Los Endos
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| Los Endos from below. |
Onsight trad climbing, as many people far more qualified than I have commented, is the best. ‘its just more.’
(copyright Squib from this excellent video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cxy01Xdww9o).
In every way, its more. It’s the best way to test yourself physically, but
especially mentally. Of course sport climbing and bouldering are hard on the
brain too, but not in the same way as onsight trad. It takes *so* much longer
to place gear, you get way more pumped, you’re constantly grappling with ‘what
if’s in the back of your mind. Sure, that piece is bomber, but the bit below it
wasn’t…better put some more in, just in case. Those holds look good, but I’m
not 100%...up, down, up down. Before you know it, you’re fucked and you’ve
blown the onsight. And you’ve more than likely just sat on the gear you weren’t
sure about, and surprise surprise- it was fine.
It can be
really shit blowing the onsight, especially if you’ve bigged the route up in
your mind too much. I was absolutely gutted when I fell off Right Wall, and
fell off loads of stuff at Arapiles from the knowledge I had only a limited
time and should just go for it (which is incidentally a way healthier approach
I think). Every time, without fail, it sucked and I had a good curse before
doing it second go. But onsighting at your limit, whatever that is, is a gamble, and when you win
it feels incredible. The grade is irrelevant, all that matters is that its your limit. They’re journeys, of
the body but especially of the mind. This is one of mine.
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Its not the
easiest approach at Arapiles, I grant you. By that I mean it took longer than
10 minutes and actually involved some physical exertion. But after some
complaining, Marc and I emerged at the top of Dreadnought Gully below the
evocatively named Wind Wall, high on the flank of Mt Arapiles’ Central Gully.
None of this will make any sense to those who haven’t been, so here’s a photo
of the guide.
Marc was
puffing after a long day. We’d already been up two mega classics on the expanse
of the Watchtower Face; Skink (about HVS) and Auto da Fe (about E2), in full
sun, and the effects were clear. Marc had entered the stage of belaying known
as ‘reluctant.’ Still, he was here now so I didn’t feel too guilty…
Wind Wall
is a strange anomaly at Arapiles, where most of the routes are well protected
by natural gear and have bolts to supplement it where things get a bit thin.
This wall is a bit different. Ride Like The Wind (25/E5) goes straight up the
middle of the face; ‘one of the most serious and memorable sequences at
Arapiles’ in one guidebook. ‘Carefully evaluate what you're committing to before you embark on this’ warns another. Despite the siren song of routes like
this, I frankly didn’t have the stones. Instead I was looking at the right hand
arete of the face, a 22 called Los Endos.
Rob Greenwood had recommended the route to
me as part of an enormous psych list before I set off to Australia, but I
reckon I’d have found it anyway due to my unnatural affinity for aretes. The
guidebook decription again did its best to put me off (‘the seriousness of the
route puts off many suitors’), but as ever, UKC Logbooks could be relied upon
to supply contradictory information. ‘Not as bold as the locals make it out to
be,’ Rob reckoned. In hindsight, I probably should have acknowledged that Rob
is basically a better climber than me and taken this fact into account, along with the disturbing ability of Australian grades to kick you when you're least expecting it. However,
like when you check multiple weather forecasts until you find the one that
suits your weekend plans, this was enough. Bit spicy, spaced gear, lovely, probably easy E2, I
thought. Oh dear. Still, one mans well protected route is another mans chop
route, so Rob isn’t entirely to blame for the disparity in impressions which
was about to unfold (cough, sandbag, cough).
Having
flaked Marc’s titanic 80m single out in the shady hollow below the arete, I
swiftly climbed up through choss and left Marc to get bitten half to death by
mosquitoes. The rock was studded with white pebbles in the chossy lower
section, which promptly fell out as I inspected them. Fortunately things
improved as I reached a horizontal break, into which I punched a few cams. As I
placed them two skinks (little lizards) emerged from the depths of the crack
and eyeballed me. They watched me all the way as I traversed right along the
break only to be slapped in the face by the reachy move the guidebook had
promised. This always seems to happen to me, so I reserve the right to complain
about it, but anyway, this was actually a hard move rather than just me
bitching.
A liberally chalked, 10cm deep flatty contrasted starkly with the
crack above which boasted no chalk whatsoever. Plenty of attempts had ended
here. I came and went from the ledge several times, hands repeatedly questing
up the wall to inspect holds I’d already dismissed as useless. Perhaps this is
the climbing equivalent of opening the fridge when you know theres no food
inside. The skinks eyeballed me still, wordlessly calling me a coward. They
were right; there was gear at my feet and I was getting pumped. One almighty gritted
teeth mantel later and I stood on the flatty, hand in the pleasantly juggy
crack. I swore at nothing in particular before realising I was now committed
and should probably get some gear in.
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| Simon Carter's excellent photo of Los Endos. Certainly not mine! |
Higher now,
a couple of metres above a bomber wire in the crack. Hands on the flake. Flakes
are a great bit of rock architecture but are always somewhat alarming, since by
their very definition they’re always at least a little detached from the crag
as a whole. This alarm tends to grow when you give it a smack with the heel of your
hand and it reverberates like some sort of ancient gong. However, the odds on
me hitting this particular flake were minimal. Even breathing next to it felt
ill-advised. Where I was hanging off it it was an enormous jug, but this relief
was tempered by the disturbing realisation that the gap between flake and rock
was about 2 inches. On the right hand side, globules of glue testified to the
fragility. I could see through the bloody thing when I squinted behind it; a
shaft of sunlight visible.
Wincing and swearing down to Marc, I gingerly
switched hands and shook out. What was holding it on, I have no idea; perhaps a
combination of the glue and the collective goodwill of everyone watching at the
time. Placing gear behind this flake was obviously a pretty terrible idea but
with a hefty whipper already on the cards I swiftly decided I wasn’t going
anywhere without something behind it! With a suitably bomber small wire and a
sling over the flake I quested on up the wall, overgripping like a demon, each
hold obvious but just slightly off balance and not quite as helpful as I’d have
liked. I was now what felt like miles, but probably only about 5m above the
undoubtedly ‘bombproof’ gear, and salvation was reached in the form of a
classically dodgy looking, semi-detached but actually 100% bomber Arapilesian
block. Hyperventilating, I fiddled a wire in which although appeared about 6/10
to my paranoid brain was almost certainly fine. Or maybe that’s hindsight
talking, cause it didn’t feel very fine at the time.
After
slowing my heart rate to semi-normal levels and settling on a sequence, I
committed again and swiftly was back in trouble. Up and right of the gear, on
poor holds, as close as I’d been to falling off on the whole route. I remember
thinking ‘I must be on the wrong holds,’ but sadly I was on the right ones!
Trying hard not to contemplate the imminent pendulum if I blew it, I eventually
scuttled my feet onto good edges and pulled into a position of relative
comfort, the fear receding just slightly. I was however, pretty blown. In front
of my face was an undoubtedly stonking wire, which I placed with a massive sigh
of relief. But I was really pumped, and had to move with some sense of urgency;
the point of recovery had long passed. The final arete loomed above me,
overhanging, intimidating, but on jugs, surely? Marc’s shouts of ‘allez’ from
the base rode up the arete on the wind. Behind me, a group of slack liners
shouted encouragement.
I go for
it, the arete really steep now, like climbing up the prow of a ship. Good holds
are right there, but my forearms are screaming and the ropedrag is an anchor,
weighing me down. One move at a time, nearly there, closer to the belay. One
final move to a jug- except it isn’t, a desperate readjustment, popping
upwards, praying its good- you’re not falling off this now, I tell myself
angrily. But now I’m there, the jug in hand, in control, hanging off the arete.
I take a moment to breath, eyeing up the top out to avoid blowing it at the
last hurdle. I make the final moves and top out, the slackliners shouts in my
ears. An unintelligible glory roar, all the pent up emotion released. Elation
and fear. Sun in my eyes, chalk in my hair, wind barrelling up the arete from
below. I turn and shout down to Marc, still at the base, ravaged by
insects: ‘I’m there.’
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Postscript: worth checking out Simon Bischoff's amazing photo of nutcase Danny Wade soloing Los Endos in outrageously 80's lycra. A braver man than I. A few feet above Danny's right hand is the hollow flake mentioned above. If you're into Instagram Simon is well worth a follow for some of the best photos of Aussie climbing you'll see.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BRT8-jDj5Ws/?taken-by=_simonbischoff_
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