The Circle

Like many of the best moments, there are no photos.

No memory stick of memories,

just memories, sticking in my memory.

Illustrative images, unlike experiences, can be borrowed. 

There are things that inspire us, motivate us, permeate our thoughts and infuse our dreams.

We can pontificate ad infinitum the deep psychological reasons behind what drives desire.

Yet, the answer is often remarkably simple.

Awesomeness.

 

Sorcery: the line between light and dark. Photo: ClimbZA

Within the climbing realm, Boven holds such status. Over three years ago, an internal cartilage incident circumcised that trip. So I have felt a long term credit for more. In particular, I wanted another shot at Sorcery. It was a contorted effort at the crux of this route that imploded my knee in 2012. So like a moth to the flicker, I returned. Hopefully with enough sense not to get burnt, again.

The Attraction

Sussing it out in 2012. Photo: Warren Gans

While we may develop our minds, and believe ourselves supremely intellectual, we are often akin to bugs around a porch light. Drawn by primal urges, undermining conscience control, reined in by hedonism and the magnetism of pleasure. And I am not just talking about pretty girls. (Or boys, if you are a girl, or a guy who likes guys. Damn, sexuality correctness is tricky!)

Attraction does not to be articulated or defended: awesomeness has a gravity. Resisting the pull is invariably harder than letting yourself fall right in. Yet, as climbers, once there, we try our best not to fall any more. Otherwise, you may be left with unfinished business. In our world of ever more instant gratification, this forces some delay, and I had been waiting a pretty long time. To climb the route, of course.

Simplicity. Green, orange. Chalk, cams. 

   

Which brings me back to the proud arête by the waterfall. King Lines are not absolute. The most revered Indian Creek splitter will not excite a tape glove virgin. No, it is personal, and while certain features generally elevate a route’s status, it is ultimately what stirs something inside you. That particular vertical journey that stokes and fuels. It is not about being universally awesome, but that which you find awesome. For me: the long edge of the ACRA wall, with great moves, thundering water, committing sequences, dominant prominence and no bolts.

Alex Honnold on the lower sections of Sorcery.
Photo: Gutav Janse van Rensburg. Credit: Africa Fusion (http://www.africafusion.co.za/)

The rock is just a dancefloor, and what we really seek is a King Experience. These can crop up anywhere, but the ones that top the clambering charts often happen in conjunction with our favourite routes.

My buddy Tim Dunnett held the ropes. As the water flowed downward, I made a fluid rise to the finishing hold. A sensory concoction: absorbing the beauty of the space while focusing on each and every movement. Clicking biners and chirping birds. No crowds, no one snapping away. Just my good friend helping me to complete a story I started over a thousand days prior. As with other moments of this ilk, it culminated mostly in a quiet, satisfactory welling from within. Acknowledging how fortunate we are play in these sacred mini-worlds and the fantastic people who party with us.

Steve Bretherick on Satan's Temple, which climbs the face to the right of Sorcery.
Photo: Dirk Smith (http://www.dirksmith.smugmug.com/). 

Another one for the memory cache, another circle drawn. 

This business was finished, but the next chapter was just starting to take form in my head.

The memory collector never rests. That’s why we dream. Isn’t it? 

Location and setting par excellence. Steve Bretherick soaking it up higher on Satan's Temple. Photo: Dirk Smith. (http://www.dirksmith.smugmug.com/)

The start and end of this story. Photo: Warren Gans.

Big Thanks to: 

Tim, Uwe, Anita, Sarel and all the other climbers I shared moments with. 

Gus and Alex, for once again exuding awesomeness. 

The Tranquilitas team. 

Dirk, Warren, Gustav and Robert Breyer for the use of photos. 

Outward Ventures. 

Oh, and whoever returned my headlamp after I ‘misplaced’ it.   

The Midnight Sun

This was not a climbing trip, yet I did one of the best long routes I have ever done.

I had never heard of Lofoten, until about 2 weeks before hitching along the island chain.

I do like surprises!

Nordic summer

Sunset-less days in the Arctic Circle. Midnight soloing without a headlamp. Overhanging granite with pockets. A Marilyn Manson concert, for free, in an amusement park. A few of the novelties now in my memory bank, that I can’t really claim credit for experiencing. Granted, I grabbed the chance, but I certainly did not orchestrate it being there for the taking.

Overlooking Henningsvaer: bridge heaven

We have calendars, we make lists, we dream, we plot, we plan, we sacrifice, we invest, we wait. I have no quarrel here, it usually requires dedication to achieve goals. Yet, despite all attempts to maximise our lives, how firmly do we actually hold the reigns? Furthermore, how much in control do we really want to be? Some of the best things I have done required hard graft and preparation. However, just as many fantastic opportunities literally flopped out of the ether and required no more than a little courage to pick them up before they wriggled off. 

Reine and surrounds, it is hard to take a bad photo, even for me

Let me elaborate. I had planned to go back to Australia for another dirtbag stint. It had been a rough few months and I just wanted drop off the radar. I knew the drill, it was a safe option. Low risk, high reward. For years I have been wanting to return to do some of the spectacular routes at the Eureka Wall in the Grampians. I had unfinished projects at Arapiles. Flights booked way ahead, friends contacted months in advance, tick lists scribbled. I was in conductor mode and the orchestra seemed set to play.

Then the unexpected: I met a great travel companion, I ended up in ICU, had a heart operation, planned a trip to Turkey, another visit to an emergency room, cancelled the Istanbul tickets, had further tikker surgery, jetted to Stockholm, took a train to a starless wonderland, got a gap in the rain, tagged with a partner-less climber, romped up a 500m cliff and witnessed a spectacular mixing of orange rays and turquoise waters at the witching hour.

Not bad for an opportunist. If things don’t go according to plan, just enjoy the flow, you never know where it will take you…

The Midight Sun

For those who like the granular detail:

I have a certain penchant for novelty. The unusual. The quizzical. For example, the Big Baobab boasts a pub inside its trunk. Barely functional but vastly quirky, and certainly worth the effort. If you like the odd. Several years ago, I saw images of 3am-bouldering dappled with Nordic sunlight. While not consciously, the idea-seed of climbing under a midnight sun had been planted. By luck, some dominoes fell right and I ended up at the base of Vespillaren with Megan at 4pm. Combined with a fortuitous break in the rain, this also happened to be one of the best long routes of its grade in the Northern Hemisphere. Minimal planning, maximum benefit. Not only did I get to top out at 11:55pm in the sun, but above 12 pitches of absolutely sublime granite cracks. A truly world class line that I had never really planned to do. I don’t know about brave, but fortune does seem to favour those who put themselves in a position to be favoured.

Approaching Vespillaren. Photo: Megan Beaumont

The first of many great pitches

One of the many great pitches

The perpetual light also got me mulling over that most puzzling of entities. Time.

We have clocks everywhere. On cell phones, computers, church towers, kitchen walls, train stations, car dashboards, radios, TV, neck pendants, microwave ovens and old school ovens. Hours and minutes are shoved at you with metronomic regularity. The rhythm of the calendar, the beat of the diary. The scheduled life: back-to-back appointments while running errands during lunch. We are the robots telling ourselves when we can and can’t be free, and yet, when finally we stumble across that most Holy Grail of ‘time to ourselves’, we are completely exhausted, and slump down in front of yet another screen, that will invariably, be telling us the time. Tick Tock.

Nature is timeless. Photo: Laleh Akbaynoor

So the grand irony plays out, when after months of slaving away, Mr Everyman finally gets his allocated amount of holiday, where time is finally his own. As if it never was in the first place. 

Our week of constant daylight whittled the significance of clock time. 9am was just like 15:36pm which could equally be 1:42am. The glowing orb simply bobbing along the horizon, not a care in the universe, while we had not a care in Norway. Time will march on ad infinitum, but we are not beholden: the only shackles we have are self-imposed. In a place like Loften it is easier to feel this freedom, but it exists everywhere. 

Don’t worry about time, it sure isn’t worrying about you.

Feeling free while sport climbing at Eggum. Photo: Laleh Akbarynoor 

On the way back from the bizzare granite bowl of Eggum, I caught a ride with an elderly local. Laleh and Megan got a lift with his wife in the decidedly more fancy of the two cars. He spoke very little English, and my Norwegian is as existent as political integrity. We gesticulated about the weather, and other topics of small talk, but without the talk. As the rusted, russet van rattled on, the scenery was nearly giving my retinas an orgasm. I smiled. The radio was probably twice my age, with both tiny and tinny speakers. The next song was ‘Nothing Else Matters’. Indeed, at that moment in time, those words were the truest that could be said, thought or just accepted.

How you got to where you are is just history, planned or otherwise. Luck, fate, chance, destiny - does it matter?

Not to me. 

The joy of where you are, what you are doing, and who you are there with, is all that really matters.

Nothing else.  

Midnight solo on the Rock and Roll Ridge

Yet another great pitch!

Not your stereotypical island paradise. Photo: Megan Beaumont

A stiff warm up. Photo: Laleh Akbarynoor

In winter skiing is a big thing, apparently.

Like 24hr daylight, a free Marilyn Manson concert in a kiddies playground, was somewhat novel.

The best things may be a surprise, so you might as well act surprised.

Huge thanks to Laleh for an amazing trip, to Megan for some great climbing, to Jim, Dave and Tanja for fun while hanging at Bobil Camping and to all the cool folks I met in Stockholm. Oh, and to all the many strangers we hitchhiked with :)

Big up to Outward Ventures for supporting my adventures.

Photo: Laleh Akbarynoor

  

Second Place

Some would suggest that the one holding the silver medal was the first to fail. If the goal was competition specific, then the assertion may hold true. However, while life may be a game, the rules are not rigid. There is no single purpose where losing should prevent you from enjoying another one. If you disagree then, please stop reading this now and train harder. You clearly don’t have time for opportunistic fun. 

Disappointment when a plan crumbles is natural, but lingering on it is silly. Us climbing folk seem to fall easily into obsession, almost by default. The ‘send’ becomes all important, as if it were something more than a constructed gymnastic routine. The project or travel itineraries become paramount.  The objective is utmost. Sure, it can be monumentally satisfying, I don’t deny this in the slightest. This is a primary joy-component of our sport. It drives and motivates us. The trick is to revel in it, while not despising its absence. Besides, every now and then second place is just so damn good!

Plan B...

This last weekend I was like a puffer fish: distended with enthusiasm to open a route I had cleaned months ago, before my body fell into disrepair. Hopefully my odor was less piscine, and my appearance less absurd. The target climb is wild, steep, aesthetic and other adjectives that trigger goose bumps. It was also long overdue: the baboon over the shoulder than needs to be shaken off. Those familiar with Slaapstad will know that winter can be atmospherically inconvenient for scaling stone. Sunday was a prime example. Right on the cusp: no rain to wash the program away, but ominous enough to be particularly unpleasant high on the hill. After extensive vacillation, we opted for Plan B. A tiny granite outcrop close to the road, good for a hasty escape lest the trade winds threatened to export us away.

Enjoying the skinny splitter crack

I was not expecting much. A previous recce had left me rather ambivalent, and indeed the quantity was decidedly scant. Yet, a thin, and unexpectedly parallel crack yielded superior per meter satisfaction. We joked about being amateur Brits, going out in crap weather to play on miniature crags. Although to be honest, it was probably a stellar day in pommy terms. I giggled at perfect micro-cam placements. The mist swirled above, the ocean crashed below, and we were happy little piggies in the middle. A leafy green and granular grey oasis to be childish in. Maybe I was just in a good mood, but hot damn, second place was just so much fun! Or perhaps it was the consolation prize that made me happy. Or the great company. A backyard adventure-let sure beats remaining inside lamenting what could have been.

Crystal bliss

Now riddle this. Had we nabbed 'first place', I doubt I would ever have revisited these boulders. Since cliffs generally make a habit of staying put, I will soon be able to go back for my alpha allure. So, by ‘missing out’ this time, did I actually gain more in the long run?

Who knows? The imponderables of potential outcomes and hypothetical ‘what ifs’ just distract us from the present. I say aim high but enjoy whatever you get. Appreciate the sidelines.

)

The easy run-out to complete Grey Zone (19)

If climbing is rained out, I’ll often go for a post-precipitation stroll. The smell of damp earth, frog calls and dusk rays brings a smile. It may be second place, but certainly not second rate!

Thanks to Moritz Thilo and Marian Penso for the little mission, and to Marian for the pics.

Art and Tea

I am not an artist in the conventional sense, but then how many artists are conventional? 
Rather, the results of my efforts might not be considered art by a conventional audience...

Furthermore, I don’t drink real tea, at least not with the regularity required to be considered a tea drinker. Yet, here are words about both art, tea, and their mingling.

Photo: Laleh Akbarynoor

Sculptures. They may last through the ages of human evolution for generations to appreciate. From carvings barely noticeable at arm’s length to mega structures visible from the stratosphere.

The artist altering the medium. A physical and enduring offering. A work of art. 

Theatre. Each performance is transient. Minutes to hours, from soap box to the Royal Albert. Delivered in a style spectrum from reactive spontaneity to rehearsed reproducibility.  

The artist acting on a medium. A fleeting and experiential offering. A working of art. 

So what is it to climb a rock? Nature provides the sculptured stage, ours is merely an act there on. Art on art, if you will. Climbing art can’t exist without geological art*. And what of the first ascentionist? Simply the first to link a series of hand and foot movements across a stone painting. The vision may be theirs, or inspired by another. The execution may be practiced, or not: a smooth, fluid dance or a jolting, staggered fight. The birth of a route is just the initial rendition. Geological processes gave us the playground, we just find different ways to play. To be playwrights, actors or both.

Where does tea fit in? A mug. Or anything that holds hot liquid. Obviously.   

The drinking of tea, however, represents a particular way to be an artist on the rock: the send.

For the actor, this is the performance. This is not the space for working and fiddling. The components have steeped, and from the first sip, it flows until empty. You do not repeatedly spit it out and re-drink. This is not the rehearsal room. You do not knock the cup over and pour another one. You do not have half and then give up. You may cough or splutter, but you continue. The show goes on, from anticipation to fulfillment, with an upward progression in between. As you place the vessel down, you have done the route, the curtain closes, and you have drunk your tea.       

Primal Art follows the steep prow. 

Primal Art (26)*****       

Hard. Aesthetic. Intimidating. Bold. Orgasmic. HAIBO! 

Indeed, “No!” is what I thought for a while, until the draw got too strong. It usually does. Top down inspection revealed the Holy Grail: just enough holds! Three hours of practice, re-practice and for good measure, guess what? Yes, some cursing. Despite the toil and preparation, my performance was awkward and desperate. An exhausting illustration that it was indeed possible. A juggling act, were every catch was marginal and seemingly a ball would drop at any moment, yet didn’t.

Primal Art, first crux. Photo: Warren Gans

Happily, scrappy counts, and the satisfaction was sipped from completing a new, difficult and beautiful piece, despite the inelegance. 

You could say there was tea in the art. 

Fighting time. Photo: Warren Gans

My-T-Chai heads straight up the Rooibosch Wall. Photo: Douw Steyn.

My-T-Chai (24)*****

Now we are talking. The coveted FA onsight. The idea had brewed, but this time the satisfaction was derived mainly from the style. Drank it in. Ground up improvisation; street theatre off the cuff. Writing the script en route. The skill in navigating the unknown gained through experience.  

You could say there was art in the tea. 

Parallel cords. Photo: Douw Steyn. 

Douw following pitch 1 before adding pitch 2.

Opening these two excellent pitches involved intrinsically different experiences, but my personal outcome was similar. 

A satisfied, unconventional artist. Who does sometimes drink tea, figuratively. 

How do you like your art and tea? Photo: Laleh Akbarynoor

Thanks to Laleh, Douw and Warren for photographs, and again to Douw for a rad Tafelberg season and all the cool routes we did together!

*The exception being a gym, where plastic and resin replace geology, but this is a different cauldron of tea-loving-artsy pisces altogether. 

The Heartbeat Hurdle

How I ended up at the Cape Town Carnival and not climbing in the Tradathon at Wolfberg..

Some truths are universal. Some are inevitable. Some are painful. They all just are.

Life is full of surprises. Sure it is a cliché. It is also true. To the point of redundancy. Show me a real fortune teller and there is a person with no surprises. We are all on a journey into focus, one second at a time. What will you find? How will you take it?

Beauty is often in the small. Happiness in the detail. Satisfaction in the nuance. The giggles and tickles. A kind word, a smile, sun kisses and the smell after rain. A hug when you need it. The pleasant surprises we relish, without really calling them such. We just enjoy. 

Despair is often in the large, the shocking and the consequential. If you let it in. The seemingly unfair. The blindside. The “why me” and “this sucks”. These are also just surprises, but our reaction can cripple us, if we wallow.  

It was Monday. I had no idea what would happen, as always. 

Beach and cool new friends. Bar and beer, a dance floor of swirling arms and flashing teeth. Dawn approaching, I was tired. Time to cover my pupils, recharge, relive the night in REM. 

But the cage was rattling, my heart was more than racing. Rampant. No Rest. This. Is. Weird. W.T.F.?

I went to work blurry, left even more so. Tried to sleep again. 

Impossible. The thrashing inside visible between my ribs. Some.thing. is. Not. rig.ht. 

I cycled to the doctor. She was puzzled. I was both alive and able to ride a bike. “You better contact some people”. Ambulances are cramped places. Big needles and clear fluids. 176 bpm: and not the music from last night. Drugs in. No change. “That’s interesting”. More drugs. Still 176. “You better drive faster”. 

For the medically inclined: Atrioventricular Nodal Reentrant Tachycardia. Essentially a neural short circuit sends the ticker into overdrive. It isn't rare, but normally it stops after a while, or with physical techniques/drugs. Sometimes, however, it gets locked in and can potentially continue until the suitably unambiguous 'cardiac death'. 

The Resuscitation Room: lots of people, worried faces. “12 hours like this, seriously?” Electrodes everywhere. Oxygen. The paper tongue of the ECG machine telling my story. Cardioversion. The last trick.    

“Is it like jump starting a car?”

“A bit more complicated”.          

Another chemical cocktail: The Michael Jackson. Drowsy. Out.

^-^-^-^-^ ZAP! .. ^---^---^---^

92 bpm has never felt so slow, and frikken awesome! 

A long night in ICU. Observation on their part. Contemplation on mine. 

52 bpm. The bliss of normality.    

So what next: Visits to specialists. Money. Probably an operation. More expense. No alcohol, no caffeine, minimal exercise. Don’t leave the city. Hence the photo of the dancing jelly fish first up. 

     

My being is intertwined with an active lifestyle. So I could wrestle with the perceived kakness of this series of surprises. I could bitch and whine. I could drown in melancholy. But I won’t.

If this were 100 years ago, I would have only had to wait and see what failed first.   

Last Tuesday could also have ended far worse: evidently I am both a hardy and lucky critter. 

Technology has the potential to restore health. 

Family, friends and even strangers care.

This is just a hurdle, and I have people to help me.

I have a lot to be happy about.

The beat goes on.    

Well wishes from up North. You guys rock!

Big thanks to the ambulance crew, everyone at Kingsbury Hospital ER, family and friends.

The Bek Affair

This article originally appeared in issue 51 of South African Mountain Magazine, with some different photos.

Tick lists. Boy do climbers love them. Whether it be the weekend warrior’s fodder or a catalyst for the Best-Euro-Roadtrip-Ever, tick lists and climbers are pretty tight. Tallying the must-do’s and mega-classics, they get the palms sweating and induce nostalgia in those passing the suggestions on. Although these sacred inventories are most readily associated with the gems in the route department, on a sub-dermal level they apply to areas and crags too. While often not explicitly stated, we have an intuitive knowledge of what makes certain spots cool, and we tend to gravitate to those which have more locational stars. A tiny, crumbling cliff hacked into a quarry alongside a freeway through an industrial zone is unlikely to be popular, unless of course it is in the UK. Here at the Antarctic end of Africa we have a geological heritage that affords us the luxury of being somewhat snobbish about our crags, and this is the story of one such mistress*.

The mistress sometimes plays hard to get...
Pic: Melinda Griffiths

Houdenbek is a farm of Môrester Estate in the Koue Bokkeveld. From Ceres you travel North on the R303, through the Gydo Pass, turn right at Op die Berg and after 15km ‘the Bek’ will be on your left, waiting to tempt you. The owners, Charl and Johalet van der Merwe have been superbly welcoming and encouraging of climbers on their property, with the Fisant and Tarentaal cottages providing a most pleasant base for a getaway.    

Here are the vital statistics:

Sport climbing	√	Bouldering potential	√	Short walk-ins	√
Trad climbing	√	Tar road all the way	√	Great hiking	√
Stunning surrounds	√	Easy access (no permits)	√	Mountain biking trails	√
Further climbing potential	√√	Magnificent accommodation	√	Dam for swimming	√

This pleasure zone does not have enormous assets like those of the Trango Towers, it is not excessively remote like Mt. Asgard, nor is it intimidating like our own Klein Winterhoek amphitheatre. However, one is not always looking for a huge mistress, miles away who is ultimately just going to give you a hard time. 

Exploring what she has to offer

By contrast, the Bek is easy, satisfying and most refreshing – qualities that seem well suited for an affair, or so I am told. The Bek is also really beautiful, but not in an imposing way like Ama Dablam or a catwalk model - which just seem out of most of our leagues. No, the Bek is inviting and subtle, and after the first date, a jumble of rocks from afar reveals tranquil riverine pools, intriguing gulleys and delectable 15-45m high cliff faces. While the rock quality is not always on par with Tafelberg or Krakadouw (few places in our galaxy are), it is certainly good enough to put a smile on your face.

Climalogical history

The topological evidence indicates that the first climbers ventured out of the farmland and onto the rocky outcrops between 150 and 120 million seconds ago (MSA)**. It is thought that another climbing species, physically strong but never venturing far above the ground, may have frequented the region prior to this. We know their diet typically consisted primarily of boulders, but their presence has not been confirmed in the ascent record. As with other evolutionary events, the first routes appeared near water – in this case a carabiner’s throw from the farm dam. The Warreniferous period was characterised primarily by activity from Russell and Catharina Warren along with Gareth Meder. In an unusual act of developmentary altruism, R. Warren even bolted a line specifically for the endemic Charl Van Der Merwe to open. All these pioneering efforts have names relating to apples, since they were an important food source in the surrounding valley.

Early morning, the sport crag from across the dam. 

Approximately 108 MSA, a tall, skinny creature appeared on the scene and due to the further generosity of R. Warren, first crawled up a few of the remaining bolted lines. While on a perambulation to the Heiveld arch, this lanky critter (who happens to the author of this article) noticed some delectable opportunities for trad climbing. In particular, a striking wall with an arête sticking right out of the centre, which would later become the highly aesthetic Pythagoras Dilemma (22). This marked the start of the Halseocene period, with the initial routes arriving around 102 MSA on a subsequent migration with Douw Steyn and Julia Wakeling. The vertical playground was further expanded later in the same season with Sam Jack, Melinda Griffiths and Rolfe van Breda.  Between 75 and 45 MSA the skinny guy had adaptive issues with one of his clambering appendages and coincidently the proliferation of trad routes remained dormant until 30 MSA. During this hiatus, the next wave of sport climbing (the Millbredourens period) got underway around 21 MSA with Scott Miller, Rolfe Van Breda and Tony Lourens filling the dam crag with more bolts.

Pythagoras Dilemma (22) - where it all started.
Pic: Douw Steyn

Most recently, at only 5 MSA, a herd 10 strong invaded the farm and were most impressed, all vowing to return.  Based on this it seems fairly certain that further route development will continue into the next climalogical epoch, as rumours of this fertile haven spread. In a fitting tribute to the excellence of the place, regular Bekkonites R. van Breda and M. Griffiths got engaged at the farm.  

The Virtual Tour      

At the time of scribbling, the sport crag had 21 routes (from grade 15 to 24) and some projects. Receiving morning shade, it is ideal for the hot summers, and a more convenient crag is tricky to find. By contrast the established trad crags all receive sun until mid-afternoon, making them more suitable for the cooler months. 

On the trail that leads from the dam to the Heiveld arch (which is well worth the walk), the first crag on your left is the Boardroom. This takes its name from the improbable natural shelter that Charl mused was where the bushmen could have held their indabas. Imagine a giant stone Rubik’s cube, where a block from a bottom corner is slid out just enough to form a protected room inside the boulder. While most of the lines here are relatively easy, there is also the seductive Ripple Effect (24); with its red curves leading up to a climactic finish requiring unusual body positions.

Riding the Ripple Effect.
Pic: Melinda Griffiths

A little further on, now taking one of the mountain bike trails, you pass underneath Môrester Square, which is surprisingly geometric for something not designed by an architect. At 45m in height (and width), this is a good place for those with tantric tendencies. This cliff band terminates in the Stolen Salami sector, which was christened after we learnt what happens when tasty meat products and a farm dog are both left unattended. The obvious feature here is the overhanging arête taken by Big Green Coconuts (23). A combination of nuts are recommended: tiny metal ones and large anatomical ones. Alternatively, if you dig crack, then Boa Lime (20) should get you high.

Bring a large pair for Big Green Coconuts (23).
Pic: Douw Steyn

Back on the main arch trail, and only 30 minutes stroll from the dam, is a valley-let littered with rock formations including the Choice crag. This was not inspired by the brand of Government issue condoms, although some of the routes are indeed quite orgasmic. With the prime lines, flat lunch spot and great views – it was quite simply the choice place to go. Both the climbing style and the grades are varied, and although the bottom 2m of rock is sometimes a bit sub-optimal, just think of it as foreplay. On our maiden voyage, Julia proclaimed that “My Jugs are Bigger than your Jugs”. The name stuck, and indeed the inaugural trad route at the Bek was covered in holds so big that you would need several more hands to fondle them adequately enough. By contrast, only 10m away and 10 grades harder is the seemingly blank face of Angular Momentum (24). If you are not in for bold, thin and technical, then the neighbouring Bokkeveld Boogie (22) is the ticket, with everything after the first move going at about grade 19. For the good olde full Monty, and more fun that should probably be legal, head to The Joy Axis (17).

Douw prepearing his next dance move on Bokkeveld Boogie (22)

In conclusion, a trip to the Bek is not epic. If you want missioning and suffering, then go elsewhere. It is not the next Ceuse of sport climbing, nor an Arapiles of trad. However, should you be in the mood for a good time, exploration and comfort, where you can relax around a fire with mates and cold beer after a satisfying day, then you would need to try pretty hard to fail here. If you are geographically distant to the Bek then may I suggest you find your own mistress, and once you start feeling guilty about the amount of fun you are having, you could always write about her in a magazine so that others may come and share in the fruits of pleasure, so to speak.

Another choice route at the choive crag: Axes of Weevil (17)
Pic: Tony Lourens

Richard’s Six-pack of Satisfaction***

Rhombus Romp (15)

The Joy Axis (17)

Flying Saucer (18)

Read the Lightening (19)

Bokkeveld Boogie (22)

Ripple Effect (24)

* : Believe it or not, in the interests of gender equality, I even consulted with a member of the Women and Gender Studies Department at the University of the Western Cape, who did not find it offensive for me to use it in this metaphorical context. However, should it bother you, then please view it in the notional sense as an entity with which you would like to have an affair. If the association of sexual and climbing activities does not resonate with you, then perhaps you are selling yourself short in one or both of these fields.

** This is based on a reading time approximated to early November 2014. A correction of approximately 2.6 MSA can be applied for each month thereafter.

*** Definitely subjective, probably biased, but certainly not kak.