Hence it came as somewhat of a surprise when I felt increasingly enthusiastic with every pedal stroke once we had started. I was so excited that we had committed to this idea and were trying it without too much overthinking or preparation. My high spirits didn’t falter, even during the first five hours, when we got soaked from head to toe in pouring rain, regularly missing turns for the shortest route, and feeling hungry because we had missed to buy breakfast – we had wrongly assumed that, in the French countryside, certainly there would be a bakery every 30 minutes.
Sure, in my mind, I had imagined the lavender fields stretching towards the horizon in full purple bloom, not grey under the autumn rain. But despite our crawling pace, our surroundings were ever-changing: a bird landing in a thorn hedge, an acorn falling off the tree and cracking under my tire the next moment, a sudden waft of moisture as we crossed a creek. Fields nestled in hills and dilapidated stone huts surrounded by damp forest gave way to never-ending lavender plains leading towards the mountains. There, we entered the rocky gateway to the gorge, following the winding hairpin bends and passing the first steep rock faces. I had taken the same route by car multiple times before, yet I had never felt so impressed, so full of anticipation.
On site, the bikes provided us with a sense of carefree independence. Everything was easily accessible from the campsite by bike, and as we rolled back towards the tent at night, silent and alone in the beams of our headlamps, it felt like the perfect way to end the day.
While working on the route, we had serious doubts about whether our plan to both free climb it was overly optimistic. Anyone watching us struggle on the lower pitches in the blazing sun must have thought we were delusional to plan a redpoint attempt just a few days later. We spent more time hanging in our harnesses than actually climbing: two moves, and then we had to take again—our skin was hurting too much, and standing on those tiny footholds was excruciating. Still, we tried our best to work out the crux sequences, even if only theoretically, and trusted that we’d be able to make up the rest intuitively when it came time to send.
Much to our dismay, we spent more days resting than climbing due to sore hands and feet, as well as unstable weather. The growing anxiety that we might not get a good enough weather window before our time in the gorges ran out loomed over us. But we did get lucky. On our last two days, the rain stopped, and the bright blue sky returned. We had always planned to climb the route over two days sleeping on a portaledge. With the midday heat, this now proved to be the only feasible option for us, as we needed to hide from the sun for a few hours until the wall gained more shade.
The first half went much more smoothly than anyone would have expected. Up to the 7th pitch, we had sent everything without too much struggle. Apparently, actually wanting to hold onto those sharp, tiny water pockets made a big difference. But then, one pitch below where we had stashed our sleeping camp, our flow came to a hold: the overhanging crack looked wet in several places, especially around the crux. I was just going to have a look whether it was still somehow climbable, maybe the next morning it would have already dried up a bit more. Suddenly, however, I found myself in the midst of it—fighting, hanging on – barely – and more exhausted than I had been in a long time.
Then I was at the anchor. Despite supposedly being in less-than-ideal physical shape, Janina followed shortly after. I was so relieved—we had both made it up to here without a fall. Once again, against all (most) odds, our best-case scenario had come true. The next day, we’d “only” have to climb the last four remaining pitches, which still included the two crux pitches.
Early the following morning, I was in the zone. Despite starting cold off the deck, I felt that this was it. We had gotten up in the dark, both with aching throats, and slowly ate breakfast in silence. When the first sunbeams hit the wall, I was already a couple of draws up the first crux pitch. The fog drifted through the gorges below me, and I was simply content to be there, to get to share this moment.
When Janina sends right after me, I’m radiating. It always startles me how powerful it can feel to climb a multipitch together with a friend. You care as much about them sending as you do about your own success, and when you both do succeed, it feels all the better because you know it matters to them just as much. It’s such a rare thing—to find something that’s equally challenging for both of you, and then for everything to fall into place on the day for a common send.
After having barely escaped a fatal heat stroke in the midday sun by crawling under a bush the previous day, we decided to sit out the sun on our still mounted portaledge. I imagine climbing this route in a day must be amazing. You have to be so efficient; it surely feels like floating up the wall. But on the other hand, having the luxury of time like we had now—to sit in the sun after the first pitch in the morning, boil some brunch-time soup and tea, nap, or finally do some drawing—was something quite special.
Once the wall starts getting shade early afternoon, we set off again. I am nervous, wary of whether there might still be something making us falter now. So much potential still ahead for small slips, for running out of gas or skin. But all of these eventualities won’t manifest. Not today. We both climb the last crux pitch, maybe the most impressive of the whole climb in terms of blankness and colour, without falling and with the light fading we stand on top, both grinning.
