“The circle is done”: poignant lyrics from Beneath Broken
Earth, by Paradise Lost.
Now most folks with any musical sensibility will find this
track distinctly objectionable. Both the growling vocals and overall heaviness attempt
to impart hearing damage. As veritable chameleons, the band have gone from
death to doom to gothic to electronic to synthetic to other-terms-I-don’t-understand
and back to seriously dark, heavy shit. While this orbital musical journey has
essentially nothing to do with my little story, I did perchance across this
song before an adventure to Turret Peak, and parts of it were playing back in
what was left of my eardrums as we headed out. You see, when an entity is
unpredictable, you have to sample it to find out what the status quo has
become. It’s a form of morbid curiosity. This, and circles, do actually have
something to do with my tale, which fear not, will commence shortly.
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| The Turret from the maze entrance |
Or now. Turret Peak is a spectacularly satisfying place.
Even if you have no interest in clawing your way up the numerous crags. Perched
at a respectable height above the blue wobble stuff, is a vast maze of gulleys
and tunnels, proud spires, arches and sunken streams. The Great Owl guards the
East while the Elephant ‘n the Room overlook the Kouebokkeveld below. There is
a spine on the Chopping Block and a feast of mushrooms on all the summits. Steep
boulders are strewn among cliffs of all orientations and colours.
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| Approaching entrance where the Great Owl resides. Photo: Marie Bosman |
My first visit was back in the Halloween month of 2013.
While there were a few tricks, like finding the path, it was mostly treats. As
part of an MCSA meet, we were blown away (not literally) by the wild camping on
the vlakte surrounding the Turret. As obvious as a pink ostrich it was, that
return trips with rock climbing toys would be needed. Six or so forays later I
am pondering how to return back before all the water evaporates, leaving me
thirsty till next season. It was on this initial courting that I spied the
battlements from below. Almost immediately, the right pillar of the central
gates stood out as the pièce de résistance. Yet, for reasons that escape me, I
resisted for over 3 years.
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| The Gates |
The inaugural gathering of climbers was a jovial affair,
with the Versveld brothers bringing everything except the kitchen sink. My battered
knees get sympathy pain at the thought of carting steel frying pans, litres of
milk and kilograms of steak into the wilderness. However, it must be said, the
smell of fried goodies rising from the cave made my bowl of Pronutro and water seem
somewhat sub-par. Now, I would not call us lazy, especially not those on the
gourmet cooking crew, but we didn’t get very far from camp. The climbing in the
immediate vicinity was just too captivating. Even on the second trip I only got
halfway to the battlements that in part catalyzed all these missions. The Gates
were open, put I never even knocked.
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| The Elephant Eye |
Birthday rounds were drunk and calendars changed. Over a
thousand days passed before I finally arrived at battlements ready to fight. As
if to punish me for tardiness, the wind howled through with fierce determination.
A savage iciness was in a loyal accompaniment. Evidently the task at hand,
which was challenging to begin with, just got more so. The delights of the
previous two days had delayed our arrival, and I did not relish the thought of
returning empty handed on the last day, again. Suffice to say the conditions
were not prime, but in addition to stubbornness, I was morbidly curious. How
much harder would it really make it?
For some perspective, the route is steep and committing with
large airtime potential. On the plus side, falling into a wind tunnel would be
a novel experience.
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| The sending gates were open... |
A blow by blow account, excuse the pun, it not warranted,
but imagine climbing inside a giant fridge with powerful fan on full bore. Tricky
gear placements and flapping clothes slow you down. Once your fingers have turned
into mutineers, and you find yourself shivering at the last rest spot before
the steep runout, take a moment. These are the moments that define ourselves.
Bailing would be easy now, but how would it feel later? There is no glory in giving
up. This is when you need to pull yourself toward yourself and throw caution to
the wind, of which there was plenty.
Falling two moves later would have been worlds apart from
calling it quits: polar opposite modes of failure. Yet, somehow, I held on. Onto
what I am not sure, as sensory awareness had long since been gusted out of me.
What I can say, is that it was an acutely intense experience. While I was too
mentally exhausted right then to be satisfied, it still brings a smile to my
face while I write this months later.
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| Heading back to terra firma |
The more you are tested, the greater the reward.
The Gatekeeper was born.
The circle is done.
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| Johann Lanz enjoying Helium Jive (18) |
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| The author opening Orange is the New Black (24). Photo: Illona Pelser |
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| Photo: Moritz Thilo |
