Coming Back

Finally arrived in Romsdal yesterday evening after a week of travelling (I think I’ve got pressure sores on my arse after 1000km+ of driving!).

It feels amazing to be back here after my past three visits over ten years, amazing beyond just the fact of going climbing.

There are places you visit in your past—things you do—that feel close to you, yet you’re sure you’ll never go back, never do them again. For some it’s dancing all night, hitting the road without a care, telling your boss to fuck off—things that feel possible in your twenties but less so in your forties.

For me, going back to the Troll was one of those things. My last visit was traumatic on many levels: a solo attempt where I was utterly let down by myself, in a way that made me fall out with me. Reading Tony Howard’s Troll Wall, and writing up two of my visits in Cold Wars, gave me a kick in the arse. Not going back and facing the Troll was no longer an option.

On two of my past visits I came alone on the train from Oslo, with no transport. I remember those trips as lonely ones, as most solo-wall trips are. I did a lot of wandering about, looking in windows, skint, half-hoping some Norwegian would take pity on me and invite me in—anything to diffuse the intensity that hangs over you before a solo climb.

The funny thing is that when people do wander into your little solo pity party, all you want is to be left alone. You can’t win.

The weather is a bit on-and-off—very Welsh—but I’m prepared to climb in crap weather to get the route done. Instead of focusing on the rain, I’ll focus on the gaps between it, which are all the sweeter for the wetness.

I walked up the back of the mountain this morning, a two-hour slog up a talus field, neatly marked with red dots. Dave Dirken had mentioned you could easily get lost up there, and he was right—the way down from the top of the wall is totally counter-intuitive.

I was the only one on the hill. The day was claggy and wet, big rolls of cloud sliding softly over the drop. Alone up there it felt properly spooky, and I was paranoid about breaking a leg in the talus. At the top, behind a little box where you sign your name, there were two six-packs of Coke, which I’m guessing were a gift for anyone who made it through the slippery boulders alive (well, I hope so).

Once at the edge of the wall the drop was something else—huge, wide-angled space. I edged closer, my feet double-checking that the rock really did have my soles. I have to say, the idea of ending up down there wasn’t inspiring, especially with the prospect of lugging all my kit back down the talus.

The route I want to do climbs a five-hundred-metre wall and finishes at the Troll Pillar, the longest route in Europe, leaving another five hundred metres of veggie scrambling and loose VS to the summit. The two teams who’ve climbed it so far both rapped from the top of the wall, leaving ropes fixed to get down, as it’s steep and crosses roofs.

I’d toyed with the idea of topping out the big wall, ditching the heavy gear, and finishing alpine-style. Looking down at how loose and wet it is, I’m not so sure. We’ll see. Indecision is the key to flexibility.

I sorted my rack when I got back, trying to make sure I won’t be caught short on the wall—the Troll isn’t like a normal big-wall climb. I’m heading up tomorrow to fix a few pitches.

Coming back here, even if I don’t climb the Troll Wall, is worth it just for the fact that I came back.