Bungonia and Bare Rock: Agony and Ecstasy.

Yes, I'm still down here in Tasmania, yet with one major difference:

Winter is Coming!

Snow on Ben Lomond, taken from Ingvar's house.

The unfortunate side-effects of enduring a Tasmanian
winter.

Gone are the days of balmy climbing sessions until 9pm at night, and cuddling up to icy stubbies of Boags Draught to stave off Heat Stroke. Now it's a case of "pitch black by 5pm" and "retreating to my sleeping bag wearing all the clothing I posses by 6pm." Ice cold beer is replaced by Red Wine and Stout, and the volume of climbers passing through Bare Rock has diminished to an almost insignificant number. It's become quite the lonely existence...

Yet still I persevere. Dedicated? Determined? Ambitious? Audacious? More likely just: stubborn to the point of stupidity.

Seriously though, it's pretty fucking miserable to be living in a van at this time of year, and the climbing conditions are varying rapidly from utterly terrible, to amazingly spectacular (almost as quickly as the weather is turning).

However, every professional climbing bum(bly) needs a vacation (from their vacation), hence a brief trip back to the Mainland to tackle:

Air Malta

A very rough topo of where the route Air Malta (25) goes up the
South Wall of Bungonia Gorge.

Partway through April, I traveled back to the Mainland for a surprise Birthday Gathering for my buddy Ben Jenga, and used the opportunity to team up with the intrepid rapid hamster (otherwise known as Neil Monteith) to tackle a few of the new routes that had been established in Bungonia recently. As I've mentioned in previous updates, if the routes at Bungonia aren't climbed regularly enough, a layer of fine silt (from the nearby quarry) forms over the holds, and renders many of the routes almost unclimbable. Consequently the key is to get on routes based on the following criteria:

• As soon as they are established.
• Immediately after they've had a "clean" by extremely motivated locals.
• After (or during) an influx of ascents by other climbers.

In short... The key to a great weekend at Bungonia (for the average "out-of-towner") is -essentially- to have other climbers do all the hard work for you. Hooray for egoism!

"Whyyyyyyy???" - Cursing the Weather Gods
as they ruin yet another day of climbing at
Bungonia.

The goal of our two days was to do Air Malta (240m 6-pitch Sport 25) on Day 1, and either Jump Master (205m 6-pitch Trad 26 - via the new Direct Start), or The Bridge to Total Freedom (250m 7-pitch Mixed 26), on Day 2, depending on how motivated/demotivated we were after Day 1. Psyche was high, yet despite a great forecast, Bungonia immediately showed its true colours by bucketing down the night (and morning) before our 1st climb. Ever optimistic, Neil Monteith started up Pitch 1 (a grade 23 Limestone slab) in the rain, and managed a grand total of 3 bolts before backing off.

Instead, the day was filled with climbing whatever single-pitch routes were dry-ish. Psyche was now low (*I* pretty much spent the day complaining about how it always rains in Bungonia) as we jumped on Pitch 1 of Jealous Mistress (P1 was gr23, the whole climb is gr28), which turned out to be somewhat dirty, in desperate need of a rebolt, and featuring a bit friable rock (due to lack of  traffic), yet generally good (slightly bold) climbing... up to the point where the crucial hanger protecting the exciting traverse left had fallen off. After a few exhilarating swinging falls, we stripped the route and bailed.

Next was Pitch 1 of Dark Side of the Loon (P1 is gr25), a climb that I'd heard good things about, but started with badly bolted, dirty, chossy crap for a few metres... before revealing itself to be an amazingly improbable roof-traverse and powerful steep headwall on great rock, which almost made me forget about how utterly hideous the first 7m of the climb was. ALMOST.

Neil Monteith approaching the crux of Pitch 1 (23) of Air Malta.
Most of the multipitches on the South Wall of Bungonia Gorge begin like this.

Neil then ticked Sarah Fieg's Route (20m 24), and I managed to break off a mega-jug just below the anchors on my retro-flash, and consequently punted the route. Yay! We did a few repeats of the newer single pitch sport routes as well, before retiring to drink Goon-Bag wine, and enjoy a chance encounter Duncan Hunter (who was the main developer of Air Malta) at the Bungonia Campsite Kitchen .

Spot the climbers! Duncan Hunter and partner beginning up the rarely
repeated: Masters of the Universe (26) on the North Wall.

The next day looked more promising, and we started up Air Malta at about 9am, with Neil passing his previous highpoint (3-bolts up) rapidly (and without the shaking, cursing, and road-runner-ing on the wet limestone slab). The pitch itself is pleasant, though unremarkable Bungonia slabbing, but features a heinous gr23 boulder-problem crux just before the anchors, which essentially comes to define the pitch. The move itself -powerful throws around an awkward bulge, with minimal feet or handholds- probably is only gr23 with the beta, but it took Neil quite a few awkward falls before figuring it out, and it was only through acting as a marionette to Monty's move-for-move beta that I managed to stick the pitch clean on 2nd. I seriously doubt I would've onsighted it.

Pitch 2 (gr21) consisted of some more slabbing, culminating in a section of steep (and somewhat friable) headwall to the anchors, which we both managed to climb clean. Pitch 3 (60m gr22) had a bouldery start off the belay, leading to a loooooong section of enjoyable sub-20 slabbing, and a rather committing downclimb-traverse finale which would've been exciting for Neil with the amount of rope in the system, and was equally exciting for me on 2nd as I unclipped the last draw and eyed off the prospective swinging-fall onto the belay. Again, not a mind-blowing pitch, but with enjoyable enough climbing, which could possibly be improved (in Neil and My shared opinions) by adding an interim belay to mitigate rope-drag, and the finale fall-factor).

Alex Ling negotiating the tricky final
traverse on Pitch 3.

Looking up the end of Pitch 3 (22), with Neil on
belay, and the stunning Pitch 4 waiting above.

The reality, though, is that all the pitches TO Pitch 4 (25m 25) and after it, are essentially access pitches for this one mega-classic pitch. That's not to say that there was anything unenjoyable, bad or offensive in the 5-pitches on either side of Pitch 4, but rather that the climbing on P4 is so ludicrously spectacular that it devalues the other pitches by contrast alone.

And it was all mine!

Looking down at Neil and the Ling Brothers from the belay at the end of
Pitch 4 (25) - An absolute classic!

Pitch 4 tackles the band of Brown, Orange, Red and White steep (and blocky) limestone that runs the length of the South Wall of Bungonia Gorge. It begins with a funky thin (and slippery) slab, before bursting into outrageous steep terrain with over 100m exposure below you. The lower half of the pitch is the steepest, with enormous sloper jugs, unlikely body positions and crucial knee-bars being the defining characteristics. The first half ends with committing steep moves to gain the top of a chandelier tufa, and the start of the intriguingly different (and, admittedly, more my style) upper half. At this point, it's all about big moves between unlikely positioned enormous jugs, through slightly overhanging terrain, with a penultimate iron-cross sequence guarding the anchors. I missed a crucial kneebar in the initial steep section and fell off on the Onsight, and had a bit of trouble mounting the chandelier tufa at half-height, but Neil almost managed the pitch clean on Second, only botching one of the finishing moves to a jug hidden in an improbable location.

One of our pursuers (of the flying Ling Brothers), making the final moves of
Pitch 4.

It's the sort of pitch that would likely be sent Clean for both of us with a Second Shot (and we were both keen on another lap), but impossibly, we weren't the only climbers on Air Malta this day (actually, there was a bizarre number of climbers in the Gorge this weekend, contrasting my usual experience of being the only ones climbing there), and another shot would've produced an undesirable bottle-neck. And so, we continued on.

Neil on the rather Malevolent Pitch 5 (23), mere moments
away from being spanked black and blue.

Pitch 5 (gr23) was -to be honest- rather dirty, with a weird film of limestone-mud surrounding the immediate climbing line, which featured a strange mix of chimneying, off-widthing, fist-crack climbing, jug-hauling, and bouldery pocket/crimp climbing. It was also absolutely desperate at the grade, with both Neil and I falling off at the last bolt. Having said all of that, it was still fairly enjoyable in that it presented an intriguingly different style of climbing (which it then promptly used to kick our collective arses).

The final pitch to glory was an enjoyable Verdon-esque grey slab complete with sloping-pockets, sharp runnels, and high quality rock with two hard sections at gr22, and a great deal of easier climbing. In all reality, it was one of the better "exit pitches" I've climbed in Bungonia Gorge, and was an enjoyable way to conclude the day.

Topping out at about 2pm, we ended up accomplishing the entire journey car-to-car in about 6 hours.

Unfortunately, at this point, we encountered a group of imbeciles doing exactly the sort of ignorant, destructive bullshit that reminds me why it is that I have so little faith in humanity. After arriving at the lookout immediately before the carpark, we observed a large group of individuals of all ages (including children younger than 10, and at least one older gentleman in his 50s) laughing uproariously as an esky-sized block of limestone was lifted by 2 members of the group, and thrown over the guardrail, to fall more than 250m into the gorge below, raining destruction on everything in its path.

Now, I'm the first to admit that trundling (especially with good reason) can be a great deal of fun, but directly below the lookout is the inescapable slot-canyon section of the Red Track, which -a quick glance at the Registry at the Park Office later that day revealed- was host to dozens of individuals scheduled to pass through during the course of the day.

Neil got a clear view of what they were doing and confronted them immediately, only to be mocked, lied to, and dismissed by the perpetrators. It was one thing for the individuals who specifically dropped the rock to behave like dicks to us, but to see the women, and the old man, looking at the two of us with scorn for our interloping spoke volumes about the sort of characters that -in reality- define most of the Human Race. Rome is the mob, and the mob is dumb.

We made an effort to track down a ranger and point them in the direction of these individuals, but -inevitably- despite being a long weekend there was no one in residence. Typical.

With a rare (for us) early finish, we packed up our gear and made the long journey back to Sydney. In usual fashion the trip went quite quickly, as Neil and I took to arguing/discussing/debating controversial Big Issues with our usual unrestrained fervor. It's as if I never left!

During my flight back to Tassie, literally the next day, I encountered by old friend Ingvar Lidman at Sydney Airport, who was sharing the flight down to the Launceston, having spent almost half a year in Western Australia (and a full 30-days living in a cave in the Stirling Ranges, establishing numerous new routes, and of particular note a 3-pitch Mixed 28 called "Route 666".

It was good to have the old Tassie Team back together again.

Agony and Ecstasy

 

Inbetween seiging away at Obsidian Obsession and No Space in Time at Bare Rock, I teamed up with Garry Phillips for a bit of variety out at Freycinet. We had some mixed successes tackling the beautiful red granite walls of the Star Factory, and I finally got the chance to experience two of the routes I've been wanting to get on for a long time: Simply the Best (28) and Augmentium (Trad 29). Unsurprisingly, neither route failed to live up to its towering reputation, and were a symphony of rock ecstasy, and both felt eminently achievable with a bit of effort.

Augmentium (29) in all its glory. If you
aren't inspired by this, it's time to take
up Dressage for a hobby.

Tasmanian Kevin Jin, belayed by Garry
Phillips on Turbo Hammer (25).

If you've ever seen Ingvar climb... it
should come as no surprise that he
can, in fact, walk on water.

Tasmania has also been trying its best to show of its highly unpredictable weather, with record-breaking flooding trapping me at the tiny town of Mathinna (where I've been staying with Ingvar) for several days, with no reception, minimal power, and no escape! I can only imagine the suffering Ingvar had to endure: being trapped with me as I progressively went more insane within our wooden confines, enduring acute Cabin Fever and cradling my unsoiled Rock Shoes with a forlorn tear in my eye (and inevitable froth pouring from my mouth).

Yeah... I don't think we'll be driving out anytime soon.

Inbetween the explosive bursts of near unfathomable cataclysmic weather (and periodic mental breakdowns), I've been really psyched to try and add my own multipitch to the main face of Bare Rock. To leave my mark -as it were- on the cliff that has consumed almost 6 months of my life. There's a lot of vacant real estate on the rock here, but sections of it are incredibly chossy, and the process of piecing together a multipitch which runs the length of the 200m main face and isn't littered with rubbish pitches inbetween the classics (and without criss-crossing existing routes) is quite the challenge. The reality is that most (though not all) of the longer multipitches here are a mixed bag of amazing and frustrating.

I'd spied an unclimbed line on a broad, blank section of the right-hand side of Bare Rock, and spent almost 2 weeks (in total) piecing together a fully-bolted 8-pitch line (totaling about 185m), which took in much of the best rock to be found in Fingal. The climb is called Agony and Ecstasy in 8 Parts, due to the number of pitches, the varied nature of the climbing (which will make some pitches agony, and others ecstasy to repeat ascensionists), and in keeping with the ongoing rock/metal theme of most of the routes on Bare Rock. The song in question that I've taken the name from is linked below:

Gerry Narkowicz on the belay below Pitch 2 (24), about to blast up it on one
of his Send Attempts (and giving us the Mullet Salute as well). I
flashed both pitches as a giant 50m pitch moments later...

Pitch 1 (30m 16 - "The Easy Slab Pitch") is the same as Pitch 1 for Tomorrow's Dream (3-pitch 19), and is a pleasant, if unremarkable slab. At this point (Pitch 2, 25m 24 - "The Funky Roof-Turn Pitch") my climb diverges from Tomorrow's Dream, continuing straight up an awesome orange shield of rock, to an outrageous square-cut roof which is turned by pressing up against the featureless underside, and walking your feet up until they are just below the roof. At this point you reach around to some mingen crimps, get a ludicrously high foot, and rock over-and-around the rooflet. If you manage to get your left foot above the lip of the roof, only 10m of grade 20 slab guards the Send of this pitch.

I'd like to point out that Gerry Narkowicz bolted Pitch 2 (and it was always going to be his pitch on the route), but had -to this point- been unable to send it... He said I could "have it", provided that I could flash it as a giant 50m pitch belayed from the ground. I don't think he really expected me to do it... unfortunately for him, I managed to do exactly that. Thanks Captain Mullet!

Captain Mullet seconding Pitch 3 (22) clean on the big
Send Push up the climb.

Pitch 3 (12m 22 - "The Hard Slab Pitch") is -unfortunately- one of the less memorable pitches. It's a short, and rather hard thin slab, which is somewhat contrived, as you deliberately leave good holds (which deteriorate into bad rock above) to tackle the blankest and hardest section of the slab. It's not exactly "escapable", but it does feel strange to traverse off great holds and into much hardness (though I suppose that's the defining characteristic of sport climbing). Fortunately, the "generally quite good" climbing to this point turns the dial up to 11 from here on out.

Next up is the "The Tenuous Traverse Pitch" (45m 23), which is hard right off the belay, and tackles an awesome traverse line of bulletproof orange rock, whereby your feet are smearing on polished nothingness on the lip of an undercut roof, and you're pressed up against another square-cut roof above you, underclinging a tips seam and traversing desperately hard left. At the highest point of the traverse, you turn through the largest section of the roof (which, despite looking nails, is actually only about grade 22) and end up on a beautiful tiger-striped grade 18 slab, which you boldly climb for 20m (its rather runout) to the belay.

Gerry seconding Pitch 4 (23), having just turned the roof, and heading up
the glorious grade 18 slab. Surely that slab is a work of art, no?

When I'd first Top Rope Solo'd this pitch before bolting it, I'd thought it was about grade 25, but on the Send Push I ticked it first shot of the day, placing the draws, and feeling pretty solid the whole way... hence: 23. Regardless, it's a rad pitch, and signifies the point where the overall quality of the climbing steps up a notch.

At this point, things get hard(ish). Pitch 5 (15m 26 - "The Outrageous Roof Pitch") turns The Great Roof of Bare Rock (visible in the photo of Gerry flipping the Bird above) on the left hand side, and features powerful, funky slapping on slippery polished slopers through ridiculous steepness. The only way to make these frictionless holds work for you, is to get funky with your feet (and heels), and throw yourself at it fully.  The bizarre roof-traversing culminates in a sting-in-the-tail deadpoint across the void, with some intense bicycling through the air to gain a stemming stance, with easier moves left to the anchor. This was the pitch that had me really nervous before the Send, as it's pretty much my worst style of climbing (though I still enjoy it). Fortunately, I managed to fire-it-off 3rd lead attempt (I'd had 2 laps on Top Rope Solo previously), with Gerry belaying and cheering my on. As you can imagine, I was rather psyched!

It's almost like a postcard: "Greetings from Bare Rock!" Perhaps I should be selling this picture to
tourism Tasmania. (Me on Pitch 5 (26), with Ingvar Lidman on belay, on a repeat for the camera).

The cruxy deadpoint lunge across space at the end of
the pitch. Aaaaand...

Pitch 6 (15m 25) is the "Bouldery Black Streak Pitch", and commences innocuously enough, with some interesting moves up an orange slab to a stance... before throwing you into the thick of battle with technical, bouldery power-endurance climbing for the next 7m or so, as you layback and heel-hook up a slippery left-facing flake that borders the orange and the black.  Right as you're appropriately pumped, you enter the crux, which involves 1st-joint laybacking up an incipient seam, a big pounce to an "okay" hold, some tricky footwork, and a big move to a "good" hold. After that, it's grade 22 steep jugging in the black streak to the belay.

BICYCLE TO GLORY!!! (and a stemming stance).

 I originally gave this pitch 26 (and it took me 7 shots to tick it in proper alpine conditions -complete with high winds and spindrift blowing around), but on a subsequent repeat I did it too easily, and felt that I couldn't justify the harder grade. Hence the downgrade.

 














Pitch 7 (15m 24 - "The Technical Stemming Pitch") makes a few moves left to join Enchanted to a Stone (45m 24) just in time for it's main crux, which is an impressively overhanging series of stepped roofs that are negotiated with a sequence of extreme complex stemming. The pitch ends with an excitingly dynamic set of moves out right to gain an arete feature, before a juggy finale guides the way to the anchors.

When I first attempted this pitch, Enchanted to a Stone was unrepeated despite a number of very strong climbers having a crack at it. Though originally graded 24, some attempted repeats had proposed anywhere from 26 to 28! My first attempt at it was utterly shutdown at the main crux moves (right at the end of the pitch) and for an hour I tried every extreme stemming stance that I could to negotiate the last hurdle guarding the Send of Agony and Ecstasy in 8 Parts. Finally, with some encouragement from Ingvar, I managed to come up with a repeatable sequence, and Sent the pitch packing on my 2nd shot. I also used the experience of solving the final crux on Enchanted to a Stone to do the first clean repeat of that entire route as well, which I felt really is grade 24 for the true redpoint (though the style, and initial Onsight confusion will baffle almost everyone).

Entering the final crux of Pitch 7 (24), with a Michael Bay-style Lens
Flair to add to the dramatic feel of the moment.

The final pitch (Pitch 8 - 25m 14 - "The Junky Exit Pitch") is -as the name probably suggests- nothing special by Bare Rock standards. It simply follows the best rock to the top of the cliff, and -compared to Blueys access/exit pitches- still reasonably enjoyable, despite almost being inconsequential after all of the pitches that came before it. I ended up sending it in the almost dark, with a pack and several ropes (I was collecting the fixed ropes I had on the upper pitches on the way out) on my back. Mega Classique!
And with that, it was done. My truly major contribution to Bare Rock, my first Long-ish multipitch climb featuring some of the best pitches of climbing I've ever established, was a fully-fledged route: Agony and Ecstasy in 8 Parts (180m 26 - 16, 24, 22, 23, 26, 25, 24, 14) - 3 Stars!

A big thanks to Gerry Narkowicz, Ingvar Lidman, Daniel Hazel and Jason McCarthy for helping me realise this vision and get it done!

I've made a short video showing some of the exciting climbing on the upper pitches. This video was made after the First Ascent, and is -to be honest- a bit half-arsed in the camera positioning (hence you will see the Orange Helmet I attach my fixed camera to for much of it). Regardless, I hope you enjoy it, and I hope it inspires you to get on this masterpiece of Rock Poetry (If I DO say so myself!).

The Music is (predictably) the 1st movement of "Achilles: Agony and Ecstasy in 8 Parts" by Manowar.

Rock Climbing First Ascent - Agony and Ecstasy in 8 Parts (8-Pitch 26), Bare Rock, Tasmania from P T on Vimeo.

Real Agony and True Ecstasy

Well, I suppose that it can't all be great anecdotes and victory celebrations, so I'll conclude today with a real slice of Agony, and a Truly soaring piece of Ecstasy that I've experienced down here during my continuing sojourn...

Federation Peak in all its glory!
Photo Source: Dave Noble ( www.david-noble.net )

I've always wanted to climb Federation Peak, as it's one of the most amazingly monolithic peaks in Australia, features the longest continually upwards climb we have here (over 600m of climbing via Blade Ridge into North-West Face Direct), and harbours a notoriously difficult approach (described as "Australia's Toughest Bushwalk") to even get to the peak. Unfortunately, the logistics of a climb on Federation Peak has always precluded the chance to make the rarely repeated climb.

This trip, however, I decided that I'd at least do the bushwalking approach to the summit before snow made the trek impossible, so that I could see if it's as hard as I've heard, and learn the path for a prospective climbing trip in the future. As I was living with Ingvar at the time, he was psyched to hike Federation Peak again (he did the entire return trip in one 23 hour push when I was living with him last year!), and so it was that the two of us set off for a few days of "pleasant hiking in the Tasmanian Wilderness", beginning our journey in at 0500hrs on Wednesday 25th May.

My legs 3 hours into the journey on the first day. It only got worse from here.

I would describe the "trail" from Farmhouse Creek (and I use the world "trail" extremely loosely) as possibly the most unpleasant activity I've endured while wearing boots... and that includes running the Army Obstacle Course at Moorebank in a full bio-suit (complete with Respirator) and being repeatedly exposed to military-grade CS gas for "training". A large portion of the trail is spent trudging through muddy bogs, at times knee-deep; other sections are creek-bashing in icy water; and the remaining section involves negotiating literally thousands of tree-obstacles of varying degrees of complexity... and all of this for 19 bloody kilometres (either way). The reality, is that the "trail" only exists because it follows water-runs for its entire length, be they slogging through a creek, a muddy bog, or up (and down) a water-run through the hills. Essentially, its the worst part of Canyoning, without the redeeming aspects (or any sort of view for about 18kms of the journey), and without wearing a wetsuit to justify the amphibiousness of the activity.

Post-Federation Peak Equipment drying in the... wait for it...
Bare Rock Shipping Container! (Surprised?)

The goal was to do it in 2 days, so Ingvar -the Speed Demon Incarnate- set a consistent pace, and -despite the discomfort- we were well on track to reach the summit by 1700hrs on the first day... a mere 12 hours after we set off. I use the words "on track to..." because over the course of the walk, I managed to pick up a repetitive strain injury which damaged the miniscus on the side of my left knee. I've experienced a lesser form of this injury before -usually while trudging for multiple days through deep snow, with plastic mountaineering boots and crampons on-, but never in such a short span of time, nor to such a severe extent. By the time we were 2 hours from the summit, the pain was so severe that I was hardly moving (and was even crawling at times rather than risk raising my left leg at all), and at a snails pace I managed to make it to within 1.5hrs of the summit before -collectively- making the judgement call that it was time to turn around.

I don't deal with failure well, and I am -though I'm not proud to admit it- the sort of person who does tend to push on to the summit beyond any margin of safety due to an unhealthy dose of summit fever, and I sure as hell didn't turn around easily (or without a great deal of anguish and regret), but the facts were this: I had almost 19kms of hostile terrain to negotiate back to our car, and almost every step for those 19kms was exactly the sort of complex high-stepping movement that would aggravate my injury -which by this point, was so severe that I was no longer able to bite back shouts of pain whenever I "tweaked it".

What followed was 24hrs of agony, as I limped, crawled, whimpered, shouted, and dragged myself back through the wall-of-tree log obstacles, the knee-deep bogs, the rocky slopes and the icy creeks. I'd brought almost no painkillers or anti-inflammatories, so what I had were used sparingly for the most difficult sections. Ingvar was more than kind enough to carry both our packs on the most complex parts (fortunately mine only weighed about 10kgs, and his was about 6kgs) and was infinitely patient with my slow, tortured progress.

We bivvied in the rain at about 2200hrs on the first night, having taken almost 5 hours to descend Moss Ridge back to the main creek section. Due to my injury I did a half-arsed job of setting up my tarp, and ended up spending the night saturated after it collapsed in the storm, and I was too tired to be bothered re-establishing it.

I'm proud to admit that I still managed to keep up a reasonable pace (only slowing down on the worst of the log-obstacles), though it was absolute agony the whole way. Consequently, we made it back to the car at about 1700hrs on Thursday, and promptly drove to a Bar for a good pub feed (mmm... Beer Battered Barramundi!) and some Coopers Stout to ease the sorrows. I was in serious pain, I knew that the injury wasn't something that would go away quickly, I couldn't high-step and had almost no motor-control over my left-leg below the knee, and I was quite fearful that it might be the end to any ambitious climbing goals in the near future.

The 1st Crux on No Space in Time (25m Mixed 28) in the gear-protected
crack.

The anguish seemed worse, as I knew I was really close to ticking No Space in Time (25m Mixed 28) at Bare Rock, a route of Ingvar's which had captivated me for some time, and felt like a route designed to appeal to my climbing strengths. It consists of a 25/26 steep technical crack (mostly protected by trad gear), followed by 2 back-to-back grade 25 sequences, and finishes in a tricky and complex grade 23 finale (all of this with no real "good" holds to chill out on), and climbs beautiful cream-and-black striped dolarite the whole way.

I took almost a week off climbing, but used the opportunity to eat extremely sparingly (just what I needed to offset any energy expenditure) to lose what little weight I could afford to shed, and train like a madman (mostly on my hangboard), focusing in particular on the sort of strengths necessary for sticking the final crux (which had been spitting me off on almost all of my attempts to this point). Eventually, feeling up to some walking, I hiked to the top of Bare Rock, rapped in and had a session on Top Rope Solo, avoiding the knee-tweaking steep crack start (for the most part) and instead spending almost the entire day doing the moves of the final crux again, and again, and again. At this point in time it was heartbreaking to see how far I'd fallen from any possibility of sending the route, and I was feeling dejected and devastated when Ingvar talked me into heading back up to The Boneyard the following day, right on sundown (in the 1 hour per day where conditions are perfect), and giving No Space in Time a couple of red-point shots.

Another perspective on the initial crack section, with Jason on belay.

Doing a warmup before leaving the Shipping Container, I launched up the climb at exactly 1600hrs, and managed to -impossibly- link through the final crux, only to fall off part-way through the grade 23 final section. Psyche was high among Ingvar and Mark (who had joined us for the afternoon session on the Ledge), but I wasn't nearly so optimistic. Nevertheless, right on the edge of dark, I had another crack at it and suddenly found myself on the final moves of the grade 23 section, climbing it poorly (since I couldn't see the crucial tic-tac footers in the dark), but completely in control. And thus No Space in Time went down for a happy ending to this period of frustration.

I've always said that all of my major climbing injuries have had silver linings to them: when I broke my heel I learned the value of footwork (as I continued climbing one-footed, and every foot placement had to be perffect to make the moves possible), the ruptured pulleys in my fingers meant I had to learn how to climb open-handed (because I couldn't crimp), the torn hamstring led to greater flexibility and a ludicrous high-step capacity (as working on flexibility was a large part of the recovery)... And despite it not being immediately apparent here, I think that the knee injury had a silver lining as well: it forced me to actually have rest days, and allowed me to perform targeted training on the moves that were holding me back from the tick.

And besides, the whole story makes a good anecdote, right? (Although my knee is feeling rather sorry for itself at the moment <sad face> ).

Until next time, friends, be safe and enjoy your gainful employment and respectable prospects for the future (you know, like having money, a house, family, cars, food, electricity, four intact limbs, non-septic jam scars, etc).

Busting a gut in the initial steep crack section.

The 2nd crux: a weird right-heel rock-over through steepness.

The 3rd (and final!) crux: a complex sequence of thin holds and micro-footers.

The technical (but comparatively easy) opening moves to the grade 23 final section.

Sojourn in the Far South

Alex and Daniel (from Coffs Harbour) on
the mega 60m crux pitch of Aqualung (21) at
Stacks Bluff... Alex is in the major corner near
the top.

It's been a very long time since I updated this, and that's not from lack of desire to make a new blog post, but rather because I'd been hoping to have some positive news about my long-term project: The Obsidian Obsession on the upper-tier of Bare Rock. Alas, despite a protracted siege, it still remains unsent, with some intermittent bad weather (including a record-setting flood at Fingal), coupled with unbearable heat (for hard climbing) and a general lack of my own hard-climbing fitness (too much time slabbing in Yosemite, and it's been almost half a year since I've trained properly) making it a tall order to score the send. And so, the siege continues.

Fortunately, however, I have had some other adventures that I'd like to share with you.

Amongst the more conventional climbing I've done in the past two months, I've spent some time at various places on the Ben Lomond Plateau, successfully repeating some classic testpieces at Pavement Bluff (Howitzer (22) and Road to Ballyshannon (22 - going on hard 23)), enjoying the long and varied Aqualung (6-pitch 21) at Stacks Bluff, as well as some of the more conventional Ben Lomond cracks at Frews Flutes (Rigaudon (20)) and Local Loser (Hidden Secrets (20)).

Me on the First Ascent of Godhead's Lament (24). The camera
angle doesn't convey the steepness (though it does show the
funkiness).

I  also bolted and Sent a new line at Bare Rock on the underside of the God Monster arch, which went at 24/25 and I named "Godhead's Lament" (in keeping with the general theme of song-related route names at Bare Rock, and the God-theme of the arch in question). When I sent that line it was a contender for one of the Steepest routes in Tassie, and though it's not of the quality of the routes on The Boneyard at Bare Rock (nor many fabulous long steep routes at The Paradiso), it was still thoroughly entertaining steep climbing...

But then I decided to extend the route to remain on the underside of the arch in question, producing a 35m route which overhangs by about 15m over the course of it's length, producing an even stronger contender for the Steepest Route in Tassie award. Though generally consisting of pretty good Finger-Jugs the whole way, the 4 cruxes are all on sections of slopey holds or minuscule crimps, and the nature of the dolarite means that a lot of the moves encompass far less conventional thugging than the majority of the steep routes I've done. It's also -predictably- incredibly pumpy. It took me 7 shots to tick it, but finally Influence of a Drowsy God (26 - 35m) was done. Again, hardly the best climbing at Bare Rock, but incredibly entertaining, and no one can argue that it's not an amazing feature to climb.

The pumpy traverse right, where Godhead's Lament and
Influence of a Drowsy God separate.

Influence of a Drowsy God (26) climbs the underside of the arch, starting
at the bottom left corner (behind the trees)
and finishing at the hanging white rope.

Eyeing off the top crux on the only "good" hold of the
route. I skipped 3 draws on the Send, and took some
monstrous whippers on previous attempts trying the
same tactic.

Mid-way through the top crux, pumped out of my mind
and preparing for a big fall if I blow it.

Me free-soloing Lace Thunder (50m gr12)
at Whitewater Wall. The diagonal pink Aplite
Streak is Apline (70m gr12) which I also
Solo'd, and is possibly the best easy climb I've
ever done!

Nestled inbetween trips to The Organ Pipes on Mount Wellington, Hillwood and Cluan Tier near Launceston, new routing with Gerry Narkowicz in various places, and a whole bunch of training at the Hobart Climbing gym (trying to get fit for my BIG Project), my friend Vladi and I teamed up with two Coffs Harbour Climbers -Alex and Daniel- in Freycinet and spent a bit of time tackling the amazing porcelain white granite of Whitewater Wall, the soft salmon granite of The Star Factory (yet again), and -more importantly- the hilariously illogical Sea Level Traverse (16):

The Sea Level Traverse

Daniel on the first "crux" of the day.
"Mmm... friction-y".

So, if you're unfamiliar with the Freycinet Sea Level Traverse, it's essentially the ultimate Girdle Traverse-meets-Canyoning-meets-extreme hiking adventure. Starting from Sleepy Bay, you essentially traverse along the coastline to Wineglass Bay, sometimes scrambling, sometimes hiking, sometimes free-soloing, and sometimes swimming. Though there is only a brief section at about Grade 16 and a few other easier graded moves, much of it still consists of free-solo friction-slabbing (with the associated insecurity) up to 50m (at times) above the water. It was a route that I'd always been interested in doing (if only for the novelty value), yet never really been willing to devote any time to accomplish. As fate would have it, with Vladi after an easier-grade adventure (and wanting to visit Wineglass Bay), and Alex and Daniel up for something suitably ludicrous, it just seemed the thing to do.

Departing the carpark at Sleepy Bay at 7am, we began the days adventure by starting up the Skyline Traverse walking track (which summits all 3 of the "Hazards" peaks), before detouring back down to sea level just after the "Underworld" microcrag. Initially, there is no obvious traverse line, merely some "angled walking above the sea", and we had a few false starts before finally recognising the first "crux" of the traverse as outlined in the Climb Tasmania guide: a friction slab traverse 8m above the sea.

Another view of the first "crux". Daniel in the
cave "post-crux", Alex traversing, and the
consequences of a fall here are now obvious.

To be honest, we actually weren't entire sure that it was the "horizontal chimney step-across" outlined in the guide, but -feeling adventurous- I decided to quest across above the turbulent sea and discover if the friction slab traverse went free at a reasonable grade (or to fall unglamorously into the sea, which certainly would have amused my companions). It was committing at first, especially as the hardest moves were the first real climbing moves of the day, but fortunately it wasn't particularly hard, and soon enough the rest of the posse were following suit.

Committed now to the traverse, we powered along. Most of the traverse can be defined as "angled walking on slabs", with many sections of low angle, polished granite slabs that necessitate some "cautious footwork", but without really requiring your hands. A lot of the difficulty is simply in the route finding (and the recent record-breaking storms meant that many sections of the slabs had running water across them, which necessitated moves more in common with ice-skating than rock-climbing), and identifying the crucial segments of "actual climbing" that crop up from time to time, without committing to something ridiculous. "Common sense pathfinding" is probably the best way to describe the route, except for the undeniable fact that a girdle traverse is -by its nature- kind of ridiculous, as is free-soloing on slippery slabs above the sea. And, well, when you encounter a climbing crux like the ones Alex is pictured on below (which is a part of the correct route) you start to wonder when exactly it was that common sense fell by the wayside.

Alex, tempting fate on the "crux" of the entire route. True granite friction slabbing at about gr16, 15m (or more) above the sea. The running water didn't help.

Alex: still alive... Somehow.

Slabby! Daniel and I traversing, with the Star Factory
above.

The grade 10 Offwidth/Chimney thing, quite some way above
the sea. Daniel starting up, Alex at the top of the lower crack,
and Vladi following behind.

As the traverse went on, probably the next biggest challenge was dealing with the intense foot-pain from wearing climbing shoes for such a long period of time. When the traversing got easier, we often went barefoot (and for sections of the harder stuff, approach shoes would've been fine, though we all had crappy shoes with us since they would inevitably get wet later on), but for much of the traversing, an okay set of rubber was mandatory for security on the polished granite, and none of us had "comfortable" climbing shoes.

Eyeing off the route The Meaning of Life (25)
on The Gonk. We probably spent more time
staring at this than anything else all day.

But like battlers, we soldiered on, passing by the rarely climbed-at "Gonk" (which, despite lacking a large volume of lines, looked bloody awesome!) and around onto the "Flowstone Wall". Here, the route-finding became a maze of down-climbing small inlets, meandering around enormous boulders, and climbing back up the other side of the aforementioned inlet, in a choose-your-own-adventure kind-of way. Though our pace slowed, there was more consistent scrambling/low-grade climbing, which made the whole journey more engaging.

Eventually though, we arrived at real crux of the route: the ocean swim. You see, it gets to a point where it's no longer possible to traverse under the enormous arete at the far left-hand end of Flowstone Wall, and so you have to wack all your gear in a waterproof drybag, put on your Speedos (something you'll remember I've been getting good at while down here in Tassie, if you've seen my previous Blog Update) and swim around the arete and towards a "ramp" on the far end of another inlet. Thinking that we wouldn't be able to traverse any further, we chose the "ideal" spot to launch, bagged up our gear, and plunged into the water in unison.

Downclimbing one of many small "inlets" beneath Flowstone
Wall. This whole section is a "choose-your-own-adventure"
routefinding process... Unfortunately, these guys were stuck
following my chosen adventure.

Though not too cold (especially compared to my swim on The Candlestick), the exposed ocean is an intimidating proposition, and with the chop of the sea and the currents throwing you around the place, it's a much more tiring than you might imagine. Wearing a harness and dragging your gear along in a drybag, while wearing shoes against the barnacles, doesn't do anything to help either. And then we have the added bumblie factor: that is, we'd actually launched into the ocean far too soon, and the 150m swim was -in reality- closer to 500m by the time we dragged ourselves up the ramp (with the help of some enormous sea-weed) on the other side. Alex, dragging that majority of his and Daniel's gear, was utterly destroyed, and the shock of the cold water left him with severe cramps that put him out of action for almost an hour. But, somehow we had survived, and once dry, continued on.

Looking back on flowstone wall, with Alex waving (or
drowning) in the sea.

Selfie at Sea. Harder than you might think.

Swimming (really?). Daniel and Vladi in front, with our
goal (the ramp) in the distance between the two.

Alex continues swimming (read: drowning), while
Vladi waves for the camera, and Daniel does his
best to keep it tasteful (Statue of David, style).

At this point, we believed that the challenge of the day was more or less over, and it was now merely an "angular slog" to Wineglass bay. Unfortunately, it was at about this time where it all went to shit.

Aaaand out comes the ropes and gear. A
rather dubious trad-belay on half-placed
cams and wires in dug-out seams running
with water.

So far we hadn't needed to rope up for anything -despite carrying ropes and a small rack of gear just in case-, but now the vast majority of the friction slabs (even some ludicrously low-angled ones) were covered in water and mud, and were terrifyingly slippery. We explored every possible avenue trying to find an alternative, before finally building a super-dodgy belay on gear and roping up. Recalling my gritstone days, I set off on an almost unprotected 40m rising traverse across wet granite and streams of mud, before downclimbing to a suitable belay stance. The others followed across my line (which we fixed at either end, before Alex was stuck with the unenviable task of seconding the pitch), and promptly ran into another hurdle.

The next inlet is normally traversed about 50m above the sea, but this section was also wet, and with no gear (or possible belay) at either side. I attempted to solo a flake feature near the sea-level , but was eventually stymied a few metres up, and had the arduous task of reversing the moves to the ground. In hindsight, we should've just jumped back into the sea and gone for another swim, but we decided instead to head higher up, to try and traverse across at the treeline above, and hopefully downclimb back to waterlevel afterwards.

Low angle, sure... But also running with water and mud.
Vladi traverses tenuously across my fixed line, while Daniel and Alex watch, and I serve as the bodyweight anchor at the other side (while taking photos!).

Alex staggers onto the beach at Wineglass bay (his shoes had
completely disintegrated by this point).

But, as you might imagine, things weren't so simple. Heading upwards involved some challenging friction slabbing which soon became too difficult to reverse, and we weren't presented with any feasible point to resume our traversing. And so, we continued to head further up, making our way off the slabs and into dense vegetation. Heading partway up Mount Amos in our meanderings, we probably wasted 2 hours bush-bashing through skin-ripping wall-of-tree, doing our best to parallel the coastline, before the knowledge that we were within a few hours of darkness prompted us to cut a bee-line down steep slabs and dense bush back to sea-level. In the process we managed to get briefly separated, before reuniting for the final slog to Wineglass Bay, arriving at about 6pm at night. Alex -already battling the after-effects of his swim-induced cramps- was now blessed with the misfortune of a set of shoes that completely disintegrated (like the Bluesmobile at the end of The Blues Brothers), resulting in a combination of bare-foot bushwacking and bodge-job MacGyver footware to make it back to the Mount Amos carpark. By the time Daniel and I managed to walk back to where the cars were parked at Sleepy Bay and return to pick the others up, it was almost 8.30pm... about 30min before dark.

On the beach at Wineglass Bay... finally!Vladi, Daniel, Alex and Myself.

So, ignoring our little misadventure (yes, we had headlamps, so it wasn't as much of a potential epic as it could have been), what of the Sea Level Traverse itself? Well, it's not so much rock climbing as it is extreme bushwalking, which isn't to say that I would take someone who wasn't a climber on it. By the time we'd managed to reach the coastline after our little detour up Mount Amos, I'd almost forgotten the fun aspects of the day and was instead focusing on the negative. My words at the time -perhaps a bit harsh and obviously tainted by that specific experience- probably still ring true:

"The Sea Level Traverse embodies all the best and worst parts of a big Canyon in the Blue Mountains -think: Bell Canyon, for example-... It involves some walking on slippery rocks, a whole tonne of scrambling, a bunch of swimming and getting cold, a bit of ropework, a fair amount of general sketchiness, some creek bashing, and an epic bush-bash through wall-of-tree as far as the eye can see."

Having said that, there's a reason I've done Bell Creek Canyon  and most of the other published Canyons in the greater Blue Mountains Area: There is reward to be found in the masochism that embodies adventure. And even without our inadvertent detour, there is definitely adventure to be found here.

Exeunt

 

My interim home in the Bare Rock
Shipping Container... Classy!

I'm currently sitting in my van in the dark, next to the legendary Shipping Container at Bare Rock, with my laundry drying inside it. I had a cold shower at the St Mary's Showground (for some reason the Disabled shower runs cold water, whereas the others only work if you have already paid for a hot shower), after getting a flat tire on my van -damaged during a recent descent from the top of Bare Rock- repaired by a local mechanic here in Fingal.

I just finished a week of catching up with my folks, who swung by to visit while on their own trip to Tassie. I did a whole bunch of hiking in Freycinet and on the Tasman Peninsular with my Old Man, and took him abseiling 200m down the face of Bare Rock after he belayed me on the First Ascent of Influence of a Drowsy God.

Today I bolted a new companion route to Obsidian Obsession (as both an easier exit route, and as belayer bait to entice others to belay me on the Proj) which is tentatively called Amber Allure, and feels about grade 25 or so.

Stephen: the Guardian of Bare Rock.
(He's on a fad diet at the moment, I'm not sure it's working out
for him).

Tomorrow I'm meeting up with Garry Phillips and Adam Bogus for some more climbing on the Boneyard face, and in the evening I'll be going into Launceston to meet up with other climbers and celebrate a certain Captain Mullet's birthday.

The following day I'll hit up the Mersey Cliffs near Lorny with Isaac Lethborg, before heading back to Bare Rock for 2 more days of climbing here with local Tasmanian frothers. Within the next 2 weeks I'm hoping to do a trip out to the epic Tyndalls, to climb some hard multipitch on immaculate conglomerate.

Selfie with the inspiring view from
the Summit of Mount Amos
behind me. Awesome!

Yeah, it's not glamorous, and its often a lot more lonely than you might expect... But I'm really not in a position to complain.

And besides, the Obsidian Obsession is calling...

A spotted Quoll, photographed at Ben Lomond campground.