To those who were expecting this to be a diary

A heartfelt apology.

It isn't a diary.

Anyway, recently I went away. The first time was on a climbing visit to Waterval Boven with my great friend Roger. Fantastic climbing and brilliant company. It couldn't really get any better, could it?

So here we have Dario, Dirk and me sitting in the chalet. At this point I am contemplating taking out a restraining order against Dario preventing him coming within a 500 km radius of my daughters. Photo courtesy of Roger. These two gentlemen, along with Roger and my girlfriend, had, earlier in the day, warned me, in spite of my being a professor, against writing sentences, like this one, with so many commas and subclauses.

Well, obviously they didn't. Even if they had, which they didn't, I would have continued to do so.

They participated in my un-retirement. They contributed to it. That was a Very Good Thing, because the few hours for which I was retired (about 4 hours, I think), were not nice. I wasn't nice. I did continue to exhude bonhomie and sound chipper etc, but I wasn't enjoying it. So I unretired, crushed the nemesis in short order but appalling style and then posed for pictures like this (Roger took this as well):

The guy in the green shirt is Chris, or Steve. Either way, he is one of the 3lostmonkeys. There is a blog. Check it out. Now then, here is something interesting. Dario's shoes are Adidas Gazelle's. I know those shoes well from the 1970s, in their original model. How about that? So, Dario, Dirk, Roger and my long-suffering gf - thank you.

Ok, I want to talk about my pink shorts. Apparently people think they are gay. What? It's almost 2012 people. What could possibly be the issue here?

They are bright pink shorts and I like them and they are comfortable.  Another photo of Roger's.

Next I went to Zambia. I am participating in a project to help uplift the Copperbelt University. Trying to make a difference. Climbing doesn't make any difference to anyone at all.

First he stole my youth...

It wasn't long after the echoes of the last thunderous dinosaur footstep died away that Roger and I bumped into each other in the kloofs of the Magaliesberg. Actually, we didn't bump into each other - our egos maintained a minimum separation distance of several metres. It's a little bit like the Pauli Exclusion Principle, but on a somewhat larger scale. For a while this was fine, because I was better.  And then only slightly better. And then he opened some slithery thin route in Tonquani and slapped a big number on it, and boom, I was in second place. I bought the SA Climbers Club so I could edit the newsletter. I removed his name from any news reports (with Tippex, because we didn't do things electronically). He onsighted White Rider.  I couldn't do a route of his in Boulderkloof. Fame, Fortune and Glory. And they were no longer mine. That was it. All gone. All of it.

Eventually, of course, I got over it. I emigrated to the Cape, shaved off my moustache and made a decent living pretending to be a chemical engineer. I was happy in my new life.

Until now.

He tracked me down. I don't know how he found me but he did. And insidiously he started stealing my life again. It began innocuously. The suggestion of a long weekend climbing at Umgeni. And what about a week in Oudtshoorn? Then a weekend in Oudtshoorn. Before I knew what was happening my life was out of control. I resigned from my job and grew back my moustache.I got my old lycra pants out of cold storage (if you have kept them at room temperature I am sorry to say that the elastomer will be buggered and you will be holding a pair of saggy, but nonetheless bright and spangly, tubes). He did The Eviscerator before me. Next month I am going to Boven. I don't even know where it is, but I am going. I just cashed in my pension to buy a long enough  rope and enough draws to climb at Milner in the New Year.I have surrendered my life to climbing.

The moustache I am re-growing. Nice.

The Nokia E7. Don't.

Nokia's top of the line offering. And it is total fucking rubbish.

I had wondered why they had lost the smartphone competition to Samsung and Blackberry. Now I know. because their best offering is feeble. It has nice big screen. And the worst software and operating system I have used on a smartphone. Worse, by far, than my old Samsung i780.

So if you want a heavy but sleek aluminium block with an insanely nice screen to look at, oh I don't know, a photo or something, you might think about it. If you want a smartphone, then don't. It is so clunky it more or less doesn't work.

Marmalade and opera

I have time to entertain myself with one last, quick post today.

Opera is like marmalade. And so is grapefruit. I'll tell you why. When I eat an orange, I peel the fucker and then dispose of the peel. I don't eat the peel, because it tastes terrible. So what is the idea with marmalade? Why include the peel? Throw the stuff away. It's fucking horrible. As is opera. The tunes aren't that good, the acting is lame and I don't understand the words.  It's the same with grapefruit. It's bitter and horrible and in 2011 we can make informed choices about such things.

I see that Wikipedia tells me that for a while grapefruit was known as the shadduck or shattuck. That sounds more appropriate. Why the hell would you call a bitter relative of the orange a grapefruit just because it hangs in clusters on trees like grapes on a vine? Jeepers. Did those idiots not notice that a grapefruit is more or less fist-sized, tastes fucking terrible and that grapes are the size of a fingertip and taste really nice?

Coffee is almost the same as opera but it has a significant advantage. It's medicine. Opera doesn't contain caffeine and hence there is no point in swallowing it, whereas coffee does and hence there is.

Is that clear?

The Smiths

Have you heard Tori Amos doing her live cover of Don't Look Back in Anger? Probably not. Anyway, she tells a very funny story to the audience about Morrissey. Apparently he was a small dick fuckhead, but he might be a nice guy by now. That's what Tori says. I wouldn't know. So Morrissey (I know you  read my blog), don't sue me.

So recently I went to The Palace with The Smiths. Here they are. Rock stars. They all look alike to me, especially when they are wearing their sunglasses.

While the boys climbed I ate, collected feathers for my cap and tanned.

I didn't include a photo of me tanning, because it didn't work, and I still look white and weak.

I decided to onsight The Activist.

At the point in the photo I am still looking pretty competent. I should be, as I am standing on a freaking great big ledge.

Higher up I didn't look quite this good. I arrived at the crux with a poor game plan and tried to use a foothold out left. When that didn't work I figured out the toe hook but had my weight a bit wrong, didn't stand high enough and got the hideous sloper instead of the the crimp. Boom, I was out of there. So that was the end of that.

Part 2 of whatever Part 1 was called

So, where were we? As far as I remember, I had just crushed Wet and Wild.

Next up was sightseeing and shopping.

Prior to the actual shopping I needed some fortification.

The shopping was so-so. We looked for handbags - not for me, of course. I already have one. For my daughter. The best were at Guess. R 500. This took our breath away so we walked around for a while, negotiated pocket money and parental contributions, took a deep breath to replenish what had been taken away (read the start of the sentence) and went back into the shop. Here we discovered a slight problem. The handbag didn't cost R 500, the silk scarf tied to the strap cost R 500. The handbag was so expensive that I passed out.

Luckily I recovered and managed to buy some matching tangerine climbing outfits for Roger and myself.

We shall be wearing them on our boven road trip in November,

From there, we went to the airport to pick up my girlfriend who had just jetted in. Do people still jet in? Or did they stop doing that 3 decades ago?

The weekend that followed was awesome: Karkloof Canopy Tour (do it), more Wet and Wild (the water activity in Durban) and the bakery in Howick. It is the best bakery ever. Lemon tarts and the Religieuse top the must-eat list.

At some point I did The Godfather on a freezing day and then the day before we left onsighted Nothing Heals Like Cold Steal. Brilliant. Roger was belaying and so I couldn't really fail. At some point I departed from the approved sequence and headed out onto some rather silly crimps but realised I was in no-mans land and got back to a jug and pulled things together. Umgeni. Best crag in the country.

In the photo below, Roger is refusing to wear his tangerine kit.

I went to KZN and I was the best Part 1

While backing up my hard drive, which slows down my machine and prevents me from working, I am going to entertain myself by writing about my holiday.

I slid into the blond leather upholstery of my car with my daughters and headed out for KZN. If we had an open top car then we could (a) have stood up and yelled "road trip" like Alan (which Alan? You guys are frucking with me, right?) (b) have frozen our balls/---- off as we drove past the snow in de Doorns.

We don't have an open top car, so we blasted tunes and headed on to Smithfield. Check out my bedroom at the B&B.

The next day we drove through rural Free State scenery  and tried to find the odd bit of tar amongst the potholes. If anyone wondered what this "service delivery" issue might entail, try rural Free State roads. They provide a tiny insight into some of the problems we have.

Then we swooped through the Golden Gate. I quickly did the first ascent of this arete.

Finally we were in KZN. I was about to become the best.

Just to remind myself of my roots, I went off to the Valley of a Thousand Hills, and on the way stopped by the eponymous hotel. 

Sad.

Anyway, I had heard that Howick Falls was pretty scary and intimidating.

Do I look scared and intimidated? Clearly not. In fact, this looks more like a shot from a cheese scene in Days of Our Lives.Perhaps I should do a screen test.

Melissa took photos.

Finally, it was off to Wet and Wild at uShaka. There is no place for false modesty. Veni, vidi, vici. With no warm, up, totally onsight I utterly crushed The Eviscerator.

That's all for today. In Part 2 you can read about how we went everyhere and did everything.

One person

Yep, one person in the entire freakin' world reads my blog. He or she asked me to update my blog, somewhere in a comment that followed on from me bleating about my sore finger. I fixed all that shit. My hand surgeon (that's as if I own the dude. He's not mine, I just go to him when I hurt, which is most of the time) rammed a needle into my finger and squirted it full of cortisone. I was so hardcore I didn't even flinch while he did it. A week later, my finger deflated and the pain started abating. Getting less, in other words. I ripped off the splint and got back on my project.

It was the bomb. I headed out on my own, set up my rope and did all the moves. I had to change things a bit on the crux because my finger still isn't great, but I could work around the issue.

Then I went shopping.




Warming up. Vents allow cooling below the knee caps.


Pink leggings with zips. I took my daughter along when I bought them so I could pretend they were for her.

At some point between then and now I reached a high point. So now I am two moves from the big holds. I have to hold the mono ring lock that I fall out of, slap to a crimp and then pop to a big hold. From there it's yarding some big pulls to the summit. Unfortunately winter has intervened. So the road has washed away, the crux crack has been seeping.

Whatever.

Quit Bitching.

Now here is the problem:

In the same spot as above, wearing slightly more subdued kit. That's not the problem. The problem is that the hard climbing is only just beginning. On my left is the rampant, soaring line of The Dream I Knew, which I might add, is 32. I say so because it's my route. Anyway, by this point on the latter it's all big jugs and jams. Butch but fun. A description that applies to some people that I could mention. On my current project it's not juggy as such. Fiddly locks. Dodgy Gastons. This sounds like it's the story breaking and entering in the backstreets of  Marseilles.

The hard bit is actually just below the 3rd unclipped bolt, and ends at the big hold above it.

Living under a bridge

So there I was, thinking that I might never post anything on this blog again, when my good mate Cobus chucked in his job and went to live under a bridge. That made me think about life and what it is all about. So I put together a little piece and sent it to all my friends, including Cobus, although I don't know if he is still getting email because he lives under a bridge.


This is what I said:

I have a dream (one of my friends has a penchant for bursting into song without being provoked - you can imagine how worried I was at this point). I am going to move Spain for a year to learn how to climb. You are welcome to come along if you are a girl. If you are a guy, just be aware that you aren’t sleeping in my tent. So you are also welcome, but with conditions. Out of 365 days I am going to take 3 rest days. Once I have done that I shall be able to scoot up the twin tufas on Humildes like Chris except I won’t even need to breathe and I am better looking. Those of you who don’t come along have to pay for the trip as your forfeit. I know it doesn’t seem fair right now, but eventually you will realise it is only right and just.

Crushing

I didn't crush any routes this weekend. Clearly.

Dickhead. What the fuck were you thinking?

However that didn't stop me CRUSHING!

Clearly!

I might have more to say on this later.

Stay the Night

I spent the weekend in the company of these guys.


Julia, Alan, me and Cobus at Oorlogs Kloof



Right, let's review how it went.

Julia said: "Thanks team, that was awesome :-)"

Cobus said the following: "Oh yes, I would just like to thank Julia and Steve, I now have that fucking James Blunt song in my head! I don't even particularly like James Blunt..."

And I explained to Alan: "Julia forced us to listen to a song called Stay the Night, which contains detailed instructions on how to get chicks to say yes. Cobus and I realised we are such sorry bastards that on the few occasions that we ever asked a woman to stay the night (or vice versa) the result was stuff like sleeping under our cars in the rain and battered self-esteem. Now that we listened to it all the way back from Montagu, I am delegating Cobus to try out some of the lines. It should be entertaining."

 And then I emailed my gf and gushed out the following badly written stuff, which I really mean:


(Describing Sunday) We got there after lunch just as the sun was moving off my route. Anyway, it was ultra hot so we got in the river on the walk in before the hill, just kept our hands dry, and I walked up wet to cool off. Julia offered to walk to the top to set up my rope. Alan and Cobus were there just to belay. We had a great time. Alan mostly belayed Julia on a route near mine, and Cobus and Julia took turns to belay me. And so we all hung out and laughed and talked smack and tried hard on the climbs. It’s the bomb. You are like a family or something, hard to explain. Then we walked down, and it was hot still, and Julia and I swam again, and we got back to the car and chatted. Alan was there in his car. We looked up at the valley and it’s so beautiful and rugged, perfect. We took the pics and it was like we were this great team. Then Alan left and we drove back, Cobus me and Julia and we had the music pounding and it was like, how could it be better? So that’s what I like. I was a bit upset because my wrist was killing me, but I didn’t want to make a fuss and decided that I would see the surgeon as soon as I could get an appointment.

 It’s very important to me that I climb with people I like. Those three are really nice, and very funny. And they really try to support me and that helps a lot. Cobus has been so patient, going there with me so often. It means a huge amount to me that my friends would do that for me. Or Julia setting up the rope. She could see I was taking strain in the heat, and that it would increase my chance of success if I could just relax in the gully and not have to walk up in the sun, so she did it for me.  And the other thing with your mates, is that you really want them to get up their routes too. So with your friends it’s incredibly supportive. We all want each other to win. How cool is that? Even in competitions, we would all encourage each other. Cos in a few minutes it will be you up there.


It’s the best. The challenges are infinitely varied, they are physical and mental, you do it in the world’s most beautiful places, and if you are lucky you find great friends to share it all with. I know all people think like this about their pastimes, but how could anything be better than that?



As we chatted at the cars, the black eagles were circling and the sun was hitting their wings and they were shining. It is simply incomparable.


Well, that’s what I do.

Barebacking an ostrich

I had to chivvy up my buds from KZN yesterday.

WTF is with them wafting down to Oudtshoorn on SATURDAY AFTERNOON? Maybe they should stick to their faggoty kzn face climbs and leave the tufa riding to us. By the time they arrive I be shall clipping the anchors on my 10th route of the day.

I have to drive out there on Saturday as well now, because everyone hates me so much they won’t go out with me on Friday. And then I am driving back on Sunday, in my shitty, rattly non-airconditioned white Citigolf. My Volvo, built to spec in Belgium, BTW, hasn't landed here yet. That's a bummer because I had planned to do donuts on the grass with pumping gangsta rap blasting from the upgraded sound system.

None of this matters though, because last week I did 3 sets of 50 pull ups and a set of 40, proving that it’s not hard, bitches.

Oh, and this serves as a note to my girlfriend so she knows where I am this weekend. Out of signal babe, on an ostrich.

Colour