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A short story 26-Jul-2004 At 8:43:49 AM Damietta

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The big boys Pt 1

We had met a few times in the gym. His c--ky attitude had got to me from the start but I tolerated him - climbing partners are hard to come by these days. I played the game - spotted him on his problems, asked for beta on the problem I had been working and looked on in admiration as he completed the moves. "It's all about footwork" he minced as I envisioned ramming the finishing jug deep into his arse. Since I lost one digit on Dhauligiri in 1989 my sport climbing abilities have been compromised. However the tiny stump that remains is only a minor hindrance on most routes, least of all on slabs....Which was where we were headed on the weekend.

The road to Booroomba was muddy from the previous nights rain. I assured him the North-west-facing North Buttress would catch some early morning sun and would be dry by the time we arrived. We walked in past the carpark campsite and I could hear the laughter and the crackle of the campfire from years gone past. We headed up the track - a zen arcade that many greats had passed through since the early days. He was telling me how excited he was to climb at Booroomba. "I want to climb a 22 today" he had told me sternly. I smiled in mock respect of his youthful exuberance - appearing to play the role of the wise old salt steering the youth onto greatness through the well worn path of master and apprentice:

>>You consider me the young apprentice
>>caught between the Scilla and Charibdes,
>>hypnotized by you if I should linger
>>staring at the ring around your finger.
>>I have only come here seeking knowledge,
>>things they would not teach me of in college.

I suspect that he had privately selected me to be his mentor and had all the hopes that I would indeed steer him to greatness:

>>I will turn your face to alabaster
>>when you find your servant is your master
>>and you'll be wrapped around my finger

The place had humble beginnings. Some forgotten bumbly from the Canberra Bushwalking Club thrashed his way up an offwidth in the mid 1960's. However, by 1970 Peter Aitchison and Peter c--ker had climbed Integral Crack in hard boots. Good hearty stuff.

A hard day on the granite is very satisfying. Like rough sex with a less than satisfactory partner. No complaining, just getting on with it. The sharp hand jams in the cracks and sparse protection on the slabs separate the men from the boys.

I first made my way up to Booroomba in 1981. I was 16 and my Mum's boyfriend had promised to take me climbing if I promised to turn up at school. I had been hooked from the first day, leading the second pitch of Possum with two runners - loving the freedom and exhilaration of vast space below my feet. The nervous apprehension on the frog-march up the hill to the crag, blood and sweat, male bonding, these were the things I loved. I served my apprenticeship with the local gang. Mike Law-Smith, Tony Barten, Richard Watts were the heroes of the day. I tried to emulate their feats on the boulders near my Mum's house as my muscles started to grow and my finger-tips hardened. While my friends tuned into the State of Origin on television, I was in the backyard doing pull-ups off the roof. On the weekend, I would sit around the campfire late into the night listening to stories from the past. Smart, Thomas, Lassman and Muhlen were the standard fare.