Bright Air - Barry Maitland [28]
By the time I reached the first anchor, I was breathing hard and sweat was trickling down my back. I’d grazed my cheek and scraped my fingertips on the hard granular rock. But I was moving all right. I eased the wedge out of the crack and clipped it to my belt, then looked up at the smooth bulge above me. From here it swelled out much more than I’d realised from the ground, like a pregnant belly, and I couldn’t see Damien at the end of the rope that stretched up across it. For a moment I was at a loss, unable to read the surface for places to grip, but then I noticed the traces of chalk where he’d placed his hands, and I stretched out across the warm rock to the first. There was a small indentation, and I pressed my fingers in and shifted my weight upwards.
‘You all right?’ Damien asked as I finally hauled myself up onto the ledge beside him.
‘Sure,’ I panted. Even after such a short climb, my hands and shoulders were aching, with tension as much as effort.
‘Let’s keep going then.’
I looked across the cliff at the others, Owen leading Curtis on their second pitch, and Luce beyond them already nearing the top of her climb. I glanced down and caught a glimpse of Marcus in his camp chair, watching us through a pair of binoculars, and felt myself sway. I turned back and gazed up at the cliff rising above us, and my heart sank. Climbing isn’t just about stamina and technique, it’s also about reading the rock face and understanding its possibilities. With time and experience this becomes second nature, matching your body’s abilities to the subtle variations in the rock’s surface. I didn’t have that experience. There were no chalk marks to follow now, and my mind went blank. I thought I’d have to ask Damien, but I felt his eyes on me, waiting, and I guessed that might be a mistake.
Then I noticed a series of shallow depressions leading up to the left, followed by a thin vertical crack. I knew that if I stopped to think about it I’d never go, so I abruptly tied onto the anchor, took the gear he offered me to hang on the rack around my waist and set off.
The important thing was to maintain momentum, I thought; momentum and focus. And not to look down. This wasn’t like the gym—I was suspended in an airy void, with no well-designed grips thoughtfully placed by human hand and no safety rope ready to support me from above. If I made a mistake now, I would fall twice the distance that I was above Damien before the rope caught me, assuming that the bolt held. If it didn’t, that was me gone.
Arms aching, I reached the base of the crack and fumbled a small wedge into it. I tugged, it held, and I hooked on and breathed a sigh of relief. After that the going became easier, and I finally scrambled over the lip and rolled onto the broad flat rock at the top of the pitch, heart pounding.
As I waited for Damien to follow me I gazed out over the treetops to the hazy horizon, then looked down. The snapping whoop of a whipbird sounded far below. I felt the nauseating tug of the void, the familiar weakening in my knees and stomach as if it were literally sucking at my insides. But I had made it, and a sense of relief flooded through me.
Perhaps the shot of adrenaline cleared my brain, for as I pulled in Damien’s rope a very obvious thought occurred to