is there poodle in my noodle

Leaving the house in an exhausted grump wasn’t the best precursor to questing up a five-pitch climb at the top of our limit. To the unititiated, this means climbing five separate routes in sequence to the top of the mountain. I kept Jem up till 2 am doing a full starfish, and I arose at 3 to the dulcet tones of a pig having a fit in a bowl of jelly. 

Nevertheless, we romped up the first two pitches without incident before all hell broke loose. Pitch 3 felt rather hard for a 5C (even here) and involved a face-to-face encounter with a large serpent who was residing in one of my hand holds. I’m not sure who was more surprised, but I climbed with my motor at full blast until reaching the next belay.

Jem joined me, whilst fighting off a huge angry wasp, which took delight in repeatedly nosediving his red sweating bonce. I shan’t repeat the profanities that occurred.

Climbing past me, he entered territory unfamiliar to us since 2010. Sitting in my hanging belay for about 1.5 hours while my kidneys throbbed, I couldn’t understand why Jem was aiding up bolts using his ConnectAdjust and hauling on quickdraws until we looked down to see the other team (on the same intended route as us) disappearing off around to the right, giving us perplexed sideways glances. The route we were on, it turned out, was six grades above our limit.

Having abseiled down off two random bolts back to the top of pitch 2, leaving a load of gear for some lucky souls, we sat on the ledge and had a good laugh about our predicament. Do we go up, or do we call it and abseil to safety? There’s only one choice – continue and crush this beast.

We pulled the rope, and to our horror, it jammed in a crack about 5 metres above us.

It’s lucky our rope skills surpass our route finding skills, and we spent some time working out how we were going to safely get to the top of pitch 3 and also resolve the ‘rope incident’.

Off I went, up the next pitch, to try and free the wedged line, which was stuck in a crack about 4 metres off-route on holds resembling crispy cornflakes, which cracked and splintered under my weight. It took a while to free the stubborn beast, by which time I was pumped out of my fucking mind but continued up to the next hanging belay.

At which point, my body much protesteth to hanging in mid-air, and I summoned Jem to climb with haste to relieve me of my aching spine. Sadly, as Jem took the lead, he was gifted the most horrendous bulging and thin bitch of a pitch and was shut down on the Chimney of Doom.

“You’re right next to the bolt. Just see if you can get your feet higher,” I airily suggested, attempting to install as much confidence as humanly possible as my vertebrae crushed. However, this was not the right communique. Jem looked around, his face eminating a look that would slay an angry polar bear from 100 paces.

“I understand I am on the bloody bolt, I just dont know how I can get any higher,” was the strained response from above. I quickly looked down to avoid eye contact.

It was heroic and awesome to see Jem overcome the grunting slithering bastard, and up he went to the belay of the final pitch. After much exasperated heavy breathing, I joined him. We looked up at the last yomp. A gaping grinding overhanging off-width, with more sludge than an ultra marathon running trainer.

It was at this point that we realised the route had taken everything from us. Seven hours in, we had to descend for our mental, physical, and spiritual health – and get straight to the pub. 

Now, back at the barracks, we are delighted to reflect on recent fun, including yesterday’s rainy run around the north of Yangshuo.

And also trying the fruit we have discovered. One particular variety, the Dorian, apparently smells of farts but tastes like heaven. We agree on the first count but not on the second.