Ten Men Went to Row

Here’s a video from Rab of Tom Randall on his epic adventure to run 142 kilometres, climb 42 mountains and complete 15 classic Lakeland climbs (solo) in under 24 hours. This achievement makes my 63 kilometres (which took me 10 hours) on the 2026 winter solstice look paltry but, as Randall says, the process is the pursuit.

While I manage to get between one and three people out for my Sunday paddles, Wildey got 11, 10 of whom were men! It was the calmest day I’ve paddled in a long time and the only day I didn’t see any dolphins! We lapped around the Tollgate Islands, where there were four female and one much larger male seal hanging out completely undisturbed by humans.

Anyway, with only 9% of the paddling pod being female, I thought I should start an equity campaign to get more women involved but I’m not sure how to go about it. There must be a government grant I can get which would fund a committee to look into an equity program. Failing that, the men will have to start dressing as women, which, is increasingly popular so possibly that would be the easier option.

Climb Then Walk: Little Forest Plateau

Sometimes I feel like the last person alive who has not been infected by an epidemic virus which affects the brain and turns all thoughts to mush. Theodore Dalrymple. If Symptoms Persist.

I can’t believe that just a few weeks – or was it months – ago, I thought I might not get back into climbing up and down rocks. Thankfully, this patently absurd idea disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared. True enough, the first few days out were akin to the first time you try anything new, mostly uncomfortable both physically and mentally, but, if you persevere past the initial gumbyism phase, everything always gets better.

My first couple of years in Canada whilst learning to backcountry ski, I spent most weekends and some week long tours, chasing after a bunch of men, who had grown up on skis and ice skates, around the mountains telling myself that one day I would enjoy this sport that left me so tired I frequently had to walk down the ski run because I would fall over as soon as I put my skis on, because everyone else was hooting and hollering with joy. In those days, we all used skis so skinny they could qualify as tooth-picks, we had floppy, single leather boots with primitive throw bindings, and it was minus 30 degrees Celsius most ski days. It’s reasonable to conclude that the novice phase was accompanied by plenty of discomfort.

We just had a couple of days away in our van. Climbing at Nowra, on deliciously fun ring bolted clip-ups marred only by the fact that the westerly winds, notably absent this winter, were absent no more. The wind reached almost 40 knots at Nowra airport! Our plan had been to climb two days and bushwalk the third day, but, the problem with being old and not having closer access to climbing (either indoor or outdoor) is that a hard climbing day leaves us feeling pretty stiff and sore the next day. When we got down to the river side crags and the 37 knot wind on the second day, we both felt our ligaments tear off our bones simply looking at the routes.

The answer was to bump everything forward a day, so we drove up to Little Forest Plateau and did the two easy walks up there out to both Rusden and Florence Heads. There’s also a third track that goes out to the cliff line near Mount Bushranger, but we had done that one a few years previous when we walked up Mount Talaterang. As we stood buffeted by wind on Florence Head, I reminded Doug of a previous trip in the area when we attempted to walk up Rusden Head from Wombat Ridge fire trail. Interestingly, he had completely blocked the entire trip from his memory which, perhaps, gives some credence to the idea of “trauma repressed memories.” Something which otherwise seems akin to the circular logic of the trans-gender movement. Question: “What is a woman?” Answer: “Someone who feels like a woman.” Question: “Is your mental health disturbed?” Answer: “Yes.” Corollary, you must have repressed trauma.

Anyway, I remember most of my trips, traumatic of otherwise, while Doug remembers few, also painful or pleasurable. But, to give Doug his due, his head is full of many other things whilst mine is mostly “what training or other activity will I do today?”

The Trouble with Equity is it Always Gets Worse

It’s much easier to equalize by deterioration than by improvement. Theodore Dalrymple.

If classical liberalism once favored equality of opportunity, progressive liberals now favor equality of outcome, otherwise known as equity. This is generally illustrated by the cartoon below. The disadvantaged are raised to the level of the advantaged based on an underlying assumption that any discrepancy between individuals is due to multi-factorial oppression, not individual behavior. Recently, in a discussion about rock climbing, an anonymous individual posted this very illustration with the comment that she believes in equity; not that there was any doubt in anyone’s mind from her previous comments that this was the case. Everyone but the equity poster knew this implicitly. There is a certain simplicity of thought, frequently accompanied by talking in slogans (which reflects thinking in slogans), which readily identifies the equity believers.

The funny thing about equity is that no-one wants equity when there are real stakes at play. There is no-one alive who needs delicate, intricate and potentially devastating brain surgery who opts for the equity brain surgeon, at least not willingly. Neither does anyone want their house built by the equity builder, or their finances managed by the equity accountant. When real outcomes are at play, outcomes that we are forced to experience not play act on social media, we all want the best man or woman for the job, not the equity candidate.

The hypocrisy of the equity position notwithstanding, equity is simply impossible to achieve. If I give four people $1000 all four people have parity (assuming no-one had any money to start). Person A, puts their $1000 into a term deposit and earns 5% interest. In one year, person A will have $1050. Person B starts a business with their $1000 and the business is quite successful. In one year, their $1000 business investment has been built into a business which can be sold for $2000. Person C pursues a Hunter Biden strategy and snorts cocaine off sex workers breasts (I hope I have used the politically correct language) and within one week is completely broke, while Person D invests in some stocks which rise in value by 10% resulting in a value of $1100 after one year. What started as equity is now completely inequitable because people are not the same. We are all biologically and psychologically different. Some opt for instant gratification and immediate but fleeting pleasure while others chose to delay gratification and work towards some larger goal.

In order to return to equity, we should give Person A $950, Person B nothing, Person D $900, while Person C hits the jackpot and gets $2000 which would enable Person C to snort double the amount of cocaine off larger breasts. Unfortunately, within two weeks, the situation would again be inequitable, and we would have to begin the cycle of equalizing outcomes all over again.

It has to be clear to anyone who understands even a modicum of economics, not to mention human behavior that there is simply no-way to achieve equity. Equity drifts off over the horizon like an over-turned kayak blown by an off-shore wind. The more resources you throw at equity the less equal things become. The cocaine snorter begins to consume an ever larger share of resources which benefits only the cocaine dealer and the pimp. Person C certainly doesn’t benefit, and it’s debatable that even the sex worker benefits. The sex worker would probably rather get $1000 to start a different business!   

Drive Don't Cycle

The cult of the expert with the hegemony of bureaucracy. Father Robert McTeigue

Back in the 1990’s I worked as a registered nurse in a series of Calgary hospitals. My first job was on the gastrointestinal surgical floor at the Holy Cross Hospital which was on the southwest side of the downtown area. In those days downtown was pretty quiet, especially in the early morning, and I loved riding through the centre of the city on my bicycle on the way to work dodging and weaving across traffic lanes as the wind blew through the deep valleys created by high rise buildings. Soon enough the wards and patient treatment areas at the Holy Cross Hospital were moved and the entire series of buildings was given over to the bureaucracy that managed the regional health department. Bureaucracies have two jobs: the first is to maintain the bureaucracy and the second is to grow the bureaucracy.

Cycling to work at the Holy Cross was a continuous juggling game as I worked shifts. Night shifts I drove both directions being too tired to cycle home at the end of the shift and unwilling to ride to work at 10:00 pm at night. Day shifts were easy, I cycled both directions, while afternoon shifts Doug and I had a system worked out whereby he drove to his office job downtown with his bicycle in the back of our wagon. He would park near the Holy Cross Hospital, unload his bicycle and ride across town to his office. After work he would ride home, while I would ride to the Holy Cross for my afternoon shift, throw my bicycle in the back of the wagon, and drive home at midnight when I finished work. So we both carried changes of clothes in panniers on our bicycles as well as massive amounts of food to get us through our respective work days.

From the Holy Cross, I moved to work in the Multiple Sclerosis (MS) Clinic at the old General Hospital which was on the east side of the city down in the Bow River valley. There was no more shift work so I could cycle everyday, which I did, rain, shine, winter storm, minus 30 degree Celsius days, through afternoon thunder and hail storms and along the unplowed and frequently icy streets and paths of Calgary. I could make it to work in about an hour if conditions were reasonable, but I had days when it took me at least 1.5 hours to get to work due to icy and snowy conditions (this was before the pathway along the river valley was plowed in winter and studded bicycle tires had not been invented).

Coming home I almost always had to ride into the Chinook winds which blow through Calgary year round. These warm winds (warm is relative) sweep down over the Rocky Mountains to the west and generally blow at a steady 25 to 30 knots. Getting home to my house, which was uphill from the river valley and to the west was almost universally into a steady head wind. I had days when it took me 1.5 hours to ride home as well, and, as I frequently ran out of food, I often had hypoglycemic attacks while riding that made me vulnerable to falling off the bicycle into the road traffic.

My clearest memory of the craziness of my bicycle commute obsession was falling into the bus trap between Scenic Acres, where Doug and I lived, and Silver Springs, the next suburb to the east. Bus traps are big trenches dug in the ground that can be spanned by the wheels of a full size bus but a car or regular vehicle does not have a wide enough wheel base to span the trench which is about a half a metre deep. They are used to stop cars and private vehicles from zooming around urban neighbourhoods. I was riding to work on my usual route which took me past a bus trap on a road between Scenic Acres and Silver Springs on a snowy day in the early morning. As I rode past the bus trap, my bicycle hit black ice and slipped sideways. I fell into the bus trap and the bicycle landed on top of me. At that moment, the number 37 bus which I took on occasional days when even I wouldn’t cycle, chose that exact moment to come rumbling along the road, and I managed to get both my self and my bicycle out of the bus trap just seconds before the bus drove over the trap. I had given serious thought to trying to lie flat in the bus trap because buses, like trains, are slow to stop, particularly if the driver is not expecting to encounter a human and a bicycle at rest in the bus trap. I can still remember clearly the look of extreme consternation on the drivers face when he realised he had almost run over a cyclist.

There were lots of other crazy days. One day, riding up the penultimate hill on my way home, I hit black ice again and flew off the bicycle out into two lanes of traffic. Another day, after a terrifying ride down icy and snowy roads to gain the bicycle path that ran along the river valley I found the entire pathway covered by a glassy, solid 5 centimetres of ice, as smooth and slippery as the local ice hockey rink. The Chinook winds had melted the snow on the path but the banks on either side of the path had prevented the melted snow (in other words, water) from draining away and, as night fell, the entire pathway for at least five kilometres had frozen solid with 5 centimetres of hard water ice. Crampons would have been more use than a bicycle. I pushed the bike all the way to work. I was a bit late that day.

Multiple days were marked by thunder, lightening and hail during the summer months. Sometimes I just kept riding, other times the hail was big enough that I would have to seek out shelter until the storm passed over. Strangely, I never really worried about being hit by lightning perhaps because I had been hit by lightning on a climb of Mount Athabasca already.

Winter riding required multiple layers of clothing such that moving was difficult. I had lined lycra tights which had a goretex layer stitched to the front (a unique item made by Mountain Equipment Coop which were absolutely brilliant but of course disappeared from their inventory when the bureaucracy took over and the only thing MEC reliably sold was yoga clothing). On very cold days, I wore another pair of full goretex pants over the top of these, and put shoe covers on my leather hiking boots (sneakers were too cold) which MEC also made at the time. The shoe covers also were a genius item but they too disappeared once MEC became a store that sold almost exclusively barbeque clothing (a term coined by my mate Robin Tivy). On top, I wore a long underwear (prolypropolene at the time) long sleeved top, a lightweight fleece, then another jacket (home-made) that had a thicker fleece layer with a windbreak layer stitched on as an outer. A muff for the face (otherwise you would get frostbite), a homemade beanie (called a toque in Canada), my bicycling helmet, a headlamp (plus lights on the bicycle), and two pairs of mitts, an inner fleece layer and outer wind break layer. It took me about half an hour to dress and undress at either end of the commute. Ski goggles were sometimes useful to prevent your eyelashes from freezing.

The most batshit crazy thing I remember about this time was an online survey tool that MEC developed and published on their website. This was, of course, the early days of the internet, so it was a pretty rudimentary questionnaire which purported to measure your environmental impact. Mine, disturbingly, was rated high. You might wonder, how it could be high considering I never drove a single kilometre during the week and prepared all my own food. I even did my weekly shopping on foot, carrying a large backpack up to the local store and bringing it home loaded with the weeks groceries. It was big backpack (80 litres – I still have it).

I don’t remember the exact wording of the quiz or the summary response but the gist of it was I was an environmental disaster because I was using up too many calories riding my bicycle to work and walking to the shop, and the recommendation was, unbelievable as it might sound, that I should drive to work! Such is the madness of bureaucracy and the environmental movement. Interestingly enough, within a year of my starting work at the old General Hospital, that group of building also became the home to more bureaucracy and our entire clinic moved to the Foothills Hospital. This had the inadvertent effect of lowering my environmental impact because I could cycle to work in a mere half hour.

Keep Climbing

You should never, ever be understood completely. That's like the kiss of death, isn't it? It's a full stop. I don't ever think you should put full stops on thoughts. They change. John Lydon (Johny Rotten, The Sex Pistols).

2026 was the year I wondered, fleetingly, if I would give up rock climbing. Each passing year, it just seemed to get harder and harder to drag myself back into climbing shape after taking the summer season off. But I put a stop on that thought, and started climbing again, and I’m so glad I did. The movement, the challenge, the effort to keep trying substantiated by small improvements is still so satisfying even on a crag that is barely 20 metres high.

It may be the year I have to recognise I’m not going up in the grades anymore, and that’s hard, but I think it is harder still not to climb at all. That would be dying a small death before the final death and in no way a measure of the joy of a life. Fred Beckey kept climbing (or at least trying to climb) for decades after his prime. I’ll never be a Fred Beckey, but perhaps there is some kind of crazy dignity in continuing the struggle for improvement long after the physical ability to improve is gone.

Beckey used to roll into Nelson occasionally when I lived there and my mate Hamish would hook up with him to go climbing. Sometimes at the local crags, sometimes the local gym, but often on some hare-brained scheme to carry a ball busting pack deep into the remote BC wilderness to climb some obscure peak. Often, the walk in (trackless) was enough to render Beckey incapable of completing the climb and the youth who had accompanied him would climb the route instead. Beckey was the prototypical eternal optimist, busting his arse getting way into the remotest wildest mountains long after his ability to string long hard climbing days together was gone.

I like to think that Beckey carried an unquenchable flame for climbing that age and wisdom never dimmed. A dreamer spirit that found solace and quietude on high mountains after extreme effort. These days, he would be diagnosed with autism or ADHD. He would be drugged up and/or convinced that his extreme focus was the product of a “neurodivergent” brain that needed assistance and accommodation. That never happened, because it was a different, and in many ways, more tolerant time. Beckey didn’t want accommodations, and neither should we. The beauty of life is in the struggle to improve not in the dismal acceptance of fading ability.

No Hands Climbing

Johnny Dawes is a year younger than me, but climbs far harder. These days, not many people have heard of Johnny Dawes because he is old (62) and unfashionable among the rainbow lanyard, inclusive (but really exclusive), feminist kill-joy, everything is a trauma, words are violence climbing crowd. Plus, of course, he’s a white male and therefore the symbol of all that is wrong in the “grape-culture” of climbing. As an old white female.  I miss the days when we could just go climbing without needing to make a statement about colonisation or climate action or gender-wangery. If you were a climber, you were judged by how hard you climbed, and it was more common to down-grade your achievements than over-hype them. We all had a finally tuned bull-shit metre and the climbers gratuitously talking up their big sends were greeted with apathetic disdain.

Johnny Dawes is known as both a master of movement and an enigmatic thinker. He started “no hands” climbing after injuring a hand and became known for both hard and bold traditional ascents along with no hands climbs. These days, he runs a coaching business, unlike any other climbing coaching business, where in his own unique and eccentric style he teaches “declumsification.”

I’ve noticed myself becoming increasingly clumsy when climbing. Struggling with precise footwork and also those ultra-common moves where you have to step up onto a small hold with – what feels like – no good grips for the hands. Strength training was not improving these issues, so, I thought why not try Dawes’ declumsification. My home wall is overhanging so way too steep for no hands climbing – even for maestro Dawes – but I do have any number of easy featured slabs sitting on the rock platforms at my local beach.

No hands climbing is – at least for me – surprisingly hard, even on terrain where it shouldn’t be. I’ve got a good two metre high boulder just 7 minutes walk from home which I was using. It has holds, much bigger than Dawes uses, so good for someone who needs to start at the beginning of declumsification. You can watch Dawes no hands climbing here, here, and here but not me, because I didn’t shoot any video. Declumsification is not something you can do one time and assume you will have improved. Dawes mastered the art of using any and all surfaces to declumsify including urban surfaces, much like the OG of parkour before parkour was a thing.

Sharks and Rocks

Today was the first day that it actually felt like winter paddling. It was supposed to rain a bit which isn’t conducive to rock climbing but is appropriate for paddling. In the end, it didn’t rain at all, though I was pretty well wet through by the end of my requisite 20 kilometres as, because I had got tired of fighting with my dry spray deck, I had reverted, on the coldest day of the year so far, to my worn out and leaky Electric Water spray deck. Electric Water custom makes their spray decks to fit both your waist and your cockpit whereas of the shelf spray decks can be a bit of a bitch to get on.

As I was passing Circuit Beach on my way to Lilli Pilli Bay, I noticed the Joonga shark boat speeding towards one of the drum lines. It’s always interesting to see what they have pulled aboard – no sharks are injured, they are photographed, measured, tagged and released – this time it was a bronze whaler that the men on the boat thought was about 2.5 metres long. It had a very thick square head and it took a bit more wrangling than I’ve seen the lads engaged in before.

The ocean has been hopping with activity this winter. The water is clear a lot of the time as we have had a long periods of calm winds with few or no big storms coming through. In our home bay, I’ve paddled out multiple times into massive schools of fish. So many fish that as they swim near the surface they create a wave. The dolphins are always there, sometimes just swimming, other times feeding, and a few seals have moved in as well. The only shark I’ve seen, however, is the bronze whaler today although the buoys are reporting great whites and other big sharks around.