Little voices

Back on the ledge after a fraught descent. It took a brew, the last of my couscous, my final square of chocolate and a bit of Arcade Fire to wipe the mask-like grimace from my face. I was utterly wasted. Mostly mentally.

Did I get to the top?

I set off at 7 a.m., jugged five pitches and cleaned the crux. My arms were aching from days of jugging. Knees sore. Back stiff. Hands raw. My body just wanted it over.

I started the sixteenth pitch. More bat hooking. Endless searching for holes that weren’t there, doing some sketchy move only to spot one just out of reach. I clipped a bolt, placed three beaks in a row, and then realised with horror I’d been clipping the wrong rope — the end coming from the rope bag, not the belay. If I’d fallen, I’d have gone sixty metres.

I down-climbed, clipped properly, and gave myself a stern talking-to. Then carried on. Thirty metres up I tried to pull up the tag bag. It wouldn’t budge. I had good gear and knew I should rappel on my belay device — a Petzl Verso, God’s gift to clumsy climbers — but instead I thought I’d be quick and rappel on the Silent Partner. I’d never done it before. It was as bad as advertised. My Russian aider snagged. I ended up hanging upside down by my foot.

Eventually I righted myself, used the Verso properly, and rapped down. The tag bag had been rigged badly. Sorted it. Jugged back up. Tried again. Still stuck. I’d tied the bottom of the haul line into the tag instead of the top. The rope wouldn’t feed.

Three big mistakes on one pitch. My brain was frayed.

I reached the belay, back-cleaned, then moved onto the next pitch — only twenty metres. Holes everywhere. Beaks and RPs in a thin seam. The topo vague. I headed toward what looked like the final pitch.

The last moves were free up a pillar. Good feet. Loose flakes for hands. I topped out onto a small pedestal expecting two bolts like every other belay.

Nothing.

Just a rusty wire clipped to a karabiner sitting on the ledge.

The face dropped away beneath me. No anchor. The climbing above didn’t look easy. I must be off route. I stood there not knowing what to do. I’d spent ten days getting here. I didn’t want to fail on the last pitch.

But where was it?

I down-climbed and peered around corners. Options: haul the bag and drill a belay. Build something marginal. Or keep looking. Drilling would take ages. I didn’t have spare gear for a bomber anchor.

I climbed back up the pillar and sat there. Alone.

My camera, in my chest pocket, kept switching on and off all day. As I sat there I suddenly heard my kids’ voices. For a moment I thought I was losing it. Then realised the camera was replaying some footage I’d taken before leaving.

Hearing them right then hit hard.

For three weeks I’d blocked those thoughts. It had made me strong. But that morning I’d made the mistake of checking email. Ella had written:

What day will you be home on?
Realy Realy Realy Realy miss ing you

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx love ella

I switched the camera off.

I climbed down again. Same limited view. Same missing anchor.

Why did the camera play that now? Why never before?

I was wasted. Probably off route. Out of water. Out of food. Out of time. One more pitch might not put me on top — just one pitch further from the ground.

What did I want more?

I knew.

I plugged in a shiny Camalot 2 and started to rappel.

No regrets.