Once you've been climbing long enough, you become a clock-watcher. It's inevitable, because time is a vital variable in any successful climbing equation. Let it get away from you, and you'll jeopardise your comfort, your safety, or both. And so, as I look around from my small stance on this fantastic arete, the thing I'm noticing most is not the enormous, sheer cliff-face to my left, nor the gnarled turrets of Belougery Spire, across the valley; rather, it's the curving trajectory of the sun, as it sinks inevitably towards the horizon behind us.

It's 3pm. Andrew is twenty metres above me, and just out of sight. We're on the sixth and penultimate pitch of Cornerstone Rib Direct, a grand climb on Crater Bluff, the most spectacular of the volcanic features in Warrumbungle National Park. Were we on schedule, it'd be more like 1.30, but we've started to lag. What's more, the rope hasn't moved for quite a while, and I'm getting anxious. Although we can still hear each other, Andrew's mutterings have been obscure and I haven't figured out what's going on. Between glances at my watch and increasingly direct suggestions to get a move on, I'm running some scenarios. We'll certainly make the top, but it could be just in time to see the sunset, leaving us to face an unknown descent in the dark.

From this height, I can see where we were this time yesterday: on the road out of Gilgandra. We'd left Canberra at 9am, after a snap decision and a hurried night of packing. The appearance of the Warrumbungles' distant, contorted peaks had roused us after hours of driving, and when Crater Bluff swung into view directly ahead, my excitement mounted. I'd been trying to get here for months. Unfortunately, Warrumbungles climbing suffers from the same associations as most wilderness climbing in Australia: loose rock, difficult access, obscure routefinding. Yeah yeah. I knew this climb would be better than all that, but I'd had a hard time convincing anyone else. I'd almost given up, but a throwaway email on Wednesday had produced unexpected interest from Andrew. A day later, we were hashing out a plan, and two days later, here we were.

The short days and the need for an early start necessitated an overnight stay close to the climb. Hoicking our packs, replete with overnight gear, climbing rack and ropes, we headed up the trail as dusk descended. Dark shapes loomed on the skyline, hinting at the rock formations that are now laid out below me. By 7pm we were at Balor Hut, a most basic of accommodations. We ate, then prepared our climbing gear. Andrew's quiet pacing betrayed his apprehension for the coming day.

Today, Andrew's alarm clock sprung to life early, but was quite unnecessary. (We were both already awake, of course.) By 6.30am we were on the trail. From Dagda Saddle, we headed off-trail towards Crater Bluff, which revealed itself slowly through the trees. Our necks craned to glimpse the top. By eight we'd reached the cliff, and the rib towered above us, imposing. Crater Bluff is big and steep. Its precipitous north and west faces converge at a pair of aretes, broad and rounded at the base but steeper and narrow up high. Although we'd not yet identified it, the climb's crux, a protruding fin of rock at mid-height, was clearly visible.

Efficiency was to be the byword for the day, and I quickly started up the first pitch. I was immediately enthralled. The climbing was fun and easy, the rock solid and protectable. The vibrant morning sun imbued the rapidly expanding landscape with a gentle relief. I was in the moment, and the moment was beautiful.

Andrew followed up, and led through the next pitch equally easily, making good time. Soon we were both on a broad ledge beneath the large blade of rock we'd noted from the ground. The crux! assuming the lead, I cautiously approached the arete. With care, I moved up a few metres, across to the left face, and abruptly it was steep. I placed some protection, then examined the way ahead. My standard delaying tactics played themselves out, and easily twenty minutes were wasted before I mustered the composure to climb through. (It was easy, of course, once I did.)

The short crux pitches of the climb are fantastic. They follow the abrupt edge of the arete, and are magnificently exposed. To the left is the vertiginous expanse of the north face, and to the right, across a deep chasm, the neighbouring rib. Beneath your feet, the ridge drops away to the trees, hundreds of metres below. Across the valley, you are level with the Grand High Tops. Some tourists might be milling about there, and may even have noticed you. If you are lucky, an eagle or two is soaring overhead in lazy circles. The warm sun is on your back, and a gentle breeze blows. Around you, the ancient landscape is indifferent to your presence. Your usual distractions have fallen away, and your mind is focused on the here and now. You remember just what it is that compels you to climb.

My state of revelry was broken by a welcome ledge. The guidebook indicated a belay here, and I was happy to let Andrew lead his share of the difficult terrain. I belayed him up, and we snapped photos of each other before he took the lead. Making short work of the remaining steepness, he soon disappeared from view.

Now, a few hours later, Andrew is leading once again. My last pitch, though not problematic, was harder than I'd expected, and I failed to make up the time I'd earlier lost. Now, Andrew's doing the same, and suddenly, the day no longer seems endless. I'm relieved when the rope finally pulls tight, and I run up the pitch with determination. (Another good lead, Andrew.) We switch over with haste, and again I'm on my way, summit-bound with any luck. A few metres of difficulties quickly give way to easier climbing as the ridge tapers off towards the summit. My final belay is just short of a beckoning skyline, and once Andrew arrives, we scramble the last few metres to the top together. My watch reads 4pm.

A new panorama opens up to us, a good reward for a long day's effort. Tonduron's rounded dome has revealed itself to the south, and the tip of Belougery Spire, our constant companion on this climb, is finally beneath us. Beyond the bounds of the Park, the flat sprawl of the Western Plains extends to the horizon. We locate and sign the summit logbook, a rare treat for the Australian climber. Another party has been up here today, via the Tourist Route (still a grade 9). There is little time to read the other entries, though--we have a long scramble and two abseils between us and solid ground. Obligatory summit photos are quickly taken before we head down.

A steep trail leads down into a large, deep canyon which cleaves the Bluff in two. A ribbon of emerald-green ferns snakes its way down the canyon's narrow floor. This is the Green Glacier, and we descend some of it in an appropriate manner--by glissading on our backsides! The canyon eventually opens out onto a cliff-face, where we locate a set of rap chains. The abseils go smoothly, and we touch down in short order. In the fading light, we pull our ropes, amazed at our perfect timing. An hour later, having navigated by moonlight and a faintly glowing horizon, we arrive back at the hut, rest, and contemplate our superlative day.

The next day, on our way back to the car, we detour to the Grand High Tops. I crest the ridge, and Crater Bluff stands silent before me, across the divide. The ridgeline, a chronicle of our long day, casts its shadow across the face. I sit and gaze in quiet awe. Monoliths like this one always speak to the soul, their whispers primordial. I feel humbled and deeply contented.

Cornerstone Rib Direct (230m 14) is a route that every climber can aspire to, and no climber can afford to miss. The climb is in the Warrumbungle National Park, just west of Coonabarabran in northern NSW. Driving from Canberra takes seven hours. Access is via Balor Hut, a 5km walk-in from Camp Pincham. The hut costs $3 per person per night, and has the only reliable water in the park.
The guide to the area is "The Warrumbungles," published by Rock Magazine. Cornerstone Rib Direct may be climbed in as few as five long pitches. Routefinding is straightforward, since the climb follows an obvious ridge. A standard rack would be well-supplemented by extra wires and small cams (cams larger than #3 find little use). Two ropes are required for the descent--double ropes are ideal.

"It's a pretty lively 14. You could call it 16 and nobody would complain."