In between the chasm of grace & power...I Think I'm Going Bald - V12 extension
Just managed to reclaim the full extension to the V12 direct of I Think Im Going Bald, originally climbed by myself back in 2004, effectively providing a lefthand approach of V11...some say harder, into a V12 in one push. Not sure what the maths add up to there, but it's nails. With a pool below the huge overhanging curled & concave wave of gneiss leading to the prow, & sand bars returning to the fierce drop-zone after the hurricane storms of winter 2004/5, the area is becoming a feasable bouldering venue for Eoropaidh once again. Everything was going well, the first full extension ascent was in & i was attempting a reverse highballer sequence when I ripped a violent crimper off in the roof but still managed to contain the freakish swing & crawl across the void, de-roofing into sloper rail heaven without yielding to a potentially spectacular hurtle. Those moments are always great. Akin to blindly loosing it on the stairs carrying a tray of drinks & not dropping any, or yourself. For a moment you are lunatic, involuntary epileptic. spasmodic grasper, madman & swimmer in fluorescent armbands. Recovery of grace becomes everything. If you are French, -uhuh JB- you stop mid chaos, adjust your Speedos & at the jug, brush back your hair & dismissing the incident with a vague shrug, you are already on the mobile to dial-a-hottie. Emery will be pleased, I am Celt...I even managed an apparently impressive gurn on the 3rd extension crux disorder in between a babble of grunts, screams & thrashing mid-air Harold Lloyd routines, before any remote sense of look at me, I'm so cool returned...In the wake of the main session & against a cold tide of hungry waves pacing along the cliff base, probing cut offs gullies & reaches, I flashed in a nice new line at about V9...we'll call that Permanent Waves. On form, I feel positive I could do the lower tier start into the main event, but it would be haaaard, as hard as or harder than Grip Crisis direct - formerly known as Hyperballad...More importantly & as usual for me to be inspired to climb things, the movement sequences appear to flow superbly & naturally, from the brief fondle I've had. It implores you to climb it. The sand in the shoe after a session, the sediment climbing leaves in your life, says it is so. I'll have a go next trip round aye...
Eventually the sea curled its tongue around the days end & the depths, leaving negotiation of a wet highball escape weaving steeply up through slimey black gneiss, crumbling conglomerate & rusty wire 60ft up onto the machar, the collie scattering pebbles downward in his desperate thrust skyward, one of my hands boosting his haunches, spotting for dyno failure, the other on a wet failing hold, the mat pulling G in the wind, the sac overbalancing the whole spectacle. A step through onto the disintegrating overhang & we swing out to a thin stance, fingers in muddy roots, rain in the eye, teetering way above an ocean of snarling war-dogs, clawing amongst distanced rocks....& the top is made. The wind drops off immediately & the sea seems to calm. The scent of wild flowers overpower the dank oxygenated chasms & release us to rabbit holes & broad streaks of speeding sky. The sheep barely look up at us as we regain composure. I curse the conglomerate shite we have just negotiated & I curse sandstone for good measure, but I want to do it again. I know I'll do it again. Extreme scrambling...Intentionally becoming cut-off, forcing a solo negotiation of ludicrous steep & unstable cliffs. I always leave it that late...becuase every moment counts. Becuase dusky half lit skin-of-the-teeth retreats as the washing machine goes into boil mode, somehow have more to them. When you know your territory you only leave when the mat starts to float...when the rope starts to swim with the Ulva & rockweed when salt water is mixing with the blood from your fingers. Why would you leave early...this is the inarticulate speech, the test-gold swirling in currents around why we do what we do as climbers...the world over.
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If she could see these times, these days from beside me, Zoe would be proud of her broken old Rolleiflex, so many years dusted & still. The inspired dare with which those moments injected my ragged soul to capture the occasional dance of these days, running brave from dark huts & holes, flickering briefly through her great Western light & out alongside, the very ariel boundaries themselves. A decade gone & I miss her more than I can bare, most days. My soul - incarnate....the whole of life spread out before us. Our book of brilliant things...
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My left knee is making it increasingly hard to throw deep egyptians or dynamic or invert foot rotations at the moment, so tomorrow it's big air winter steamer time & I'll see if I can better my insanely bold reverse freefall cliff jump. As usual, nobody phoned to climb with me in the raw cavernous tombs where process is pushed & questioned...the words: oh well, it's no a biggie... are a familiar sound in the dusty halls of my own mind. Back to Skye Monday...at which point, this blog will maybe vanish awhile...into the silences between the noise.
I am the heinous heathen snapper of Schist, Andesite, Gneiss, Limestone, Gabbro, Rhyolite, Quartzite, more Schist, Grit, Slate, Ryholite & now...Gneiss...again. I am the stone tooth incisor faerie. I am the hooded chopper of tottering primordial Conglomerate scag. The screaming wire haired tantrumatic havoc inside the gaping sea arch, the monkey pulling on the chandelier. I am neanderthalensis the tusk hunter, aka the kango hammer jockey...hireable for a small fee...& this once perfectly solid hold will probably end up in some forum linked shrine for labotomized fuckwits who will kneel in front of it daily singing - You are our proof , proof he has never climbed you before..... 
