IN EARLY September of 2011 I packed up a lifetime’s worth of climbing equipment, piled it high inside my tired green van, said goodbye to my two children, and set off alone to drive over 1,000 kilometres from the U.K. to Norway. I bought only one-way tickets as I boarded ferries and crossed toll bridges; I had no idea when I would be coming back, and had no intention of doing so until I had climbed the Troll Wall.
The Troll Wall is the highest big wall in Europe, higher even than Yosemite’s El Capitan. But unlike El Cap, bronzed and perfect in the Californian sun, the Troll is made from darker matter. I joke that I never believed in God until I saw El Capitan, but when I first trembled up through the forests and mists, rocks whizzing down from above, and touched the Troll, I knew there was a devil.
Three times before I had made the long journey north to the mystical Romsdal Valley to climb the Troll: in summer and in winter, alone and with a partner. Three times I had been given lessons in fear and doubt like no other, then sent away to dwell. The poet-climber Ed Drummond called the Troll “the altar” and said only those who had climbed it would understand.
But at the age of forty, I had put away all ideas of climbing the Troll. It was a thing for the younger, more foolish me, a climb I would point younger, more foolish climbers toward, or even boast about: “Ah, yes—I tried to climb the Troll Wall three times.”
Then it struck, as I sat at home looking at flights to America, dreaming of warm Yosemite rock, that it was not yet time to give up on the nightmare of the Troll.
And so I made plans to return that summer and attempt a route called Suser Gjennom Harryland, a 600-metre-high route named after a Swedish pop song. I also chose to blog every day, taking an iPad on the Wall. Perhaps, I thought, like a dieter who posts pictures of what he eats at every meal, that by sharing the experience I would gain some extra level of self-control, and lessen the weight of what I was about to do. Also, as a writer who had played about with Twitter, Facebook, and blogs on other climbs, I was fascinated by the rawness of what I had written on those trips—including some things I had never dared reread.
When you attempt to solo a route such as the Troll, you are very close to insanity—while at the same time possessing levels of self-discipline and awareness that are beyond anything you will experience anywhere else. You are hunting the lion. That’s why I find what I have written during my climbs so hard to revisit: This is not my voice, I think; this is the voice of someone unhinged. Plus, the writer in me hates how rough and unedited it all is, like something a sixteen-year-old would write. But these are also the unfiltered words of a man who is struggling, with taped-out sore fingers and eyes dropping, relieved the day has ended and fearful of what the following will bring.
Although what follows might be the least polished prose in this collection, I suppose, in my defence as a writer, it is the purest form of mountain writing.
I’m back in the campsite feeling well and truly wrung out. Today I had to carry the first of two loads up to the base of the route. A total of about 100 kilos. The way up is always a nightmare due to the awful state of the loose screes. Carrying a 50-kilo haul bag up such terrain just sucks it out of you. What makes it worse is that since my last visit the path that normally leads along a river to the screes has become an obstacle course of fallen trees.
So just getting to the scree was like some sick assault course, climbing over trees, crawling under trees, bushwhacking, and generally getting my ass kicked.
From the base, the route looked wicked steep, with one really nasty-looking first pitch: muddy, slimy, and green.
I sorted out the gear. I knew I should lead the first pitch before going back to my camp. But as I procrastinated, the mist came down and it seemed like it was almost dark. Very spooky, and I took it as a sign to leave the first pitch till my next visit.
I always forget (or the memory is erased) how much backbreaking work is involved in a big wall solo, and that anything beyond El Cap, with its short and easy approach, is a lot of work. I guess with this sort of climb, it’s all about work, and the knowledge that you did everything yourself. My body already feels as if it’s had a right good kicking due to the number of talus tumbles I’ve had over the last two days (hands, knees, and elbows have had a real bashing).
Onwards!
“The rain continued. It was a hard rain, a perpetual rain, a sweating and steaming rain; it was a mizzle, a downpour, a fountain, a whipping at the eyes, an undertow at the ankles; it was a rain to drown all rains and the memory of rains. It came by the pound and the ton, it hacked at the jungle and cut the trees like scissors and shaved the grass and tunneled the soil and molted the bushes. It shrank men’s hands into the hands of wrinkled apes; it rained a solid glassy rain, and it never stopped.”
—“The Long Rain” by Ray Bradbury
Yep—it’s raining in Romsdal.
17TH SEPTEMBER 2011
The weather cleared today and I finally made it up to the wall with the rest of my gear. I even had enough energy left to do the first pitch.
Think I’ll make this my last trip where I carry a 50-kilo haul bag up a neverending scree slope.
First pitch (v) was a horrible slimy waterfall, and I ended up aiding half of it. Climbing above looks very steep and less wet.
I’m doing the route capsule-style (fixing some ropes from three camps) as this is much safer on such a nasty wall, and it allows me to zip back to my bivvy without getting caught out in a storm with no bivvy set up.
I’m sleeping under a slight overhang on the ground tonight, just under the wall, and have set up a tarp to keep the drips off, so pretty comfy. Tea was tomato soup with leftover bread dunked in. I’ve got ten days food with me, but I really hope the climb doesn’t take that long!
18TH SEPTEMBER 2011
Climbed two more pitches today—slow and careful (much of the rock is pretty fragile), a mixture of easyish aid and free climbing, but all done with ice falling from the summit, dripping water, loose rock everywhere. I would not recommend this route (or the Troll Wall) to my worst enemy, but it’s not dull—I’ll give it that.
Being camped on the ground is so much more civilized. Rapping my ropes and getting back to my bivvy (climbing kit off, into sleeping bag, book and tea and chocolate) was almost worth it in itself. Maybe I should just go camping more often!
19TH SEPTEMBER 2011
Will keep this short as my back is killing me from carrying too much gear, plus my cup of tea is getting cold on the stove.
Had a bad night because the tarp was flapping, so I ended up having to get out of my sleeping bag to put it away. (Of course I only did that after having been kept awake for several hours trying to ignore it.)
Today was my big day—the goal was to haul all my gear on the wall. But it didn’t quite turn out like that.
Hauled gear to the pitch 2 belay, then set off to climb the fifth pitch, which would put me on a sheltered bivvy. I spent all day climbing one bloody pitch—the last party to do it took ten days and I can see why. Ended up going off route (scary) and then finally got into the right groove system.
Weather looked like it was taking a turn for the worse, and with my haul bags yet to make it to pitch 5 (my first wall bivvy), I’ve headed down off the mountain till Wednesday.
I’m set up in a little camping cabin with a bunk bed, kettle, and a table (even has a tablecloth)—and it feels like paradise. I was only camped out at the base of the wall for three nights, but it felt like a couple of weeks. The Troll is a strange place, where time and the intensity of most things is greatly magnified.
The best way to describe the experience is that it’s a bit like going into a war zone. At any moment something bad could happen, but like a good soldier, you make believe it won’t happen to you. Sleeping, climbing, just being there—you’re always somewhat on edge. There is always the danger of being hit by a “bullet,” a little stone tumbling down from the summit Trolls, not to mention the prospect of the BIG ONE, the nuclear option—a falling, hundred-metre pillar or flake that would probably get me with the impact blast alone.
But I’m a good soldier. I keep my helmet on tight and stay behind solid cover as much as possible.
I’m a little tired, and so coming down has been a good chance to rest battered hands, sore knees, and aching back, as well as get all those bits I forgot in the first place (watch, glasses cord, more pegs).
Also got to talk to the kids today. In a way I didn’t want to, as I knew they would undermine my resolve. But I did, and they didn’t.
Been a very relaxing day—a bit too relaxing—spoiled by the fact the weather has been quite nice (think of a cold but clear autumnal day). Anyway, have spent the time well, sorting out gear and drying off my camping stuff that was festering in my car (although I am feeling a bit dizzy after gluing rubber dry suit cuffs into the sleeves of my jacket with seam grip). Last job was boiling all my eggs to take with me on the wall, so all very domesticated.
Cycled into the village to clear my head and bought a cup of tea (still have no idea about exchange rate, so it either cost 20p, £2 or £20). Åndalsnes has all the get-up-and-go of a Sunday in Cleethorpes, and seems to have closed down for the winter already. The number one fun activity is having a hot dog (they have three meat flavours) in the train station.
21ST SEPTEMBER 2011
Yesterday was by far the toughest day yet—and I came within a whisker of bailing—but now I’m lounging in my portaledge on the wall. I’m glad I didn’t quit.
What made yesterday so hard was the hauling. It’s always tough even when there are two of you, but alone it can turn into a real nightmare. The problem is that the terrain is very irregular, and every time the bag got stuck I’d have to rappel down and free it, then jug back and carry on. I seemed to spend all day jugging and rapping and hauling.
To make matters worse, just before I’d reached the ledge I watched a ship-container-sized block fall down the back of the Troll, 500 metres away. I heard it falling—imagine the sound of a small house tumbling half a mile—then saw the huge detonation as it hit the rock slabs. Very impressive, but it didn’t inspire confidence.
23RD SEPTEMBER 2011
A good day today: two pitches climbed, no rain, and I finished in the light.
Woke up feeling as only a big-wall soloist can (I’d forgotten this part), with throbbing hands, tired muscles, but knowing you have to get up and get moving anyway. When you’re soloing, if you’re not climbing, you’re not going anywhere. Had a nightmare that I was being crushed to death—which, considering yesterday’s traumas, doesn’t surprise me.
The first pitch should have been easy, but I found it all pretty scary, due both to the bad state of the fixed gear and because I’m still not very confident about the rock.
Next pitch began with something I hate, a traverse under a small roof. The weather had also turned cloudy, and the route went up another big wet slimy patch. I really wanted to call it a day, intimidated both by the climbing and the weather. In the end, I told myself to get a grip. And I did.
25TH SEPTEMBER 2011
As usual it’s been a long day on the Troll wall.
Had to haul my bag from pitch 5 to 10 allowing me to set up camp to climb the next eight pitches, and then descend.
Amazingly all the hauling went really easily, two 60-metre hauls, and a 30-metre one bypassing two belays.
The rock quality has suddenly improved dramatically, and is up to El Cap standard. Let’s hope it lasts. The bivvy spot is good (four good bolts).
Really look forward to the end of the day, when I can sit on the edge of the ledge, take off knee pads, Russian aiders, boots, waterproofs, harness leg loops—shedding each little piece makes me feel normal again. After that I stick on my parka and fleece trousers and get a brew on.
My daughter Ella emailed and texted today, asking how long I’m going to be away, and so I’m feeling the pressure to get home. I was meant to be away for three weeks. Another limiting factor is that I only have a small amount of water left, and I’m using two litres a day.
The effort to stay safe up here is all-consuming; it’s a relief to get back to the ledge at night and just let go of the paranoia that grips me every second when I’m leading. Only did two pitches today and don’t think I can move much faster while staying safe.
Six more pitches to go and I have three days’ worth of food and water left—so it could be close.
27TH SEPTEMBER 2011
Pulled out all stops today, alpine start in the dark, and climbed three pitches—including what was probably the crux.
The sound of the rain was amazing—the whole wall came alive with rushing water, and waterfalls, not to mention lots of rock fall. The mist also came in, and although it was very atmospheric (you could forget you were sky-walking 500 metres up), it also made the wall a lot spookier. Climbing up to the crux, the whole thing felt as if it could collapse at any moment. The rock became really strange—like alien, plastic rock.
The rain stopped by the time I got to the crux, which was only 15 metres. I’m glad it’s over.
The worst thing about climbing capsule-style is all the jugging and scary abseiling, with my two static ropes spidering up five pitches—most without touching anything. It’s funny, but after a while you can just switch off fear. You sort of say “Nah—can’t handle being scared right now—I’ll think about it later.”
Keep waking up with a mind full of thoughts and memories and ideas.
Highlight of the day was getting back to the ledge and crashing out and listening to Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks.
28TH SEPTEMBER 2011
Back in the ledge after a fraught descent. It took a brew, the rest of my chocolate, and the last of my couscous (plus a bit of Arcade Fire) to remove a mask-like grimace that had taken hold of my face all day. On reaching the ledge I was just utterly wasted—especially mentally.
Did I get to the top?
I free-climbed it up a pillar with good footholds and lots of loose flakes for hand-holds. I reached the top of the pillar, a little pedestal, expecting to find two bolts, like every other belay. Instead, all I found was a rusty wire clipped to a carabiner, sitting on the ledge. I stood there with the whole face below me and looked for a belay. There was nothing. Worse still, the climbing above didn’t look easy, so I thought I must be off route. I stood there and didn’t know what to do. The only thing I knew was that I wanted to get it over with, even if it meant climbing in the dark. I hadn’t spent ten days only to get up here and fail on the last pitch.
But where was the belay?
I climbed back down a bit and looked around some corners, feeling increasingly rattled; you can’t solo without a very good anchor. My options were to pull up my bag and try to create a belay with the gear at hand—which would take too long—or to just keep looking.
I climbed back up the pillar again, feeling very lonely, and sat on the top. Then I heard a voice.
As I’d been climbing up, my camera in my chest pocket kept switching on and off and beeping. I suddenly heard my son Ewen’s voice, and thought I was going mad until I realized it was coming from the camera. It was replaying some film I’d shot before leaving, footage of my son as he was emptying bottles of lemonade in our car park, and spraying it at my feet. What I heard was Ewen saying, “Dad—get away.”
Hearing his voice right then was pretty emotional.
It’s best to try to block out such thoughts, as it just makes you weak. For three weeks that’s what I had done. And it had worked. I was strong. But this morning I’d made the mistake of checking my emails and got this from Ella:
What day will you be home on? Realy Realy Realy Realy missing you
Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxx love ella
I switched off the camera. I climbed down again and looked at the same limited view.
Why did my camera play that clip just now? I wondered, looking for some guidance. Why now and never before on this trip? I took stock: I was wasted. Probably off route. Out of water. Out of food. Out of time. One more pitch hadn’t put me on the top—just one more pitch away from the ground. Why did I want more?
I knew I’d found what I was looking for, and started making my way down. No regrets.