Rodellar

Public Safety Notice: This post contains bad language. Sorry Mum.

I am still psyched out of my tiny little mind. It's like being 18 again. Most of my waking thoughts are about climbing. I try to be productive and get work done, but with the students gone, there are no immediate demands on my time and it's easy to let things slide and burn time on the internet cycle. I start with UKB, then make sure UKC is still talking about biscuits, and whether forearm strength is important for climbing. Then onto facebook, and the climbing blogs (who's done what, where, how quick?). After that, it's time to start on UKB again...

This bank holiday was the first one I haven't worked for as long as I can remember. So I risked the wrath of Varian and bought a couple of flights to Spain for me and the wife. The plan; fly to Barcelona and go climbing somewhere every day until dark. On leaving the UK it was 30 degrees so we needed somewhere cool. My spies inform me Rodellar is looking good. Crush mode engaged.

Jules narrowly missing the flash on Sopa de Ajo, 7b+

We arrive in Rodellar at 3am on Saturday morning. After a boatload of faff with the hire car and refugio I am tired and snappy. But the next morning we awake to birdsong, blue skies and vultures circling above the beautiful Mascun gorge. The late night has dulled my psyche a little and it's not until noon we reach the Gran Boveda and get in touch with our spies; Dan and Tom. Warming up in the sun convinces me that the shade is the place to be. The heat of the last few days has eased and a gentle breeze means it's comfortable to sit at the bottom of the crag in shorts and t-shirt.

Dan belaying

So, what to do? The whole crag is dry, which is a first for me, and I'm like a kid in a sweetshop. But before we came out we'd been discussing the curse of the "first day on". Made famous in Stone Love, this is when you arrive at a climbing area and run around like a dog with nine cocks, trying everything in sight. Next morning you wake up trashed; you've done too much, much too soon. Like the seasoned pro I am, I was very keen to avoid the first day curse and thought I'd restrict myself to a few nice 7s. Sopa de Ajo was the perfect choice; a wonderful continuous drainpipe tufa, technical and rounded. I'd wanted to do it for ages, but it was always wet. The route passed in a delightful blur of total absorption; palming and twisting my way from kneebar to jug to kneebar. So good.

Dan was trying a great looking 8a called Les Cadres Regeneren in the middle of the wall. Might as well have a look, eh? After all, the clips were in and a quick 8a redpoint would start the trip nicely. It didn't quite go to plan; legs trembling an uncomfortable distance above the last bolt I'm switching quickly from hand to hand, desperately trying to get some strength back in my arms. I don't know whether I'm fighting to keep the onsight dream alive, or whether I don't want to take the fall. I claw my way a couple of moves higher and into a poor rest and realise the chains are one move away. I remember a hard slap to a poor sidepull and some desperate re-arranging of feet and then a jug you could hang a cruise liner off. Words fail me; I'm back in the saddle baby. Fuck Yeah!

Tom redpointing the rude route in style

Since I'm on fire I might as well keep going. Tom has the draws in a mega (and mega-long) 7b+ called Commando Coño. I won't translate it, but it's not a polite route name. Jules has a flash go, and gets achingly, ludicrously close as she falls off the last hard move, failing to spot another of those titanic jugs that Rodellar has all over it. She doesn't make it look too bad; plenty of good rests, so I hop on, engage crush mode and immediately hit a massive wall, creaking like a lorry dragging its roof on a low bridge. I keep getting to the good rests only to find slopey tufas and awful feet; how did Jules rest here? So I push on to the next rest, getting more pumped, more stressed and more crab-like in my movements. Somehow I manage to fall into the finishing jugs and wobble up the slab to the chain, but I can tell my day is over. Except it isn't; one more duty as ropegun getting the clips in a short 7a and then it's beer, bed and sleep. Ready for the next day

Which, unsurprisingly, does not go well. I get a raging, full-bore flash pump on my 6b warm up and nearly fall off. Once again I fall victim to the first-day curse! What a punter! Today is never going to go well and so I resign myself to having a rest day, except that I simply must try Sayonara Baby; a long 7b+/c on Surgencia up massive flowstone jugs to a tough little sting in the tail. Should be an easy onsight. Oops, perhaps not. Ok then, at least an easy redpoint. Wrong again; I get to the top, but not without dropping the clutch, and a healthy dose of luck! I spend the rest of the day being more sensible, putting the draws in easy 7's for Jules to flash, which she does like the pro she is.

Unknown chappie on Maroskum, 7c+, Gran Boveda

Last day, last chance. We wake to stormy skies and leaden humidity. We're straight up and out, trying to make the most of the day and warm up in the hammering rain. Jules has her eye on an ascent of a mega-classic 7c up tree-trunk tufas on the right of Boveda, and I fancy a day onsighting, hoping to re-capture the form of the first day. It quickly becomes obvious that this isn't going to happen as I fall low down whilst putting the clips in for Jules; and on a route I've previously onsighted. Oh dear. Dripping with sweat I work out a better sequence, and it becomes clear I missed about six no-hands rests. Good onsighting form then... The day doesn't improve much, either. I completely fail on a vertical 8a in the middle of the wall having totally failed to realise that 30 degree heat and 100% humidity do not play well with sloping tufa crimps. Still, I can recover the day with a nice onsight of the classic Argo, can't I? Well, no. Nor can I redpoint straight off either. I use quite impolite language at this. By now it's 8pm, we've been going all day and neither of us have ticked our routes.

And this is what really pleases me. In the past I've been pretty morose about failure. If I'm honest, it's made climbing quite a lot less fun for me at times. I looked back at posts on this blog, written when I was in my best ever form and having great success on the crag, and it's a ceaseless tide of whinging crap. Now, here I am on a short trip having completely muffed up my strategy and failing to redpoint a route that I should be walking up, and I'm having a fucking great time! The route is, quite simply, amazing. I'm quite happy to fail as long as I can keep trying and, for once, I'm happy to just to be where I am, and not beating myself up and wishing I was climbing better. It feels like such a breakthrough. At last, climbing is fun again.

Still, it's cool now. The wind has picked up and heavy thunder is rolling down from the Pyrenees. The rain is blowing into the crag and run-off is creeping steadily down the route. I've got one last chance to go big, or go home so I lace up my shoes, strap on the knee-pads and tear the route apart, grinning like an idiot the whole way. Jules is similarly inspired and pulls out a last-ditch, last gasp redpoint on the 7c, skipping clips and somehow catching wild slaps at the edge of her strength. It's past nine now, and very dark, but I'm too psyched to go home yet so we rush off to the Ali-Baba cave and I hurl myself at an onsight of the short 7c+/8a on the right hand-side. No-chance; it's pitch black, and I'm knackered. Hanging off the rope and peering through the gloom I spot a crucial foot-hold and lower-off, re-tie and shake wildly to the chains. I run up a 7a to the right whilst I've still got my shoes on and finally admit defeat as the last of the light vanishes.

Today, I'm back on the internet cycle. I must need a holiday...