Saturday. Sunny. Lovely day for a long route. Unfortunately Dan had a sudden and painful attack of work, wasn’t able to travel on Friday night, and is still trying to get here. It is 9:30 am. The clock is ticking. 

Dan arrives at 10am. We hit the crag at 1pm.  

As we kit up a small voice starts up in the back of my mind, “You are starting way too late. You are going to get benighted. You are going to have an epic. Turn round NOW.” 

Sod off, small voice. I am going to do this anyway. 

Right, ten pitches, gets dark a little after six, so half an hour per pitch or GET A MOVE ON. Dan climbs faster than I do (fitter, more talented and less inclined towards gibbering sweary moments), so the plan is for him to do most if not all of the leading.  

The first pitch suffers from a protracted start-of-route gear faff and takes over forty minutes. Not good. 

The second pitch  suffers from a can’t-find-the-belay faff. Not good either. 

Deconstructing the guidebook, comprehension dawns. We’ve overshot the belay and are actually halfway up the third pitch. I lead through and we are back on track. By the fourth pitch we are flying. 

Up the awkward bit. Up the corner. Up the ridge and yes, this is *that* belay, this is where we need to be. Now, where is the thing? A quick guddle under a suspicious-looking loose rock and I have cache#1000 in hand.  

We top out just as the sun starts to set. Sorted. 

It would be nice to report that there was much beer and celebration that night, but sadly I ended up asleep after half a pint. 

(On Sunday, as some sort of karmic balancing act for the joys of Saturday, we went to Dinas Mot, did The Cracks in persistant penetrating drizzle, and then got the ropes stuck on the abseil off just as it started raining properly. Hmph.)

 (Score so far:
Winter Routes (survived): 3
Sport Routes (seconded): 34
Sport Routes (led): 5
Trad Routes (seconded): 46
Trad Routes (led): 8
Trad routes (solo: 1)

“I’m not sure I can do this.” 

Scrabbling desperately, he fumbles a quickdraw onto the bolt. 

“I think I’m coming off.” 

Weight all on hands, nothing for feet. He needs to get the rope into the quickdraw, but he can’t get a hand free. He’s tiring fast. 

“I’m gonna fall off!” 

He’s a big lad and he’s a fair way above the last bolt. He sounds more than a little stressed. 

“I’M COMING OFF!!” 

And suddenly, I am flying up to meet him.  

Loud laughter from all present. “Steve? You owe your belayer a pint, mate!” 

At the end of the meet, amid all the thanks for the beer/food/climbing and see-you-Wednesday, he grins. “Cheers for saving my life.” 

Funny, this sport of ours. We make regular attempts to get killed and our belayers perform ordinary, everyday miracles in stopping us dying. And we very rarely think anything of it.

 (Score so far:
Winter Routes (survived): 3
Sport Routes (seconded): 34
Sport Routes (led): 5
Trad Routes (seconded): 44.5
Trad Routes (led): 7.5
Trad routes (solo: 1)