Two weeks in Sella, living on the Wildside.
Wildside Sector: On the left are my Czech climbing partners Cuba "like country" and Jan
I spent the last couple weeks camping and climbing just outside of Sella, which is a small town in the mountains near Alicante, Spain. I climbed 10 out of 13 days, and every day went to the “Wildside” sector to climb steep, golden limestone. Life was a simple rhythm: wake up late, coffee and breakfast, climb several routes, return exhausted, cook, drink a beer or two, sleep for eleven hours or more, repeat. No technology, no showers, just climbing. In other words it was a relaxing vacation! I climbed with Jan, the owner of Rockbusters, Czech expat, and climbing bum as well as a host of locals. Armando, the forty-year-old climbing monk, lived on a diet of rice and “porros” (explained later) while he dedicated every bit of his being to the routes. Jimmy, despite the nickname, was Spanish to the core. He rocked the dreaded mullet and smoked profusely. The local teenagers shared the refuge in an attempt to get away from their parents. They climbed during the day, but most of their time was spent... well I’ll just say that thanks to them I expanded my Spanish vocabulary to include “porro” and “verde” (aka “spliff” and “joint” respectively). I was the first American one of them had ever met.
Christmas was good too, even though Santa was late, because the present was worth the tardiness. On December 26th after 7 tries over two days, I climbed “Mediterraneo” my first 8a (5.13b). In Europe the climbing grades are different and here 8a is the most coveted level and the benchmark grade for the big leagues. When I finally linked the climb from the ground to the anchors without falling it felt effortless. I knew the moves and executed them perfectly without hesitation, and seemingly without gravity. For the rest of the day I felt like I was floating, delirious, the moments of the climb etched into memory, relived over and over. It was a stark contrast to my pre-climb thoughts. Two days before I had fallen from the last move, my hand latched the final jug, but I watched, powerless, as my fingers slid open and I peeled away from the rock. I had been exhausted halfway up, I mentally gave up, my body surprised me and took me to the last move but no further. Back on the ground I knew I would succeed if I were fresh, so I took a rest day. On the day of the climb, I warmed up and gave Mediterraneo a try only to find I wasn’t really warmed up. I got pumped and fell from easier moves. Second try of the day I felt good, I made it to the final moves. This was it. 8a was mine. Cocky, I lunged for the final jug. I don’t know what happened, but next thing I was hanging from the rope swearing. The trip back to the ground seemed endless. I wasn’t tired but had failed. The next hour was agonizing, I was furious with myself. I vowed to give up climbing because I was worthless. I would fail and I knew it. I would go home empty handed. I wouldn’t accomplish anything. The weight was sickening. After belaying, and spending a few minutes alone in the sun warming up, I tied in. I had one, maybe two tries before I would be tired. Again and again I pictured myself falling from the final move. I couldn’t clear my head, so I started climbing. The first half is a 12b that I had wired, and I flowed through the moves mindlessly. I soon found myself at the final rest before the extended crux. I closed my eyes and just breathed. I smiled and something clicked. I saw myself catching the final jug. With a forceful exhale I pushed all thoughts from my head. Move by move, I stuck the crux, smoothly climbed the thin tufas, and caught the final jug. Everything changed when I clipped the anchors. It was without a doubt my proudest climb. I was happy, content, and had a laugh at the thoughts that had poisoned me before the climb.
The next morning however, as is always the case, I woke up hungry. I had tasted hard climbing and wanted more. I set my sights on “Ergometría” the most classic 8a of the sector. The climb is perfect. The hardest moves are just off the ground, but the remaining twenty meters of extremely steep stone will quickly send the indecisive climber to the ground. All the moves are difficult, but are separated by a few good kneebar rests. What’s a kneebar? Well you use your foot and knee to hold on. The following photo will explain.
After trying the route a few times and figuring out the moves I felt exhausted. I took a rest day, and came back to fire the route on my second try of the day (4th total). Here are some photos.
Last few moves
I spent the last two days trying “Celia” another 8a that I had no expectation of finishing. On my second to last day I felt exhausted on every try, on my last day I felt even more exhausted. Somehow I still fell higher and higher with every try. As the sun was setting on my last day of the trip, New Year eve, I tied in for a final try. No saving energy, no holding back, one last try. I climbed through the lower section and rested. I launched into the crux and soon found my forearms exploding. I was staring at the final bolt, but was too pumped to pause and clip in. “It’s overhanging, I won’t hit anything” I quickly reasoned and kept climbing. A few moves later I stuck the final hold, and with a lot of rope between me and the last bolt, I pulled up slack to clip the anchors. Six days - my first 8a, second 8a, and third 8a. 365 days from 5.12b to 5.13b, not a bad finish to 2010.
Sella itself was quite an experience. A small town, it seems like a place locked in the past. A place where all faces are familiar. Where Bar Paco and Bar Casino each has dedicated patrons, between which mingling is prohibited. Every few nights we’d head into Bar Casino to try our luck at the fickle Wi-Fi, and while one of us would attempt to connect to the rest of the world the other would enjoy the people watching. A usual group of old men would show up every night for their beer or two, and their cigarettes - a pack or two. I went to the panaderia one evening hoping to find something sweet to celebrate my first 13b. I saw what appeared to be a delicious fruit filled pastry. I asked what it was and received the peculiar answer of “oil and salt.” I figured he must not have understood what I was referring to, and it looked good, so one slice of that please. Mouth watering for a bit of sweetness I immediately chomped down. My tongue quickly discovered my mistake. Instead of a sweet fruit pastry, I bit into what can only be described as a soft, giant, and even drier Saltine cracker. Drier than a Saltine, not possible you say? Well, I quickly coughed in up and ran back to the bar to get a sip of beer. Bienvenidos a España, I guess I’ll call it a cultural experience.
I’m back in Barcelona for a day. I’ve been productive. I woke up at eleven, drank coffee in bed for a couple hours while watching “Lethal Weapon” and I did some laundry. As much as I love being away from my computer, sometimes a soft bed, a warm coffee, and mindless entertainment are just what I want. Besides I’m about to be off for another week. My friend and regular climbing buddy Victor has this next week off and has invited me on a climbing trip! Obviously I’m going, so we’ll be camping in his van for another week of climbing. 2011 y más fanatico que nunca! Venga!
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