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| Diamondback (18), Turret Peak. Photo: Damien Schumann |
Crowds are fine at rock concerts and soccer matches; in fact
they are pivotal. An empty arena except for five mates going bos befok at a
Pearl Jam concert just doesn’t cut it. However, when going away on a trip, I
find crowds a pest. Overflowing campsites and droves of squealing kids are not
why I gap the city. The admin of successfully booking anywhere worthwhile over
peak season requires either forethought or luck, and I can’t always rely on the
latter. Planning in advance with climbers also has the curios trend of simply not
working out. This was part of the motivation to go to Turret Peak over Easter.
As an MCSA property in the Koue Bokkeveld, you don’t have hordes of holiday
makers or biker gangs disturbing your stargazing. Carting your katunda uphill
for 2 hours may poke your legs, but has the distinct advantage of keeping the
rif-raf out. Also, it is frikken awesome once you reach the high plateau
festooned with crags in all directions. But
more on cardinality later.
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| Gaelen rock-swimming at a new crag. Photo: Damien Schumann |
As it panned it, this became a dudes only mission. Recent
voyages have ended up as theme events: Starwars and Scottish being particularly
humorous. Ably fueled by whisky of course, particularly over New Years, when
you could have been forgiven for thinking we had forgotten our kilts and
sporrans at the bottom of the barrel from which we were sprouting all manner of
Scroot-ish filth. So in keeping the ‘S’ pattern, and to bring on some laughs, the
Easter bonanza quickly became the Sausage Fest. This broadly encompassed all
things phallic. In the car, while barreling up the Gydo Pass we had already
christened as yet unclimbed routes with a good selection including: The Bratwurst
Boa, Russian Rinkhals, Sausage Charmer and the much feared Diaper Viper.
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| A six pack of sausages: Adam Thorpe, Moritz Thilo, Damien Schumann, Warren Gans, Gaelen Pinnock and Luke Eberhard |
Now, my number of visitations to this lovely part of the
Cape could be best approximated by counting my photo folders which have
inspirational titles like: “Turret Sept 2014”. However, to be honest, I haven’t
bothered and for the purposes of this wee recollection, let’s assume it is just
shy of ten. Perhaps because of the orientation of the cave, or direction of the
summit, or lack of imagination hitherto; we have pretty much always explored
north. Much like blinkered stallions we had hardly considered a U-turn
strategy. Perhaps stallions is a bad analogy, as they tend to bolt, which we
did not. This is trad country. A few had ventured 15 minutes south to the
valley immediately behind the Turret, but that is where our knowledge ended.
However, a brief perusal of Google Earth prior to the sausage convergence,
showed many potential rock features to the South.
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| Gaelen sees what lies to the South. Photo: Damien Schumann. |
Undeterred by disconcertingly low temperatures, the Sausage
Seven bumbled along in their down jackets past the edge of previous reconnaissances
into what quickly became paralysis by analysis. The pork-sword squadron kept
finding great little crags to dangle their wares on, but in almost every case,
just a few minutes further away, was something that might be… better. While I
fully support seeking the best, at some point you need to rope up, otherwise by
sunset you may have just taken your toys for a long walk. My knees ain’t what
they used to be, so moving backpacks of gear around should have an end game.
Since Boreas had evidently decided to come out of retirement
as the deity providing freezing winds, climbing took a back seat on day two
until we finally found the one sheltered alcove. The animals played well in the
de-virgined Terrarium and with the fading light left their bags at the proudest
crag, hoping for calmer weather in the morning.
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| The author opening Chorizo Eel (21) at the Terrarium. Photo: Warren Gans |
The penultimate day was slightly less like liquid nitrogen,
so without fear of snapping fingers, the sausage crew retraced their steps to
the fine crag they had spied out the day before. Quickly the Butchery, the
Abattoir, and The Sausage Factory were filled with routes - some beefier than others. A busy and
productive morning, all members of the sausage gang got stuck in at the prime crag
with smiles all round. In about the most touch and go fashion possible, I
sneaked an onsight FA of The Russian Rinkhals (24), which tires you out before
striking at the last move. Somewhat chuffed, I decided to push the bacon out a
bit after lunch, and proceeded to get well spanked by the Cryptic Cobra (25?)
until the bizarre sequence eventually uncoiled itself amidst cries of
frustration and painful finger locks. That’s why this sport is so good, just
when you get cocky, you get slapped right back into place. Warren bagged the
fine thin seam of Grizzle ‘n Bone (21), and young Luke at a whopping 13 years old,
helped bail three thirty-pluses out of a protracted battle with a devious serpent
that threatened to them out after dark.
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| The Sausage Factory, perched in all its glory above the valleys even further south. |
As a bit of maths nerding on the side, Luke can climb about
10 grades above his age, on trad, which is at an age almost 10 years before I
even started climbing, but which I have now been doing for 5 years more than he
has even been alive. #thatprobablydoesn'tmakesensethefirsttimeyoureadit.
Halsey’s musing of relativity could be simplified by saying
that this is one talented kid, who can hold his own with folks who have decades
under the belt. On just this trip, he probably opened more routes than a number of
trad climbers in Cape Town have done in their whole careers. Watch this space.
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| Luke about to run it out on Medium Rare (16) |
It seems my sausage thread has gone a bit soft, which is
fine as I am mostly vegetarian. None the matter, we can still conclude our
story, as like a kid saving the best for last, I had left a treat for our final
day. A whopping 8 minutes’ walk from the cave is a striking orange wall I had
threatened to check out for quite a while. As luck would have it, there were
just enough holds to blast straight up the most aesthetic transition between
grey and orange: if you have a wingspan of 6 ft 3’ or more. Now I am not a
population statistician, but that cuts out a whole chunk of people. Probably
not as much as the long walk into the wilderness and the desire to climb grade
24 with a potential ground fall, but then I have never really claimed to be
normal.
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| The exquisite, albeit morpho, Copperhead (24). Photo: Damien Schumann |
We do what we do that makes us happy. While it is a pity that
Copperhead is essentially impossible for shorter folks, as evidenced by the
Great Southern Sausage Fest of 2017, there is no shortage of stone for folks of
all dimensions, ability and sanity. It's like the Mecca for single pitch trad exploration, but your sausages don't need to be Halal.
In fact, the best part of having taken our meat further
south that it had ever been before, is that the very edge of our exploration marked
just the start of another untapped plateau. We may be but tiny fleas on the
crust of the earth, but we can jump for joy at the prospect of having so much
to suck on in the future.
If you enjoy the frivolous adventure of climbing in (and
into) the unknown, we have the mother-load on our doorstep, and that is seriously
exciting shit.
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| Damien, in his camo photographer gear, blending in on Gravy Maker (16) |
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| Warren enjoying some Chorizo (16) at The Sausage Factory |
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| Luke opening his Chicken Dinner (17). |
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| Reaching out on Copperhead (24). Photo: Damien Schumann |
