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A short story 26-Jul-2004 At 8:44:27 AM Damietta

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....continued.....

We arrived at the top campsite at about 7:30 am. I was relieved when we arrived there. My grip on the nut tool in my pocket relaxed as he quietened down to put on his harness. I wondered what sort of noise he would make with the nut tool sticking out of his arse. Unfortunately I had forgotten the guidebook.

I would find an appropriate route for him to lead.

We headed over to the convergence of the Northern and Central Slabs to one of the less known and travelled routes. Immaculate Deception is a 35 metre grade 22 that was put up by Roark Muhlen in the early 1980's. It was originally graded 24 but the advent of modern climbing shoes with their "sticky" rubber had tamed some of the difficulty of the delicate friction moves.

He stepped off the ground confidently and climbed with the explosive exuberance I had observed at the indoor climbing wall. He started to look a bit nervous at about 5 metres up. He was still 15 metres from the crux. "Where's the pro on this route?" he asked anxiously. With a smile I assured him that the worst was over and a break above held solid gear. He tentatively made his way up. At about 10 metres from the deck his calves started to shake uncontrollably and he was sweating profusely.

He had stopped climbing by now and began frantically looking for protection. I shouted encouragement "you'll be right mate". He didn't reply. "Just trust your feet!" With my encouragement he set off to attempt what was actually the crux of the route, 20m off the deck with the rope trailing, unhindered, directly to my belay device.

It is a very delicate smear for the left foot and the right foot sticks on a tiny edge. A beautiful and elegant move where the right hand must smear on the rock while the left reaches up for a little bump. That's where he froze.

Flapping like a fish on the hook. Slapping wildly for holds that aren't there.

His face was all screwed up and one foot kept slipping from the rock because his leg was shaking so much. He tried to reverse the move but couldn't.

I took a relaxed breath, relishing the commitment of the situation and observing his movements, now very primal and motivated purely by survival. The veins in his lower leg were clearly visible through his lycra climbing tights - elevated cortisol levels and a soaring heart rate would be surging blood throughout his body - the body's 'fight or flight' stress response.

The cheerful demeanour and trusting eyes were long gone as he eyed the talus below, like a cat looking for a landing from high up in a tree. Not a patch of even ground among the pile of angular granite boulders eagerly awaiting at the base of the climb.

Not much there I'm afraid.

"I thought you said there was protection in a break - it's actually a dyke not a crack" he screamed down at me, face contorted with anguish and incomprehension. Eyes wide with terror. He was flapping good style.

Now you're playing with the big boys.

I shifted the belay.