Mum's the Word, Dad's the Trick

My gorgeous man and I have been together now for about 4 months, and my parents – located 800kms away in another city - have started suspecting there’s been a major shift in my life.

Eventually I let on about the new love of my life, but my inner sense of self-preservation warns me against divulging many details. I tell my parents his name but don’t indulge them when they request his CV, and I artfully dodge their leading questions – What’s his profession? Where is he from? How old is he? They would deny this emphatically if they were to be called on it (I have tried this, in the presence of a professional mediator) but past unhappy experiences have taught me that my mother’s preconceived mental mould of who she deems to be a “suitable” partner from me deviates wildly from my actual personal preferences. Moreover, letting on to her that I’ve made yet another life choice that falls short of her expectations (be it in regard to relationships, career, lifestyle, attire, or the colour and length of my hair) is tantamount to sticking my head in a lion’s mouth and then getting upset when I end up with teeth marks around my neck.

My mother’s work colleagues must have discovered this too, as the office once gave her a cartoon with “Agree with me now; it will save so much time,” which she obligingly pinned up on her office wall.

So I let sleeping lions lie. Lying by omission, perhaps!? Well, they say that “it's better to beg forgiveness, than ask permission,” particularly when it comes to (those who imagine themselves to be) authority figures. So the topic of Climber Boy’s passion for precipitous rock walls, and my new-found pastime in scaling them with him, is never broached.

That is, until I discover, alas – too late – yet another of my mother’s well-camouflaged spies, who I have naïvely befriended on good ol’ Facebook.

I’ve managed to stave off several attempts by my mother to open a FB account over the years. As it turns out, however, this (now ex-) Facebook friend of mine has been her FB proxy on numerous occasions. This time she has noticed my change of relationship status and has gone off and reviewed my beloved’s profile. Facebook’s privacy algorithms never cease to bewilder me. CB has his FB account adequately protected, to be viewed by authorised friends only, but FB still displays his profile image to the world at large. And since CB has no reason to hide his outdoor love from anyone (blessed soul), his FB profile image shows him happily harnessed to the side of a vast slab of steeply sloping granite in mid-space, surrounded by ropes and protective climbing gear, and looking for all the world like he’s reclining in his lounge room.

“So,” my mother ventures on our next phone call, “he goes rock climbing!? C… told me she saw the photo on FB.”

This pointed question - as much a statement as a query- followed by a pregnant pause. Apparently it’s now my turn to fill in the gaps.

The game is over. My mother knows me waaaaaaaaay better than to be led to believe that I’ll stand idly by and watch someone else indulge in the excitement of a new adventure without jumping in boots and all.

“Yes, he’s a rock climber,” I stammer warily. I’ve said too much already; I’ve put it in general terms instead of simply portraying it as a once-off activity undertaken at some previous time and therefore not likely to be repeated. The tone of my reply leaves ample room in my mother’s panic-disposed mind to extrapolate to future activities involving me and mortal danger. She knows better than to say her piece right now, however; her modus operandi for gaining adequate control of a situation is akin to water dripping incessantly on stone, by her own admission. For now she holds her tongue … only just … but I can hear the mental cogs turning and the catapults being aimed at some future opportunity to speak her piece.

My father, by contrast, holds a remarkable surprise for me that quite blows my mind. I discover that he himself has done a good deal of rock climbing in his younger years, both in the Italian alps in the ‘50s and ‘60s and in the humble Brindabella Ranges in the ‘60s and ‘70s, where CB and I now hang out.

Monte Argentera (3297m ASL) - the highest peak in the Alpi Marittime range; it's formed by gneiss (a widely distributed type of metamorphic rock of glittery appearance) and local outcrops of granite.

In fact it’s not at all out of character for him to have done something so adventurous in pre-married life, nor for him to never have mentioned it to me before now. Like me, he has learned to maintain his silence when within earshot of my mother. And given that she monitors his every word to me when we’re talking by phone, interjecting regularly when she considers him to have erred (at least once in every sentence), there’s never much opportunity for him to share any of his inner workings with me. Our phone conversations are commonly restricted to a formulaic pattern that rarely deviates from a brief exchange of pleasantries.

Scaling the sides of Monte Argentera, c1950.

I ask him about his climbing experiences and he describes day-long rocky ascents in the Alpi Marittime with his boyhood mates, wearing hob-nailed leather ankle boots and (only occasionally) a “safety” rope tied around their waist and joining the climbers together. Theirs wasn’t climbing for its own sake like ours largely is – their aim was to gain high vantage points from which to enjoy spectacular views across the rooftop of Europe. When they camped overnight, they availed themselves of the rifugi alpini (mountain shelters) – basic but well-equipped mountain resorts made of rough stone and/or timber, generally comprising a bathroom, kitchen, bedrooms and a dining room.

Rifugio Pagarì & La Maledia peak (3061m ASL), c1949.

Climbing school at Maiano, c1953.

Likewise in the Brindies – dad’s hob-nailed leather boots sufficed equally well on the granite slabs as on the sheer faces of the alps, and he and his Italian climbing buddy Lazzaro scaled several routes that are still to be found in current-day climbing guides.

Lazzaro's Staircase - a Grade 16, 20m crack at Booroomba Rocks, Namadgi National Park - was first climbed by my dad's friend Lazzaro Bonazzi (with Peter Aitchison) in 1969.

I can tell from the ever-so-slightly raised pitch in dad’s voice that he’s impressed with my newly acquired hobby, in the same way that he was when I took up motorcycling several decades ago. There’s no such thing as an ex-motorcyclist, someone once pointed out to me, and I believe this to be the case with any passion.

The Wall

Pink Floyd had it so right when they sang "I have become comfortably numb".

Typical library-goers on a Canberra summer evening.

Summer training for Canberra-based rock climbers involves spending lots of time at the National Library of Australia - studious lot, we are!

Never under-estimate rock climbers' capacity for finding climbable surfaces in any landscape and using them for pet bouldering projects and/or climbing practice.

Bouldering is a form of rock climbing that's done on boulders (duh!!) or any other rock-like surface - such as the external blue-stone wall of the National Library of Australia ground floor. Bouldering is generally done without ropes or harnesses but most folk use their climbing shoes and hand chalk to enhance grip - the idea is to practise climbing moves, build stamina and flexibility, and strengthen fingers and feet, all at a "safe" distance from the ground.

There are such things as bouldering mats, too - rubbery pads that are positioned under the bouldering surface so as to prevent fall injuries, but the architects of the NLA very considerately arranged for lush turf to be laid out at the base of each NLA wall, and from my personal experience I can vouch for its cushy landing properties.

On any summer evening, when daylight extends past formal office hours, a line-up of climbers is to be found traversing in formation - all the way left and then back to the right - most commonly on the northern NLA wall. Chalky fingerprints mark the popular hand holds, and also indicate the number of days since it last rained.

At some stage many years ago, the NLA security guards were numerous and bored enough to keep chasing climbers off The Wall. These days, however, climbers have free reign of the blue-stone and can relaxedly enjoy the idyllic surrounds, which often include gentle music emanating from the outdoor café/bar on the terrace above the northern wall.

Walls aren't created equally

Bouldering along the northern-facing longer NLA wall.

One assumes that the brickies who laid down the big blue-stone bricks at the NLA simply hauled them off the palettes and onto each wall stack in random order. No specialist stone-masonry skills were required, as the bricks are all of the same shape and size in two directions. So unless those brickies were closet climbers, the sequence of face scoops and ridges laid out across the blue-stone walls must have been laid out randomly.

As it happens, the random sequence (as well as the relative lengths of each wall section) has effected a hierarchy of difficulty for bouldering at the NLA.

The northern, longer wall of the NLA is the most popular; its length, and degree and sequence of bumpiness, lend themselves nicely to testing the stamina of the average competent climber without totally pissing them off. It has the added bonus of providing an interesting extension for those who can manoeuvre their way around the left-most 90-degree corner and continue along the shortish eastern wall. The polished nature of potential footholds and finger grips right along the northern longer wall attests to its long-term and ongoing favour with self-respecting local climbers.

The northern medium-length wall, and the west-facing longest wall, are frequented only by demi-Gods with wings and/or suction cups for fingers and toes. If you're lucky, you might know a friend of a friend who has conquered the Great Long Western Wall of the NLA. Champagne parties have been thrown on completion of a full traverse.

The north-facing shortest wall, by contrast, is for weenies and newbies such as me - it's only six blue-stone bricks long, is devoid of awkward ventilation grills pumping out musty book vapours, and many of the stones have gratifyingly definite finger holds and foot ledges. Since no self-respecting climber would be seen dead hanging from this "easy" wall, the scoops and edges are also as beautifully rough (read grippy) as when they were first chiseled, rather than being polished perilously smooth like the more popular walls are. This wall is my friend.

Go hang

My first visit to The Wall was last summer: January 2014. Climber Boy and I dutifully rode our bikes there one evening after work and joined the growing throng of chalk-fingered folk milling about on the lawns in front of the northern walls. CB stepped up onto the longer wall and stuck there like he was glued on, then deftly padded his way to the left, stone brick by stone brick, gently placing hand and foot in sequence and moving his body in smooth progression. Quite beautiful, really. Then I stepped up onto the wall ... and just as quickly slithered right off. Then again - on ... off ... on ... off ... on ... offfffffffff ... FCUK OFF in fact!! Temper redlining already ... CB holding out at the other end of the longer wall and wisely keeping his distance now.

OK, let's try the short north wall. The fact that no-one else is hanging off it makes me immediately suspicious, but I manage to rally my nerves just enough to have ... YET ANOTHER ... go. CB good naturedly shows me how it's done; he steps on and - again - sticks there steadily ... no surprises there. I step on, somewhat more tentatively, positioning fingers and feet on the exact same scoops and edges on which CB found purchase so apparently effortlessly ... and remain suspended there for a fraction of a microsecond before peeling off and leaving at least the first few thousand surface molecules of finger skin behind, smeared onto the coarse blue-stone surface. Another two goes at this and I'm practically devoid of fingerprint ...

OK, enough pain and humiliation for one day.

On my subsequent visits to The Wall I bring a sarong. I have a few goes at The Wall, until my finger pads are red and too sensitive to bear any further contact, then quietly perform my yoga routine on the lawn while the climbing community executes their traverses behind me. I intersperse asanas with another step on - peel off skit. The microseconds in between the two sometimes stretch to milliseconds; never long enough for me to progress to the next hand or foot hold, but my finger pads are gradually leathering up and losing sensitivity - which can only be a good thing - thanks to the constant sand-papering they're receiving.

As I said - comfortably numb!