Longline

Upon inspection, the cracks are flared. What seemed like a web of tight fissures from two pitches below morphed into distressingly rounded seams as we approached, taunting our acidic forearms. I gloomily pondered the prospect of the crux, half-closed fingers gently teasing slack as Maya battled through steep terrain below. The previous pitch had been hard enough, and it was two grades easier than the next. As if to confirm my thoughts, Maya explodes away from the overhang with a shriek of fear, nine hundred metres of exposure swinging beneath her feet. Undeterred, she threads prussiks and swiftly ascends to vertical terrain and better holds, and my secret relief. Hauling a hanging partner is exhausting. 

Maya arrives at the belay, red-faced and grinning. “Hey, I was so scared!” She glances back down, and shivers. “The rope felt like it would cut in that sideways swing.” 

We both share a moment of thankfulness for the wonders of nylon sheaths. Vaporous cloud spirals below our feet, weaving easily between the colossal arena we’ve spent the last nine hours breaching. At this height, peering downwards offers little perspective. Somewhere around three hundred metres, scale is lost. Only looking outwards tells the true tale, across the Traunsee into the mountains beyond. We’re higher than them now, their peaks surrendered unwillingly to a slow, grinding onslaught. Our species excelled through persistence predation, following prey for hours at a time before fatigue won out. The world turns, but these great beasts fall to the same sword. Pitch by pitch, we wear them down, trusting that our endurance will win out. I glance up again at the awaiting seams. Sometimes it’s hard to trust. 

Alpine fatigue starts the night before. The brain is a fickle customer, resting best when rest is barely required. In the shadow of the mountain, sleep is too lofty a goal. I content myself with waiting, gazing passively upwards at the tongue-and-groove ceiling and listening to the nighttime song of the crickets. They revel in their sleeplessness, chirping merrily in the treacle-thick night. Maya stirs slightly, and I wonder if she is also contemplating the pine panels. The mountain waits silently. It’s a heavy silence, laying lead-like across my chest as I count the seconds to dawn. 

Coffee is a false friend on days like these, and so the bitter aftertaste of green tea lingers on my tongue as we tread the approach, morning dew soaking into our trousers as we brush through long grass, making for the dried-out riverbed. At least my heart rate is low. Polished white boulders pave our scrambled path upwards, smooth reminders of the fury of spring. At around half height our path diverts briefly leftwards, circumnavigating a steep fall where the early meltwaters leaped joyously lakewards. They’re gone now, dried by the brutal onslaught of summer, but their path remains impassable. We sneak around, pulling on handfuls of damp foliage for stability as the sun breaks across the horizon. 

Sweat drips from my nose as we pace through the final scree, avoiding the heart-in-mouth grass scramble we’d mistakenly undertaken whilst scoping the approach. Time is of the essence, and we’re glad to have made our blunders already. The opening chimneys beckon invitingly, no longer shrouded in clinging mist and rain streaks from the day before. Rope, gear, shoes. We share a long look, followed by a decisive nod. Upwards. 

Life is full of reflections. Here the route reflects the riverbed below, weaving along the line of weakness. It meanders back and forth, slipping comfortably through leaning slabs and jutting flakes, the wrinkles of the rock providing passage. Perfection is an antipathy in climbing. Featureless faces offer little to tempt the body and mind, yet chaos is just as unstimulating. Climbers seek imperfection in the order, and marvel in the beauty of weakness. We look for rock that isn’t there, striding lines of nothingness within which we might find a place to grip tight. A hold is the remnant of a careless sculptor, and we revel in their mistake. So the route proceeds, tiptoeing artfully upwards on tectonic fingerprints. We climb simultaneously, a bright orange umbilical cord stretched between us, sustaining life. 

Simul-climbing provides opportunities for unexpected contemplation, as the pace of your partner slows momentarily. The hectic flow of constant movement stops abruptly, leaving you stranded in an awkward stance. Wind rustles softly through the pine trees who have chosen a solitary life amongst the high fels. Heart rate drops, and toes begin to wriggle uncomfortably, itching for movement. On a long line, moving is safety. The tension lessens as Maya pulls through a challenging section, and my toes rejoice as they tread skyward once more. 

Far above the scree our path takes us through a slab, one where the artist was less impatient. A pair of tiny pockets mark the clean face, with a vast span of featureless rock between them. I step up high, and falter. The pitch should be easily manageable, but sometimes reality diverges from our expectations. I pull through the blankness with the aid of a quickdraw, grasping gratefully into imperfections above. Close to the ground I’d struggle for longer, but lines like this require compromise. Maya laughs when she reaches the gap, unfettered by ideals of style. 

“It should be 6b? They can forget it.” She grunts and slaps for the holds beyond, retrieving the quickdraw with a casual flick. “Besides, the crux is above.” 

Somewhere in a long day, the pump doesn’t go away anymore. Lactic creeps insidiously into the fibres of the forearms and sets up shop, accompanied by the dull ache of fatigue. Muscles get tighter, threatening cramps if pushed too far. My right bicep does just that as I lock off under the crux overhang, compressing a rounded seam with the little skin that remains on my fingertips. I quickly snatch for the next edge and stretch my arm aggressively outwards, releasing the knot of pain. There is an extra cache of energy to draw on in these situations, where the moments leading up to that point collide in a decisive second of effort. Ragged breaths and gurning expressions culminate in a desperate snatch for a glorious square edge, and salvation.

A little while later, Maya emerges victoriously above the web of cracks, her hands covered in tiny cuts where she’s done battle with the rock. The air is lighter, the weight of the crux lifted from the atmosphere. We share a grin and the last cereal bar before pacing away into the final pitches, rejoicing in the gaps between the rock that take us to the summit. Shortly afterwards thin fingertips grasp gratefully for the final anchor chain, over a thousand metres from the first. Gentle spots of rain kiss our faces as we coil our ropes and tread comfortably through wind-whipped bushes towards the summit hut, rumbling stomachs already fantasising about the meal that waits within. The patient sun crests languorously behind the far mountains as we fill our bellies, leaving behind the familiar freshness of alpine night. Our headlamps bob gently as we dance downwards in the darkness, occasionally dwarfed by furious blue-white flashes from the next valley as a thunderstorm rages against the slopes, entombed within high walls. It can’t touch us. 

‘Kaffee und Kuchen’ 7+ 30sl OS/1pa.

Maya high above the Traunsee after a glorious slab pitch.

Committed.

Amongst the clouds on a brilliant traverse pitch.

Psyche and relief at the final anchor.

Knödelsuppe for tired adventurers.