West Cape Howe

I didn't resolve it would be so, but New Year's Day brought me back to climbing anyway.

We'd arrived the evening before, having escaped from the Albany campground with phrases like "spit roast" and "200 people" ringing in our ears. Negotiating the sandy 4WD track, we watched the remnant dusk highlight an abrupt and closing horizon. We parked and shut off the engine. Oceanic sounds washed up and over dark cliffs, a stone's throw away. Our tent was pitched, and I quickly settled into a dreamless sleep. The passing of the year was as remote to me as the hazy lights of Denmark on the western horizon.

The day's first light awoke me early. I left the tent, and a hundred paces brought me to a cleft in the ground ahead. As I approached, an abysmal outlook confronted me. The sea, down there, DOWN THERE! Far below the cliffs at my feet lay a roiling mass of water, dark green and vivid aqua clashing at the littoral. Nowhere had I ever seen Australia and the Southern Ocean engage more bluntly, or with such power. I looked left, taking in the long, tall stretch of dolerite that crowns West Cape Howe, and thought with slight astonishment, "we're climbing HERE?"

Indeed, we were. Two hours later saw us traipsing along the cliff-top, well back from the edge and still immune to its intimidation. Being short on ropes, we'd chose to climb on a section of cliff with a walk-down approach. A cairn marked the entrance gully, and soon the scrubby trail disappeared over an edge. Feeling unsure on my feet in face of the awing surrounds, I gingerly stepped down.

We found ourselves on a mellow set of rocky ramps and ledges, leading down to the surging water below. Not so bad after all; I relaxed. The trail passed under magnificent pillars and angular faces of rock, black and orange and intriguing. Consulting our guide, we found ourselves beneath a recommended climb, and at grade 5, one which could not possibly confound! (The steepness of the pillar did not concur.) Rope was piled, gear distributed, and shortly we were climbing. My partner took the first lead, rapidly attaining the column's top and disappearing from view. On belay, I climbed up from footstep to marvellous footstep, imbibing the sight, smell and sound of the ocean and rock surrounding me. By pitch's end, I was in love with this place.

Other delightful climbs followed. We next took advantage of the low tide to traverse a granite intrusion, low down on the cliff, and reach another starred route. This two-pitch grade 12 went easily, and I felt emboldened further. Back at our packs again, we snacked and debated our next objective. The sun had breached the cliffs, and it was becoming warm. My vested interest (it was my lead) did not prevent us from choosing a cool-looking chimney. "Plumbline" proved to be another minor classic. Climbing the chimney itself took little skill, but gaining it, stepping out above a steep, ocean-bound slab, was a little bracing! Exiting the narrowing chimney on perfect holds, I pulled up to a perfect belay seat and set anchor. As I belayed my partner up and through the next pitch, I sensed my earlier disquiet dissolving in a sea of serenity and calm, which felt to me as deep as the ocean below, and as endless as the horizon. I felt the accumulated fear of a bad spring's climbing begin to fade.

A final pitch each wound up our day. We moved easily up a steep wall, through mottled patches of orange and grey. I watched a cargo ship lumber westwards across the horizon. The sun beat down, drenching me in the stark, luminous colours of this precipice. I marvelled. Halfway between sea and sky, I shook off my weariness and reclaimed a passion.