Rich Climbing: Through the Gates

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.