The Swabian Saga

saga

ˈsɑːɡə/

noun

1. 1.

   a long story of heroic achievement

All the best stories were told by song once, right?

When it comes to climbing tales I reckon a high pitched whimper might be more appropriate. There's not many of us that can carry a good note, but plenty know of the fabled 'fear whimper', that expression of fear so cowardly and yet so urgent that it allows a struggling climber to summon unknown power to maintain the death-grip as they tremble, filled with regret, far above the gear.

So our tale commences.

The rock in the groove was a curious murky grey, much more clay-like than the compact rock I'd expected from the route description. I shifted my right foot around in on a slippery water-formed pocket that was getting steadily less comfortable with every moment that passed. The other foot, pasted against the side of the groove in a high drop knee, was not much better. The last draw languished in an old school corroded bolt four metres below, offering little in the way of inspiration.

Above the groove expanded outwards into an intimidating bulge, with no further gear in sight. Heady stuff. I pushed optimistically upwards, shuffling the feet higher on delightfully dusty smears, aiming for a broken crack line that breached the bulge at its central point. Reaching higher, stretching out, nearly almost there... *ping*

There goes the left foot, quickly followed by the rest. As the rock rushes past, murky grey dotted with patches of sage green lichen, I'm thinking to myself: "Wasn't this supposed to be 6c?"

Perhaps some context is relevant.

Donautal is a region of the Swabian Alps in southern Germany, remarkably similar to the Peak District albeit on a slightly grander scale. The hills and fels of the Alps offer a picturesque combination of sweeping forest, collections of houses packed into green valleys filled with rivers, and towering above everything else, crags. Wrought from limestone, these crags offer edgy, technical climbing with plenty of small pockets, sharp crimps and usually compact rock. The region is abound with routes of all varieties, steep, slap and vertical and usually well bolted.

How then, had I found myself hurtling through the air 100m off the ground?

Two reasons. Firstly and most importantly, there is always an epic to be found for those who seek it. No matter how well maintained the area, no matter how active and attentive the locals, there will always persist those 'dodgy' routes. Routes where the mere feel of the holds makes you cringe imagining pulling on them far above gear, routes where the bolts were placed well before the crux to give it 'character', routes where the grade is meaningless and fitness means nothing.

And of course, you never know them until you're on them.

Nils and I had headed to the Schaufels, an overbearing 200m crag that seemed to have a bit of a reputation amongst the locals. Guidebooks spoke of loose rock and spaced bolts, so naturally we were inspired. Access was also a bit tricky, with a good chunk of the left hand side being bird banned until late August meaning that the most popular route 'Kaiserweg' wasn't on the cards. Unphased by these factors, we set off on a direct line up the right hand side of the face. Pleasant climbing led quickly up a series of clean grooves and bulges, seeing us topping out around two hours and five pitches later.
We'd not seen any of the loose rock, and the bolting seemed decent. Evidently the locals just weren't hard enough!

We abbed down and quickly picked out a shorter two pitch 6c+ on the far right hand side of the crag as the next target. The first pitch was shorter, linking a series of steep bulges to a belay below the base of an overhanging groove, which continued to the top in a single monster pitch. We moved into the base, flaking out the rope and preparing for another quick hit. The bolts were a bit difficult to spot due to the shade of the rock, but we were pretty confident based on our previous outing.

I started out on the first pitch, which according to the guide was the harder of the two. Delicate first moves lead into punchy, pumpy climbing with hard moves on undercuts and small edges. The rock was coated in a powdery white lichen which made every grip feel a little insecure, and the feet weren't much better. Body tension was key, meaning breathing was a rhythmic, controlled process, as opposed to the 'blacksmith's bellows' approach that I usually favour. Punch for a crimp, shuffle the feet, *breathe* extend to a pinch, high foot, rockover *breathe* powerful undercut, match and bump to a sloping pocket *breathe*. The climbing was harder than expected, easily 7a and without opportunity for rest.

After a short but intense 18m, I clipped the chains on the first belay and threaded Nils into the reverso. He fastened the velcro on his shoes and began beefing his way up the route, emitting enthusiastic grunts between hard moves. Eventually he arrived at the belay, arms rock solid and lungs bursting.

"Psyched for the next pitch?" I asked, secretly glad I had a little longer to sit and rest on the bolts.

Surprisingly he was, and was ready to go in a matter of minutes. Grabbing at rounded crimps and pasting the worn toes of his shoes against the slippery rock, he forged off into the terrain above. After around two bolts difficulties ensued. The holds grew smaller and the bolts more spaced, and after a couple of falls he decided his head wasn't in it for the lead.

Great, I thought. There goes my nice potter up on top rope. Nonetheless, I racked up and set off, questing up the groove in search of bolts and belay. There wasn't much of either, the first 10 metres proving awkward and tiring, before gaining an energy sapping stance not far below a bulge, with the gear several metres below.

Yep, I think we're about caught up. Where was I? Ah, yes.

Plummeting Plummeting Plummeting Plummeting 

Landing a few metres above the belay, I shook myself off and started making my way back up the groove. Arriving at the suspect foothold, I frowned at it judgingly before pasting my toe onto a slightly higher incut pocket. This seemed more trustworthy, and an extended amount of udging resulted in a solid grip on the underside of the broken crack that split the bulge. Others might have thought to move their feet at this point (punters!), but I embraced the inner gym rat and cranked uncompromisingly on the crack, hauling myself into a strenuous position where I could just about reach around the top of the bulge. 

Nothing there. Udge a bit higher, slap around with left hand. Still nothing. Desperately thrash for anything over the lip. Tiny crimp, surely there's something better? Feel around fruitlessly whilst arm pumps out. Nothing. Pumped now, so crank on crimp and desperately kick feet higher like a dog on hot tarmac. Somehow gain purchase with feet and slap over the bulge with right hand, searching for something, anything. Grab two finger pocket full of mud and beetle. Am I that desperate? Left arm starts to pump out. Ok, desperate, and now muddy. Somehow pull on pocket enough to bring foot up to aforementioned crimp, rock over onto said crimp with trembling legs, trying really hard not to think about far below the gear is. Would I fall under the belay now or would I land on top of Nils? Hush! Attempt to stand up on crimp foothold, lacking in leg power. Beetle bails from the pocket; he knows a failure when he sees one. Reach desperately for something, anything for the left hand. There's nothing, nothing, nothing, 

JUG

Breathe. 

Did I say jug? I meant puddle. Muddy and now wet, I surveyed the route above. An enticing peg presented itself within arms length, painted yellow for some inexplicable germanic reason. I clipped it and tested it tentatively; it seemed solid enough. The remaining cracks above were heavily vegetated - apparently most people didn't make it past the bulge. No bolts in sight, but what was that, glinting merrily in the Swabian sunshine? Could it be a belay? My heart rose joyously. All I had to do now was a bit of garden climbing...

I won't recount in full the number of times I emitted short screams of fear whilst making my way through the final ten metres of the route, but know that there were many, and pitiful. Upon reaching the belay I flopped gratefully onto the rope and spent the next twenty minutes enjoying a bittersweet combination of victory and concern that the rope might not be long enough to reach the previous belay when we abbed off. Meanwhile Nils engaged in some world-class udging, 'enjoying' the route even more than I did. Once he reached the belay we decided to simul-ab, reasoning that the extra stretch might make the difference should the rope prove too short. Thankfully it was unnecessary, and we reached the ground feeling decidedly more worn out than we should have been.

Exhausted, we settled back against a fallen tree, resting our heads against the evergreen moss. Above, the route loomed - paradoxically innocent, but we knew better. Sunlight bathed the hillside in the golden syrup of an afternoon well prepared, full of the fragrant warmth of spring. The crag glowed goldenwhite, a proud bastion.

"Fancy another one?" I asked Nils, crossing my fingers inside my chalk bag.

He shook his head. Thank goodness for that.