Coin Flip

 A glint of purple gleams from the crack, shifting in the gusts of wind that sweep along the gritstone outcrop. I eye it hungrily from the shelter provided by a hanging roof of grey-brown rock, as raindrops lash the moorland earth inches away. The climber to my left grunts in discomfort and shifts position on the rock he’s sitting on, his multicoloured limbs squashed awkwardly into a half-cave between the flat roof and a boulder below. “Typical Stanage.” He grins, mousy-brown beard crinkling up to his eyes. His long-haired partner exhales through his nose amusedly, but remains silent. His grey eyes peer out intensely between strands of lank blonde hair, framed by the daffodil yellow hood of his rain jacket. A grin stretches slowly across my face, droplets of wind-whipped rain moistening my lips. “I missed this.” Somehow, I did. Perspective is a funny thing.

Later on I’m lying on my back in a horizontal chimney half-way up the crag, peering into the crack above. Tiny grains of sand hang on my eyelashes as I poke awkwardly at the stuck cam with a stick, trying to shift the position of the lobes. I don’t need it. I could just climb past it, a colourful streak in the gritstone wave, but this is a ritual as much as waiting for the rain to pass. Ten years ago I would have never considered letting such a tantalising gift go unpursued. A stuck cam! Such was the stuff of dreams to the skint obsessive climber.

Eventually with much persuasion I manage to get it into a position where I can clip a sling into the carabiner, easily flipping it upside down and lifting it out of the widening maw of the fist crack. Classic placement error. From underneath the crack looks thin and consistent, but above it quickly hollows, scooped wide and smooth by millennia of rainfall. Better to shuffle further, place the red at the front of the crack, stand up into good hand jams and the safety of a perfect blue. Perspective, once again.

All irrelevant whilst soloing, but that part of my mind that always watches and analyses churns the possibilities as I wander comfortably down another easy crack to the base of the cliff, the rescued cam swinging gently from a belt loop. I pass the sling back to the lads who’d chucked it up to me and thank them with a wink, wandering along to the next HVS.

Why? What is it about gritstone that makes soloing so easy, so friendly? What is it about the sweet greens of the grass at the base and the grey-yellow brightness of Stanage that is so welcoming? Perhaps because it’s just a brief dip into the water, staying calm for a few minutes whilst the thermal barrier lasts, surfacing over the top and shaking off the cold droplets of exposure from your cloak of immortality. Fifteen metres is not far. Eighteen at the long side, the occasional ledge, good jams. I quest up into the steepness of ‘The Link’, twisting my fingers into the perfect jams, reaching up beyond into wide sloping jugs. My knuckles are broader than they were before I left, my fingers sitting easily into the tapers. Ten years can change a lot, and nothing at all. I feel more at home here than ever.

Set the heel up above my head, pull tightly, reach up into deep flakes that offer a perfect, trustful grip. Stand up into hand jams, and the steepness is gone. In the corner of my eye I spot some climbers watching, imagine I can hear the fluttering whisper amongst themselves as they comment on what the route might be, how the holds are, if the intensity is over. Nobody speaks loudly near a soloist. It’s just not done.

‘Part of me wants to congratulate you,’ I’d written to him, after he soloed La Demande. ‘And part of me wants to tell you not to be so fucking stupid.’ Taking risks is a coin flip. I always felt like soloing is flipping the coin and knowing it's going to land on the edge. It's hard to stay away from that kind of confidence. He never answered. A year later he was lying under the Scharnitzspitze, and the coin had landed heads. They identified him from his wallet.

I set my foot up, grasp a rounded sloper, rock easily over onto the right leg. The crag top beckons a few metres away. How do you stop thinking about something like that? How do you ever take that step beyond, where you know the gear isn’t enough, or maybe there is no gear, your body and soul questing out together into the rawness of risk? Maybe you’re not supposed to. Perhaps moments like that are too deep to heal, and shouldn’t. The top is a rounded jug, perfectly formed, a few droplets of water grazing my fingertips at the base. I roll over the top and gaze upwards at the sky, feeling the water seeping into the back of my jacket. Clouds dance above, driven by the ever-present wind. I’d missed the wind.

Later on I meet two lads, starting up Black Magic. Their harnesses are racked with a scant collection of old solid stem cams and the original flexible friends, scratched aluminium strangely dark against the brightness of the fresh slings. We exchange a few friendly words, and they ask if I can place a piece for them, higher up. The start is bold. ‘Sure.’ I say, drawing my cloak tight and pulling through the long opening moves. A silver sinks into a crack just beyond, and they’re grateful.

The rescued purple still swings from my belt loop. High above, padding through the sloping footholds to reach the lip, it occurs to me that a cam was once a precious thing. Not just something to be found and stashed with the rest, but something treasured. When I get down, I press it into their hands. ‘Have fun with it lads. Stay safe.’

What else can you say?