning. It’s a damn fine way to spend time, if you are wired like me.

Walk far enough, you’ll find an edge

In some ways, that’s where the story ends. The simple fun of exploration. Regardless of what one seeks or whether it is forthcoming. No doubt, a special find does sweeten the journey. Yet, in another way, the story never ends – it’s a perpetually growing collection of complete and potential cycles, one of which could happen like this:

Look at photos from last trip, have idea, put on shoes, head out, swear at prickly bushes (often repeatedly), grin at pretty rock face, admire sunset, scribble some notes, came back with rope (avoiding prickly bushes), brush the puzzle, optimise the aesthetic, bring your friends, climb some routes, fuss about names, debate grades, take some photos while walking out. Back to start.

Walk far enough, you’ll wear out your pants

Often the actual climbing is the fastest part, a formality except for the really hard ones. These are the lurkers, they exist mostly on the pages of appendices and are neurologically tagged: ‘someday’. Which is fine. Some chapters spiral, others stall, blowout or tease, a few hibernate or get passed on. This book, however, is never complete. It is always being written, and the writer very much alive as a result.

Explore to find to know to enjoy. Repeat. This is what I do. Besides, backyard or distant land, you never know what you might find.

Gosia enjoying a recent find: Deucalion (21)

Douw on another new addition, We are the Robots (18)

The Gentle Titan (14)

Check out the topo for this new little crag, The Springboard, here.

Thanks to Outward Ventures for supporting my antics.

Prometheus – The fire giver

It is innate,

the urge and drive to discover

the best-

that which ignites and enlivens the spirit.

Not in absolutes,

but blending subjective connection and preference.

That which sparks interest and forges determination.

Ostensibly, the search is secondary,

yet both are journeys:

the finding and the feeding.

Each weighted in frustration, released with satisfaction.

I seek that which fuels

passion and progression.

That which gives me fire.

After about 2 years of wandering the slopes of Table Mountain, I eventually found it. Perched high above Orange Kloof is a ledge running across the western face of the Klaasen’s buttress. To the north, the ledge narrows to a vertigo inducing width (on account of the drop-off below), and just here, a series of rails and jugs shoot out over the void at a particularly absurd angle. Imagine an ancient, sandstone ship moored right on the very edge of an escarpment, a lush photosynthetic carpet way below. Like barnacles, lichen plasters most of the hull, but at the bow, the savagely steep prow is weathered clean from cutting through countless waves over the eons. As if designed by a celestial deity with a climbing bias, it is adorned with fantastic grips for hands and immaculate cracks for cams. As far as I know it was unclimbed, but that really doesn’t matter, to me this was indeed Prometheus: the fire giver.

Thanks to Brenna for the sending belay, Douw for his patience and photography, and the good folks at Outward Ventures for supporting my clambering antics.  It should be noted that Douw has a knack for discovering key beta and in this case also nabbed the coveted second ascent, as far as we know.

The RD is on the wiki here

All pics by Douw Steyn.