Objects In Mirror May be Closer Than They Appear or Most Things Aren’t What They Seem

If you saw my video from a couple of days ago, you might think “Wow, what awesome conditions, that looks like so much fun.” What my video didn’t show was the painfully slow (and painful) 300 metre (vertical) descent from Gills Knob to the Guthega River. True, the shin bang was making it impossible to get into an athletic ski stance, and the Tour Cap Lites that I am skiing (a 25 year old ski with the dimensions and turning tendency of a 40 year old ski) would much rather go straight than turn. Additionally, with a name like Tour Cap Lite, you might guess that these skis don’t perform all that well in icy, hard conditions. Doug, by who is a lot better skier than me, had a reasonable descent, I descended the 300 metres by side-slipping 80%, turning 10% and walking the last 10%! Not elegant, awesome, or camera worthy.

The truth of life is that most things are not what they seem and everyone struggles with something although most of us hide our struggles from shame. Back in the day when I listened to every podcast that featured DJ, I, like probably most other listeners, was astonished and horrified to learn that DJ’s beloved wife and life partner died as a result of addiction in 2022. DJ seemed to have a charmed life, a strength coach, university professor, author, speaker, family man. I often felt jealous when he talked about his life and community as he had a group of local neighbours who came over to train in his home gym. I’m pretty good at training on my own – by necessity – but I would love to have a group of friends who got together to train. Not for me, I always thought.

And then there’s Twight, the hard-man alpine climber, whose words have always inspired me to try harder, be better, not quit, face my fears, and it turns out that Twight, the man with the will of steel has, like everyone else, his own struggles.

Simple truths which, at heart, we all know, but the glamorous life you see on line is probably not nearly so magical when honestly reported.

Icy Times: August Ski Touring

The bridge over the Munyang River is gone, pulled due to “dangerous conditions,” which, in Australia, could mean anything from toppled into the river to “might cause you to get a splinter in your arse if you sit down for a rest.” Strangely enough, and my conspiracy theorist tendencies may be coming out here, the Aquaduct Track, a well built vehicle road which climbs up to 1650 metres on Disappointment Ridge is not shown on any of the new topographic maps. This is, of course, what Tasmap does, leaves old trails off the new maps, an effective way to close areas to the public (usually under the guise of “environmental” or “cultural” protection) without officially closing those areas. Tyranny by stealth, you might say, if you were a conspiracy theorist like myself.

With skis on our packs, and heavy ski boots on, Doug and I stand looking down at the river for some time. Descending to cross the creek is nasty – the banks are steep and loose – and we’ll have to wade the river; there is no way we’ll be able to balance across those slippery rocks in hard soled alpine touring boots (AT). On the far side of the river, there is a dearth of snow so we’ll be walking for a couple of kilometres at least. Although I’ve done a lot of it, walking in AT boots isn’t a helluva lot of fun. And right now, I’m not sure what I was thinking: It’s our first ski day since 2019 and a return trip to Mount Porcupine is over 30 kilometres and probably 1,000 metres of elevation gain. It’s almost 10 am, and Mount Porcupine like all the Snowy Mountains is merely another rounded bump in a predominantly gentle range. The only reason I had picked Mount Porcupine as a day trip was because we had skied up all the other peaks in the area.

Sensibly we decide to turn west instead of east and ski up onto the broad and gentle ridges that run north to the Rolling Ground. We still have to walk the road up several switchbacks until patchy snow becomes continuous snow and we can skin easily up a broad and gentle ridge to the alpine terrain. This is the route we skied back in 2018 on our first ever Australian ski trip. I am paranoid about my feet. In 2018, I got terrible shin bang and had to take a half day’s rest in the middle of a four day trip and I haven’t had my ski boots on since 2019, the year we spent five months back in Canada. On a rocky knoll, I check my feet, lots of hot spots including on my shins but things seem OK, so we ski on further, touring along the flat ridge lines. The snow cover is excellent, the surface conditions are not. Firm would be a generous definition! We have lunch looking across the Guthega River to Mount Tate, which we had skied up on a different trip in 2018.

After lunch we decide to see if we can find any corn snow to ski. The first kilometre is hard pack and flat, mostly we are poling along trying to keep the skis moving but without a hot wax job (we had none left at home) and over heavily refrozen snow, the skis are sluggish. On a north east facing slope we get perhaps 100 or 150 (vertical) metres of corn snow turns, but already the light melt is starting to refreeze and skiing is a chattering experience. Second lunch and tea is taken sitting on the limb of a big gum tree, and then we skin back up to the ridge we ascended and ski back down to the road, eking out the strips of snow to ski as low as we can. I’ve got shin bang, of course, and walking down the road is painful so I’m limping along slowly behind Doug trying to weight my poles to take the weight off my feet.

The next day we drive up to Guthega Pondage. This is almost 300 metres higher than Guthega Power Station and the snow is continuous right away. Continuous but frozen solid. From the ski hill parking, we walk down the road to the Illawong trail. The snow is so hard our boots make barely an indent. Where the trail climbs out of the creek, we put our skis on and side-hill across the icy slope glad to have metal edges on the skis!

Along the river bank, the snow cover is good. Last time we did this we had to walk long sections. Across Illawong Bridge we start climbing the gentle slopes up to the height of land. We skied up all these peaks in 2018 which is a relief to me now or I would feel compelled to get to the top of some of them despite how much my feet hurt. My shins, however, feel like someone is hitting them with a hammer. I am trying to appreciate the weather – it’s sunny and not even very windy – and the environment, but as I ski along behind Doug, all I can think about is NOT thinking about how much each step hurts. It’s not possible though, the brain worries away at pain like a cow with cud.

Below Mount Anton, I sit on an exposed rock and examine my feet. Two blisters on each foot, and tender bumps on my shins. I tape everything up and we keep skiing up towards Mount Anderson and along a broad ridge. The snow is gun-metal hard and we do a couple of short descents without bothering to take the skins off. Skiing down to a saddle from Mount Anderson, with skins off, we catch a few turns of corn snow and smile at each other. But contouring below Mann Bluff and skinning up to Gills Knobs the snow is icy hard again. It’s a very strange feeling: white stuff, officially called snow, under your feet/skis, but the snow so hard that the skis seem to float above the surface. As we have lunch, we watch a snow boarder walking while his mate skis. The walker is easily as fast as the skier.

In 2018, we had a good corn snow descent from Tate East Ridge to the Guthega River. Not in 2025. The snow is ice hard and when I tighten my boots, the shin bang makes my eyes water. The 200 metre descent is easily one of the most painful, unrewarding and slow ski descents I’ve ever done. Doug patiently waits as I press my feet back every 100 metres or so to try and take the pressure off. Near the bottom, I click out of my skis and walk the last 20 metres down, stomping my boots on the ice to get a step in. We arrive exactly at the rickety metal bridge across the Guthega River. Skins and skis back on and the shuffle along the road to the car park.

Imagination, Climbing and Biking

Without imagination we would never get out the door and do anything, but it’s strange how often imagination fails to align with reality. In my dreams, it is always a sunny warm winters day at the crag and I’m crushing the routes, climbing easily with no fear at all. In reality, when you arrive at the crag, it’s cold, damp and overcast with a bitter wind blowing, and several seasons have rain have turned the climbs black with slippery lichen or more simply into cascading streams of water. You find yourself back at the old climbs you’ve done before only they feel much harder than they did a few years ago. Strangely, although everything feels a struggle with stiff limbs in the cold and cramped fingers, it’s still stupidly fun!

A quiet camp down a rough track for the night with a bright moon presaged by a glowing sunset was a good end to our first day. Next morning, we rode the mountain bikes along an old road across open plains where the vegetation is sparse because the soil is shallow over the large sandstone plateaus. Below the south ridge of the little peak we were climbing, we found a foot-pad, very unexpected, but welcome although the bush was not thick. Within 20 minutes we were on the little summit, the views mostly to the west from the short sandstone cliffs that surround the top.

Back down at the old road, we continued riding, dipping down a steep decline to cross a creek, a tributary of the main river that runs all the way to the ocean mere minutes from our own home. The road climbs again, and, where it crests, we left the bikes and hiked 100 metres (elevation gain) uphill through light timber to the location of the trig. For the first time I can remember, we didn’t find the trig – it must have completely burnt in the fires - but we did find a lunch spot on another sandstone slab looking out over the valley and the deep gorge eroded as the river runs out to the sea.

The next day, my muscles are stiff and sore, but I convince myself that another climbing day will be fun. The wall looks even blacker than the last time we were here, the moist air after an overnight shower making the holds greasy and slick. The climbs are good, but most definitely sand-bags, but we know this, having climbed here before. Despite easy access, reasonable parking, shelter from the westerlies and high quality routes this little crag sees little traffic. I think the average climber looks at the grades and thinks the climbs are too easy and dull, but, these short routes pack a punch and if you want a workout on steep and overhanging climbs with very few positive holds, you can get it here.

One weekend we were at this little crag when a gaggle of parents and children showed up along with two young and obviously hard-men (one was a woman so this is non-gendered) climbers. The role of the young climbers was to put up a couple of ropes for the kids to climb. The woman, in approach shoes, jumped on a grade 11 climb to put up the first rope. All went well to the first clip, and fell apart quickly afterwards when she became increasingly panicked until she finally pulled the top moves by laying on knees and belly to get the last clip. I can’t speak for the woman, but I felt a lot better after that. The kids, of course, couldn’t climb anything, but that didn’t stop the parents from telling five to eight year olds to “toe in” to that hold, or “match feet,” which virtually no child in that age group can either understand or do.

Probably they were having fun, or they might have been thinking “this isn’t how I imagined it.”

Another Word for Decommission is Chop

The first time I went to Waterline Wall in Castlegar to climb it was 2006. I went with Hamish, who later became one of the major route developers. In those days, there were a handful of routes only, perhaps a half dozen, almost all of which were gear routes (trad) and at least 5.10 or above. My notes for the day are interesting, particularly in hindsight with the extreme popularity that Waterline eventually achieved. Here they are reproduced below, and, at first glance, you would have to wonder why we ever went back.

Hamish on the first ascent of Golden Triangle, 
his 3 star 10a line

There are three marked moderate routes - one 5.6 and two 5.7's - none of which look very appealing - they are dirty and look to be full of loose blocks. We ended up starting out on a 5.6, which Hamish led. This goes somewhere up a crag with a big crack/chimney on the left and a crack on the right. Going up the chimney would be close to 5.6 if not for dirt, loose rock and trees, whereas going up the small crack and face is definitely harder than 5.6 and had Hamie breathing heavily and placing lots of gear. I struggled up behind Hamish, taking the easy chimney route where possible. A thoroughly unappealing climb.

Next we toproped a 10a in a big corner. This is an epic undertaking if you set up a bell-ringer, as although the anchor bolts are easy to reach, the climb is long and requires two ropes to set up a bell-ringer. This climb is very good in the upper half. The bottom half is dirty (dirt on the rock and in the crack) but the upper corner is quality climbing. 

Hamish on the first ascent of his classic

 4 star 5.10 a/b route V-20 at Waterline

Within a year, we were climbing at Waterline regularly, Hamish was putting up new routes (with a variety of partners) at a great rate, and those dirty corners, cracks and faces were cleaning up and revealing dozens of high quality routes. That initial route was Black Arrow and is now rated 5.7 (probably soft), the small crack and face is Pilots Crack and one of the best gear 5.8’s in the area, and the big corner with quality climbing in the upper half is The Big Corner, 5.10a, and is now described as “an all round excellent climb.”

Hamish on Tastes Like Saffron

Just under a year later, in April which is about as early as outdoor rock climbing used to start in the West Kootenays, Doug, Hamish and Kyle, completed the first ascent of Tastes Like Saffron, rating it 5.7 and installing four protection bolts for the 18 metre route. This became one of only six sport routes under 5.9 at Waterline Wall. There are lots of quality routes at Waterline, but very few for the novice climber.

Kyle on the first ascent of

Tastes Like Saffron

Fast forward almost 20 years (18) and, on the local community rock climbing page, someone anonymous (never a good look) suggested the route be “decommissioned” which is another word for chopped; which is also, when you are talking about a route that has been in existence for almost two decades in a well known sport climbing area, one or all of several things: weird, hubristic, excessively safety conscious, rude, or silly. The OP (original poster for old people) wrote:

Call me crazy but I think Tastes Like Saffron 5.7 at Ravens wall, Waterline should be decommissioned as a sport route. Perhaps it’s got history I’m unaware of but I reckon that thing is an accident waiting to happen. I very much agree with the one comment about this line on sendage.

Kyle, FA of Taste of Saffron

Gob-smackingly, there were half a dozen comments from people who had never climbed the route (or at least if they had could not remember it) in agreement with one person (a former ski buddy of ours) even suggesting that the fixed gear (paid for by Hamish) be harvested and used on their own routes. Back in the day, this was called “stealing.” But back in the day, if we wanted to change, chop, or upgrade a route that someone else had put in, we did them the courtesy of contacting them! Especially when Hamish literally lives down the road from the crag! WTF are you thinking! This is the age of AI, the information you seek is available within about 20 seconds. I know what I was thinking: “This is how Canadians elected WEF puppet Mark Carney as Prime Minister after watching Justin Trudeau spend the better part of a decade destroying Canada.” Elbows up; clearly, there are a lot of people who are easily influenced by bad ideas!

Tastes Like Saffron

Of course, I let my mate Hamish know, and, along with a couple of other climbers who haven’t yet taken so many knocks to the head that they have addled their brains, the suggestion to “decommission” (aka chop) the route was soundly defeated. A case of the wisdom of crowds, but if the initial crowds had been left unchecked a decent route would have been destroyed for no reason.

Hamish on his route Silk Road

The reality is climbing can never be made completely safe, nor should it be. Waterline is not a great place for beginners who “max out on 5.7,” because there are only two sport routes and two trad routes that are 5.7 and under. History is important, Hamish (who is over 80 now) would have kicked the arse of any of these young climbers snivelling on a 5.7, and deserves some respect for his multitudinous contributions to climbing most of which were completed in an era when gear was worse (significantly), access was difficult, and, to quote Hamish “chickenshit bastards” would never have survived.

A Book Review: Sort Of

Well, I am back from my regular Sydney visit where the inhabits are being slowly boiled alive by a surging population intended to convince everyone that Australia has not been in a per capita recession for a few years. As I sat through multiple traffic light cycles to make every single turn, I wondered if I could actually live in a city again. I don’t think so. It’s pretty grim. There is an awful lot of roadside trash and, unlike down here on the South Coast, no-one walks around with trash bags cleaning up. Someone else is responsible, I guess.

It’s good to know that, here in Australia, the lucky country, we rank lower than Senegal and Bangladesh on economic complexity. We are, and I quote “one of the least self-sufficient and sophisticated economies in the world.” That is the problem with natural resources, whether held by a country or an individual. It’s human nature to squander them. We don’t seem to properly appreciate anything we have not earned.

My Mum’s care home was in some sort of public health mandated semi-lockdown because Covid had been detected in the residence. This isn’t a surprise as they nasally and orally penetrate the residents on a regular basis engaging in tests for something that is mostly symptom free and can only be diagnosed with testing. My Mum is 92, almost 93. She has survived the Great Depression, World War II, bearing three children (and one miscarriage), strokes, heart attacks, the early death of her husband, Covid, and the great lock-downs of 2020. At this point, I think she is like a cockroach, nothing will kill her, not least a minor virus where the average age of death (even at it’s acme) exceeded the average age of death. That’s not a koan like what is the sound of one hand clapping. It is, in fact, evidence of the greatest mass hysteria perpetrated on the world for a century (or more).

Before I went in to visit her, I had to stick a popsicle stick up my nose for the ridiculous RAT test and wear a mask. Which, for a logical person such as myself, is more than a bit maddening. The horse, as the expression goes, has already bolted; Covid is alive and well in the facility. I wouldn’t mind these things so much if they weren’t so transparently ludicrous. A six year old child has the reasoning ability to see that this is performative nonsense.

Speaking of performative nonsense, the book you have to read if you want to understand woke is “We Have Never Been Woke,” by Musa al-Gharbi. It explains all the strange contradictions and, dare I say hypocrisy's that are evident among the people who drive the discourse in Australia today. The book covers everything from the left’s new thrilling obsession with multi-national pharmaceutical industries (who’ve never been known to engage in unethical behaviour!) to the endless bromidic land acknowledgements from people who have no inclination whatsoever of giving back their private property despite acknowledging they are on stolen land. How does that work? I embezzle several million dollars, acknowledge my fraud, then crack on with “living my best life” on the fraudulently obtained money. Sounds like a good gig actually.

Finally, I’ll close with what I should have opened with: a trigger warning. Don’t read this if you are easily offended. Otherwise, have a nice day.

A Week on the South Coast

On the first day: Narooma mountain biking.

 

Camping at Aragunnu.

Day Two: Sunrise at Aragunnu.

Lots of walking, to Hidden Valley, Goalen Head, Bunga Beach and Aragunnu Beach.

And, sunset at Aragunnu.

Day Three:  Mountain biking Tathra and walking the Tathra Headland walk. 

Day Four:  The Kangarutha Track.

Day Five: Tura Heads walking and bouldering.

Not That Old Lady

There’s a vertical finger crack running up between two large cement pillars supporting the new Clyde River bridge at Batemans Bay. I had looked at them when cycling around the Bay a number of times and wondered if, like the Wide Boyz, I should start climbing urban cracks. I’ve never been a crack climber, the techniques, apart from jamming body parts in cracks, as mysterious as how electricity works to me, but the Wide Boyz make all cracks look easy, even the cellar cracks. It wasn’t easy, I couldn’t work it out. I got about a foot off the ground and that was using ripples in the cement for feet. “Needs work, perhaps some technique is missing,” I thought, jumping back on my bike and riding over to the north side of the bridge.

In running shoes, I sent the two problems on the biggest boulder at the new park, and cycled on to Cullendulla where I thought I might, but likely not as the tide was high, be able to cycle along the Cullendulla Nature Reserve track. When I got there, the beach was gone, as were most of the last remaining row of she-oaks along the shore line. Seven years ago, when we first moved to the Bay, there were lovely stands of she-oaks along the beach, but they have all toppled over, felled by storms and big tides. It’s inevitable, the landscape changes regardless of the hubris of humans who believe they can control the weather and tides.

I managed to drag my bike through a bunch of toppled tea-trees to far end of the “new” but now failed/never finished resort that was being built on this low lying, mangrove surrounded piece of land. The “glamping tents” built right against the shore, were all abandoned and the sea had clearly run far under their raised platforms. This was one of those farcical developments which you just can’t believe someone thought was a good idea and an entire committee of other elected individuals thought they should approve. At high tides, anyone staying in the “glamping” villas would have to wade through sea water to get out of their villas. Nothing says five star like putting your wellies on to walk to the cafe. It was no surprise to find the sign on the development indicating the “mortagee was in possession.” Shocker.

Back across the bridge, where the view to the Tollgate Islands is really quite spectacular, Purple Pingers had obviously been along as the pavement was decorated with the slogan “Landlords are Parasites.” Socialists, of course, need vacations too. Unfortunately, dragging my bike through the toppled bushes had caused a problem with the dropper post and I found myself having to ride home either sat on a too low seat with my knees around my ears or standing up. This reminded me of a long ago trip on the old BNR railway that ran from Salmo to Nelson when, not quite half way through a 50 kilometre bicycle ride my seat post snapped and I had to ride the final 30 kilometres with no bike seat. Lots of fun. I had the pannier carrier on the back of the bike imprinted on my arse by the time I finished the ride.

Passing the now closed wildlife park near Joes Creek, I noted, not for the first time, the painting on the water tank in the park, that proudly proclaims “You’re Somebody’s Someone.” This is the new level we have reached in public health messaging, the absurd idea that painting a trite slogan on a water tank will alleviate someone’s mental health distress. Now, I admit, I’m not your average bear, as Yogi said, but, if I were lonely and depressed, reading such a gormless piece of bull-shittery would make me feel even worse. It’s horrible to think about, but, there are many, many people in the world who aren’t somebody’s someone.

With low tide falling at the ideal time of day, around 7.00 am, I walked along the rock platforms from Sunshine Bay to Denhams Beach the next day. This is only possible at dead low tide as there are a couple of locations where you have to scramble right down to water level and balance across some slippery rocks uncovered by the tide. The “cruxes” of the route are around the headland that protrudes to the south west which happens to be one of the only places along the length of the coast here that has private land right to waterline. Many start this route, but, in all the times I’ve walked it, I’ve only seen one other person (besides Doug) make it right the way around. In a couple of spots, you have to climb up (or down, depending on which direction you go) short 2 to 3 metre walls, at least one of which is overhanging.

It’s only about three kilometres between the two beaches but it takes me twice as long as walking the trail as the rocks can be really slippery. I’ve never fallen on it, but, I did manage to have both my feet fly out from under me when descending the steep (and unofficial) stairs that lead down to a tiny pebbly beach on this day. As I slithered down on my bum - I actually thought I was going to slide all the way down to the bottom - some remnant memory of digging your feet in while self-arresting on snow must have trickled into my brain and I stopped. No bones broken, not even a graze. I would hate to be that old lady who breaks a hip on the stairs.