That’s handy

For those that use Spotify, you may have noticed their algorithms for compiling your personalised playlists can get a bit samey after a while.  Today driving out by myself I was keen for something a little different.  Leading me to cautiously put my faith in the app to prepare a playlist based on an artist I saw play live many years back at music festival, and too not revert to the genres I more commonly listen too.  Vin Garbutt was an English folk singer and songwriter, and I was not disappointed with the selection provided:

The speakers churned out many an ear pleasing ditty as I drove along.  It made for an enjoyable drive down to meet Josh at Moses Rocks.  One song stood out and stuck in my mind.  It was by a band that was not surprisingly another English acoustic folk group.  Called Show of Hands, who are now banging out the tunes as I type.  I’m known for having left-right confusion.  This is not too uncommon, with as much of 15% of people being afflicted with saying left when they mean right and vice versa:

This means that when I give directions, whether to someone driving or which way they should move on the rock, it is best to check which hand I show.  This would have been confusing today, if someone not familiar with where we were going had been chauffeuring me.  I would have said left and shown my left hand, but a recently placed sign at the T-junction said Moses Rocks was a right turn.  This is however referring to the names of the surf break, as opposed to the obvious stand-out crags we call Moses Rocks that you approach if you turn left:

I’ve just read, not that you should believe everything you read, that in the 1920s there was a wild stallion who roamed the Wilyabrup region.  This mighty stead is said to have had an energy, spirit, and wild temperament that matched a local and popular surf break, called Moses Rocks.  This does however sound suspect, as surfing didn’t start in the region until the 1950s.  It would seem that a certain winery, may indeed be telling an hands-down ‘pork pie’ by spinning this fable probably as means of promoting their produce:

I would however agree that the crag called Moses Rocks has a great atmosphere, which is enhanced by the proximity to the energy, spirit, and wild temperament of the ocean.  Today it had been the location of choice by Josh, who was camping down south and as such drove in separately.  When I asked he said he did not noticing the sign, having driven in on autopilot.  You could say it was handy that we both knew where to go.  It was also handy that I have a bit of knowledge about fish species, to know that we stumbled across something a little unusual:

I immediately noticed the pectoral fins and it made me think that it may have been a handfish, which would have been a rare sight.  Called as such as their pectoral fins resembling hands.  These are used to help them move along the sea bed.  Other distinguishing features include having a lure on top of its head like a fishing rod, used to attract prey close to their big mouth.  The closest species I can find is the Cockatoo Handfish (Pezichthys amplispinus) but there have only been two sightings before, both in eastern Australia:

Furthermore they are quite a large fish.  Unless it was a juvenile, which is not likely over here, it is probably not a handfish.  The next option being an Anglerfish.  A fish made famous as a result of a guest appearance in Finding Nemo, when Nemo and Dory venture into the abyss.  They have similar body features, and the closest match I could find to what we stumbled across is a Rough Anglerfish (Kuiterichthys furcipilis).  I suggested I should take the specimen home, and I wish I had now so I could check the fins for more distinguishing marks:

No doubt by now the decaying body will have been found by the myriad of scavengers on the beach, such as the crab we found a few images up.  Another creature I have been unable to identify, maybe because it is not of interest to crabbers.  That is despite finding an identical image online, which is merely titled unidentified.  After the distractions we eventually made it to the crag.  Heading to Hands Up Wall, as we felt the possible handfish had been a sign.  Before roping up, again distracted, we wandered round looking for possible new routes:

Nothing was tall enough to lead but Josh was keen to solo up a few of the more interesting features we found.  This is certainly quite out of character for Josh.  I am however not one to dampen enthusiasm when it comes to climbing.  That is despite the at times nasty fall potential, and as such we allowed the distractions to continue.  I did however ask him to very carefully check every hand, and foot, hold.  Finally, roping up we focused on the obvious route of choice, called Many Hands.  Both the right and left, which is shown below, variants:

After Howsie and my wonderful dry and cool climb a week back, today we were back into humid conditions as our not so normal summer continues.  As a result we decided today was for fun, plus Josh was keen for a lead.  To provide a fitting selection we moved to a small area with a fine collection of shorter lower grade routes.  From here we could see the very non-summery ocean conditions churning up the sand in the near shore waves.  We also spotted the fairly unusual sandy beach below Rumpoles Rocks, so our wandering day continued:

I was keen to get my hands on one particular route, and it was as good as I remember.  Unfortunately, being that bit steeper Josh seemed to forget all the good control and footwork he had been displaying throughout the morning.  Managing a clean ascent, but not in what he would describe as the best style.  Leading us to consider yet another move, all the way back to the northern area.  But not before we moved on I spotted some crag booty.  This lived up to its name, when I spied a pair of climbing shoes that someone had left behind:

In honour of our original find we picked Hungry Fish to finish off the session, another one for Josh to lead.  During which I’m please to advise his footwork and control returned, and unfortunately I started to feel a little woozy.  It is possible Lisa had shared with me whatever had knocked her for six this week.  Some may say it was handy we have a long weekend ahead of us, to allow me to recover before the working week starts a day later than usual.  I guess I’ll just have to watch the hands of the clock, as only time will tell what will come of it:

If anyone can…

It was time for Lisa and I to get away for night for another mini-break.  We ummed and ahhed about where to head and what to do, and plumped for a trip to Penguin Island.  The last time I went there was with my folks and Elseya back in 2008.  Lisa sadly couldn’t join us as she was working.  Just a year before that trip the population of Little Penguins (Eudyptula minor), which happens to be the smallest species of penguin, was approx. 1,600.  A survey last year clocked in less than 120, indicating a decline of over 90%:

The small 31 acre island is a mere 660m off the mainland, so very accessible.  It is hard to not consider that the human activity wasn’t in part to blame for this.  That is despite the island being closed during the Little Penguin’s breeding period from June to September.  Other factors that are considered to have contributed include changing migration patterns and climate change.  Whatever the reason, there are now calls to close the island and keep it as a sanctuary although being so close to chore I’m not sure that will happen:

Not surprisingly we didn’t get to see any Little Penguins, not that we tried too hard to find any.  Instead enjoying a wander round the mostly boardwalked trail, with short stretches of beach.  Along the beach I did check the tracks in the sand to see if I could find signs of their little feet, without success.  We did however see a bunch of waders and shorebirds including a few we commonly see down our way, such as Pied Oystercatcher (Haematopus longirostris), Sooty Oystercatcher (Haematopus fuliginosus), and Crested Tern (Thalasseus bergii):

We also spotted a pair of Ruddy Turnstones (Arenaria interpres), and a single juvenile Bridled Tern (Onychoprion anaethetus) that was nestled just of a boardwalk.  While these are fairly common coastal birds round most of Australia, I don’t recall seeing them before.  And then there were the unmistakable Australian Pelicans (Pelecanus conspicillatus), definitely not an unusual sight other than seeing them in their hundreds and hundreds.  One of the signs suggested that there are nine breading sites round Western Australia, and this was one:

They are colonial nesters.  The size of these colonies can vary from ten to a thousand, so I’m guessing this was one of the bigger ones found in Western Australia.  Unlike the Little Penguin that breeds in winter, the Australian Pelican surprisingly has no breeding season and can raise their young year round.  I’ve read that breeding can be stimulated after rainfall has occurred inland, and in contrast to the other waders and shoreline birds we spotted the Australian Pelican can also be spotted across much of Australia’s mainland:

While hard to see in the images we got to spot some young.  Their nests are very plain, a scraping the ground lined with a few bits of seaweed of feathers.  Usually two eggs will be laid, and a couple of weeks after hatching crèches are formed by the chicks who gather into small clusters.  These are also known as feeding pods, which maximises the chances of survival.  It is probably fair to say that these social behaviours mean that the Australian Pelican will continue to do OK on Penguin Island, unlike the Little Penguin:

That is unless, or sadly maybe until, the colony is hit by Avian influenza (bird flu) in which case their social lifestyle could back fire on them.  But for now it was lovely to see the big numbers, as they continual flew on and off the island.  I also jumped in for a snorkel but it was no better if not worse than our local beach, with not one image worthy of inclusion.  The dip did at least feel very refreshing.  Soon after we caught the last ferry back to the mainland, got settled into our hotel, and headed out for a scrumptious meal to wrap up a lovely relaxing day:

Adrian Gurvitz

While Howsie has for many years played in skater/surf punk bands, he has a wide range of music taste.  I am not however sure this would extend to knowing Adrian Gurvitz.  An English singer songwriter whose music career began in 1968, and is still recording and touring to this day.  Not surprisingly his style has varied over the decades and has included pop, rock, and yacht rock.  His biggest hit was a ballad that became the most played ballad on radio in England in 1982, despite only reaching number eight in the charts, which is why I know of him:

This song was quite simply called ‘Classic’, and today Howsie had an idea in mind to only jump on classic climbs.  No doubt this was not inspired by Adrian Gurvitz, but it did bring the tune back into my head.  And now knowing about the impressive near sixty years of recording achieved by this artist, I am delving into some of that as I type.  So what makes a classic climb?  There are many factors but it comes down to the technical challenge and aesthetic appeal, which may include the quality of rock, movement and sequences, or striking setting:

History also comes into it, and that is something that is becoming lost in time as we move from physical printed guidebooks to online guides.  Online guides have however allowed everyone to be able to add their opinion based on their own experience.  This is not a bad thing, as classic status should not be awarded until a general consensus has been reached that it is worthy, by the climbing community.  It used to be a three star system, whereby one star is for a good route, two stars are for a notable route, and three stars is for one not to miss:

No stars would generally suggest you should only do the line if you run out of other routes at the grade you are comfortable to climb.  However, in some places a five star system is creeping in just to make it more complicated, whereby one star can mean the line is considered poor quality or not recommended.  I didn’t use a star system in the guide for Central Australia, and got a bit of a bashing by some for not using one.  My rationale however was many of the routes had hardly had any ascents to consolidate the thinking:

Furthermore, being a printed guide I included detailed descriptions providing more than enough information to entice or ward people off each route.  When I wrote the guide for the South West of Western Australia I used the standard three star system, and even reached out to the climbing community to ask if there were any changes required to the existing records and ratings.  This again sparked some discussion and at times disagreement, but it resulted in landing on an a mostly agreed allocation of stars for routes deemed worthy:

Howsie’s idea was therefore to only hit the classic three star climbs, as detailed in the climbing guide that went to print in 2016.  Admittedly there may now be more listed on the online database provided by The Crag.  After all Wilyabrup is recognised as a brilliant place to climb.  It is highly rated far and wide, and is included in many a coffee table picture book.  So it comes as a bit of a shock that when I wrote the guide the main area was only thought to have nine three star lines.  With only three routes below grade 20 being awarded this lofty status:

Personally I feel this is a bit of a reflection of the fact that most climbers in this part of the world treat climbing as a sport, and strive to climb harder routes.  Despite his challenge where each year he wants to try incrementally harder climbs, Howsie and I treat our outdoor sessions as an adventure.  Enjoying the great outdoors and all its treasures, which today included a young Australian Sea Lion (Neophoca cinerea) frolicking in the waves and a Nankeen Kestrel (Falco cenchroides) that was guarding one of the classic climbs in the third image:

And during our ascents we also came across a few Southwest Crevice-Skinks (Egernia napoleonis) and several skins of Southwest Carpet Pythons (Morelia imbricata).  This was despite it being a cool breezy day, something that was very welcome after all the hot muggy days we have had for what feels like a month or two.  The conditions brought dry rock and great friction, which was in Daniel and Shawn’s favour.  They had made the much bigger trip to get here, having flown from Singapore for a few days to sample the rock in our local patch:

We picked off line after line, and after bagging five of the classics our arms were starting to tire.  A change of course was required so we shifted our focus onto the two star routes.  Opening up another thirteen climbs to choose from.  Despite the choice of two star lines on offer, for the finale we dropped to a one star route mainly to allow us to climb out with packs.  We had a choice of ten of lines awarded a single star, but we knew which one it would be and as with so many other routes here we reckon it deserves a higher ranking:

For more reasons than I can count it was another classic day out.  We bagged as many routes as this little Bronze Rockhopper (Euophyrine), which I spotted as I followed Howsie up the final route, has eyes.  Despite what my guide or The Crag may say, in our eyes every climb we jumped on today was worthy of being called a classic.  Proven further by the number of people we see choose them.  As I come to the end of this post, while a number of Adrian Gurvitz tunes may not be what I would regard as classics, I am however still enjoying them.  At the end of the day that is what counts:

Change of pace

I can’t conclusively say my hair of the dog remedy yesterday worked.  True my arms were not as achy at the start of today as they were on Friday.  This may however have resulted from the muscles having naturally repaired themselves sufficiently for the achiness to subside.  The arms seemed to feel ready for another trip out, but my head was feeling a bit groggy.  Yet another saying that is linked to alcohol, this time originating from the substance itself.  Grog being the rum, which was diluted with water, that sailors in the 1700s commonly drank:

Feeling groggy is used to indicate a state of disorientation when your brain doesn’t seem to want to function.  I’m happy to report my state of grogginess had nothing to do with alcohol, and was more likely due to sleep inertia and possibly being a little low on energy.  With luck the sleep initiated state of mind would be shaken soon enough, which had possibly been exacerbated by getting up for yet another first light start.  We didn’t start climbing at first light, although Craig, David did step over the style at the car park as the sky began to light up:

In fact, what with the walk in, ablution pit stop, general phaffing about getting ready, and a bit of chit chat with Mario and Adrian when they arrived not too long after us, daylight was well and truly upon by the time David finally started up the first route.  He seemed keen to have a lead having already set his mind on the climb of choice.  However, after placing the first piece of gear and then needing to run it out a bit before more gear came into sight. it was his turn for his brain to not want to play ball.  It felt like it was going to be a slow day:

I’ve previously mentioned David’s psychological barrier, which he has not been able to fully shake.  Instead of fighting it he came down, offering Craig the lead.  Meanwhile, Adrian was also battling with his mind.  He and Mario had packed in a big day at Bobs Hollow yesterday on steep limestone sport routes.  Weary from that, he struggled to commit to the crux at the top of the route.  Instead sneakily escaping off to the right.  Something I caught Peter doing in early December, when he admitted having never topped out over the headwall:

Peter’s name came up a second time when I pointed Mario to line I thought he may enjoy, which he was unaware existed.  While I have only climbed with Peter for just over a year, I first heard from him just shy of ten years back when I was pulling together information for the local climbing guide.  Peter told me about a long forgotten climb that he had been involved in establishing.  Making use of two existing routes, linking them via a steep and exciting traverse.    Mario’s brain was firing as usual on all four, if not six cylinders, but other things plagued him:

He was picking the harder lines and it was a little sticky today, not a great combination here.  While he rated the climb, he had to resolve to not getting it clean.  The crew got bigger when Steve and Ange turned up.  The last time Steve and I caught up was just over three years back, and I was pleased to say that his brain was also working just fine.  Enjoying clean ascents helped by, like Craig, choosing moderate routes, unlike Mario.  It was turning into a bit of a social event, and as predicted we were not moving particularly fast:

Craig and I alternated leads, with a fair bit of inaction in-between.  This would normally irk me, instead I refocused my attention by scampering about taking images.  My sleep inertia was long forgotten, but the stickiness that was Mario’s undoing was not helping my energy levels.  Something that I really started to notice when I jumped on my second lead.  One of my more gnarly traditional creations.  Nervous moves in exposed positions, somewhat above the gear placements.  Making the risk of a fall that bit more of serious a consideration:

It certainly had me on edge, but this is the stuff I relish as it hones your focus.  Forcing you to switch off all the other things your brain may be trying to multitask on, including depleting energy levels, and only think about one thing.  Pulling off the moves, which thankfully I did.  Craig, David and I only racked up four climbs.  We were however not alone and everyone else also seemed to be going in slow motion.  I guess there are some days when you just have to accept the change of pace, kick back, and just enjoy being in such an amazing place:

Four years on, and still waiting

It has been a heavy lifting week in the shed with Lisa.  As part of the wonder of Apps, which fuels our desire for numbers and information, she keeps track of her progress in quite some detail.  Both for individual exercises and overall session statistics.  Can’t say I’ve been dragged into that world, and hopefully will steer clear of it.  Quite simply it is not my bag, but I can see how it helps keep Lisa motivated.  She loves it.  Our first session was all about legs and core.  Full of delightful plank exercises, amongst others, that resulted in tree trunk legs:

Plus making our stomachs feel like we had done a hundred sit-ups, even though we hadn’t done one.  The next session that I joined her for was upper body, more of a free weights thing.  Lisa was pretty chuffed when we finished stating that all up we had both lifted over three tonnes.  I only partake in two session a week, whereas she gets in the shed four times and is going in right now as I type this.  As I said she’s a bit of a machine.  My body is starting to get used to this types of exercise, so I recovered from the first session pretty quickly:

However, the second shed workout crept up on me over a few days.  My biceps and triceps complained more and more.  Hair of the dog could be suggested for such a situation.  Yet another quirky English expression, and one mostly related to having a drink in the morning when your head is thumping after a big session the night before.  Not something the medical profession advocates, but I’ve read that the expression originated from a medical situation.  And comes from a method applied to avoid catching rabies, after being bitten by a rabid dog:

Supposedly, hair from the dog that bit you was placed in the wound.  This medical miracle cure dates back to medieval Europe.  Not surprisingly, and just like the usual modern day application of this phrase, it didn’t work.  Not put off with such thoughts of whether it was a good idea or not to climb, and with a slim window of opportunity, I headed out early.  I had a plan in my head of which lines I would hit, but was also keen just to watch the world wake up.  The images show it was, as mornings so often are, a great time to be up and out:

I didn’t hang about too much, and the first line was gobbled up in no time.  I had to start on that route, as yet again it has come under the microscope as to how much of a sandbag it may be.  I knew the answer before I jumped on it today.  The description Adrian gave for the crux sequence he used included eight tricky moves on mostly marginal holds.  Compared to how I, and many others, climb it in three not too hard moves all on good holds.  It all came down to reading the rock, which can be hard here, and he definitely misread it on his first encounter:

My next line however felt really tough.  I knew it was more technical, sustained, and overall pumpy.  The hair of the dog trick wasn’t playing game on this route, or had I bitten off more than I could chew.  On occasion I found myself doing what I tell others not too, slapping for holds.  Unable to physically or mentally control myself to work out another way, even though I knew the route so well.  Fortune was on my side and somehow I managed the self-imposed requirement of two ascents, clean.  After which I felt it was time for a change of tact:

Abandoning my original plan, as I would have ended up climbing like cabbage.  Spending more time hanging in the rope than on the rock.  While I have drifted a long way from my British climbing ethics of traditional climbing with ground up ascents, I still do not enjoy floundering about working routes.  Wanting to enjoy being out, I picked lines hard enough to make me work, but not so much that I wouldn’t be having fun.  Also allowing me to be far more productive than the works on the bridge at the base of the dam, which used to be the way I would drive in.  No works have started despite the bridge being closed for nearly four years:

That’s a big baby

I can’t complain with the flurry of people that have been keen to get out over the last few months.  This weekend however, I didn’t get so much as a nibble when I dangled the bait of touching rock to our group.  This of course didn’t stop me, and I had every intention of walking in at first light.  For several reasons it didn’t transpire.  Maybe it was the workouts, when I joined Lisa for a couple of shed sessions this week, with the aim of building a bit more all-round fitness.  She is a bit of a machine with the weights, not that she would admit it:

Or it could be the extra hours I’ve packed in at work this week.  While I’m a desk jockey, I’m not great at taking breaks.  Toxic by-products can enter the brain when you concentrate for extended periods, resulting in mental fatigue.  Or maybe it was the later than usual evening and one beer I had last night, which is a pretty rare occurrence.  Regardless of the cause, before I had even left the house I missed first light, and only saw glimpses of the sunrise as I was driving.  Wanting to pay more attention to the road and possible kangaroos:

This meant that by the time I had set up the anchors and got myself sorted for the first line, the sun was already starting to creep down the face I intended to climb on at Smiths Beach.  While it was already 20 degrees, the intensity from the direct sun was fortunately reduced by the thin and broken cloud cover.  It was clear no one had climbed here for a while, which is no great surprise.  The climbing is on a granitic gneiss headland, the surface of which has a tendency to become a little flaky especially over summer:

This can make the climbing that bit more nervous, adding to the already insecure feeling many of the climbs have here.  That maybe why so few people venture to this place.  Today the first couple of lines felt way harder than the grades I had given them, a decade and a half back.  It may not have helped my cause when on the first lap of the first line a hold blew, sending me flying.  But not as far as I might have gone.  Many of the climbs take a slightly diagonal line.  So to avoid taking a big pendulum swing, if I slipped, I had placed a number of directional pieces:

Luckily for me as the temperatures moved into the mid-twenties, I was warming to the climbing style and rock.  And even the slightly stiffer lines I jumped on felt good.  Enjoying myself so much that I continued to climb in the sun, even as the dappling effect of the clouds started to fade.  Two and half hours later I felt like I had packed in enough climbing, plus it was starting to get uncomfortable to be on the rock with the sun on my back.  After packing up I looked back down into the zawn and could make out the rocks under the water:

This was enough to encourage me to drive round to Canal Rocks for a dip in the ocean, and hopefully clearer waters.  Having come prepared I had my wetsuit and weights, but looking at the swell and waves decided an unassisted dip would suffice.  Several scuba divers were getting out of the water when I walked towards the beach by the boat ramp.  They said they hadn’t seen too much and the visibility was okay, but nothing special.  From what they told me it seems that their season in the water has been about as successful as mine has been:

It wasn’t encouraging as I walked round the bay are saw scores of young Southern Garfish (Hyporhamphus melanochir) on the strandline.  The strandline being detritus, debris, and for today dead fish left in a wavy line on the beach after high tide.  When I got in I was greeted by clouds of sand rolling towards me.  Not put off, as the cool water after the hot climb was very welcome, and being rewarded as the water clarity improved with depth.  So much better than at my local beach, but nowhere near as good as it has been here in previous years:

There were heaps of fish, but the imagery for most wasn’t great.  The residual clouds in the sky and slightly cloudy waters wasn’t allowing enough light in.  But I couldn’t resist the above image of a young McCulloch’s Scalyfin (Parma mccullochi).  The iridescent blue patterning was stunning.  Lot of adults were also about.  Acting quite aggressive as they defended their territory.  One of their behaviours is to thrash their tail, which makes a clacking noise and sends a pulse of water towards whatever they are trying to scare off:

Below I came across a school of young Rough Bullseye (Pempheris klunzingeri), I can’t recall seeing these in the open water before.  Having struggled to get any decent images when I have found them huddled in caves and under ledges, and they then move deeper into the darker recesses when I’ve approached.  Today they let me come right up to them.  The image also includes a juvenile Western King Wrasse (Coris auricularis), with horizontal brown and white stripes, and a young Snakeskin Wrasse (Eupetrichthys angustipes) in the bottom left:

Due to the swell it was a bit of a drift tour, and when I finally got pushed from my entry point to the beach by the boat ramp a big dark shape appeared.  A Smooth Stingray (Bathytoshia brevicaudata), with a disc measurement a tad over a metre it was still a young one.  They can reach a disc measurement of 2.1m and total length of 4.3m, weighing a whooping 350kg.  Being aplacental viviparous, meaning the eggs hatch inside the mothers body, giving birth to 6 to 10 live young, which pop out with an incredible disc measurement of 36cm:

Seeing in believing

Last week Josh put the feelers out for a climb.  Sadly he didn’t get a positive response from anyone on our local group, and I was hoping to get in the water on both Saturday and Sunday instead of on rock.  However, after becoming disillusioned by my murky underwater adventures yesterday, I suggested I would be up for a quick Welly Dam visit.  It takes about the same time to get here, as it does to a few coastal areas where the water would be clear.  But somehow it doesn’t feel as worthwhile to drive for an hour, just for an hour in the water:

On arrival I was struck at how the usually green turfed area of Welly Dam was dry, bone dry.  The grass has been allowed to brown off and was crunchy underfoot, a sign that they have not been irrigating the area.  It is the first time I have seen them leave the area to get to this state.  It is a bit of a shame as it used to be the perfect place to throw a blanket on the grass and have a picnic.  Filling up with families during the morning of a day like today, out making use of the BBQs in a very kid friendly environment:

The place is not what I would consider Josh friendly.  With how often, or more correctly how little, he gets out to climb, the place can feel pretty stiff.  This didn’t stop him at jumping at that chance of a climb, and we tailored the day to ease him back onto rock with a few of the shorter and easier routes.  Three lines in and he was already feeling the pump.  The slick feeling of rock, as the temperature was rising, wasn’t helping.  To allow his arms to recover when we jumped on the big walls, I snuck in another route in-between each climb he did:

As the morning wore on, no families arrived but a couple from Perth turned up for their first taste of climbing at Welly Dam.  After a bit of a chat, and having watched how they went on the usual warm up route people go for, I suggested they jump on the most contested line here.  They admitted they hadn’t considered it due to the write up it gets on The Crag, which gives it a bit of a slating.  I’m pleased to report that they really enjoyed and rated it, and didn’t flinch at the bolting but did suggest it may be a grade more than we had given it:

That is not an uncommon thing to hear about most of the routes here, so I accept that.  And as they continued to enjoy the fine lines on offer, Josh and I bagged a few more ourselves.  Each time Josh looked like he was well and truly toasted, slumping onto the rope.  He jumped back on to continue the battle, after a quick rest.  For our last line I’m pleased he pulled through, as he got to see this Mallee Grass Mantis (Archimantis sobrina) egg sac that I spotted near the top.  Called an oothecae, the female exudes the foamy substance over her eggs:

Hardening up to form an intricate pattern.  When the eggs hatch, worm-like larvae emerge and hang from the oothecae by threads.  Moulting their exoskeleton, to become tiny functional mantis nymphs.  Ready to hunt for their first meal one day after hatching.  After this discovery, it was time to hit the road leaving the guys from Perth to continue to discover the climbing delights on offer here.  We were however a bit gobsmacked when another couple arrived, with the temperature inching into the thirties, and set up on a face in full sun:

Testing the waters

The marine environment of the globe has about a dozen amphidromic points.  These are generally located in middle of ocean basins, whose shape results in a rotary wave action forming.  The circular action results in a centre point where there is effectively a flat spot, similar to the eye of a cyclone.  Here there is almost no vertical movement from tidal action.  A amphidromic point is right off the coast of Western Australia not too far from where we live.  This explains why we have such small tidal variance, ranging from 0.1 to 1.2m:

Regardless of the minimal tidal range, I still try to head into the water at low tide.  Due to that one meter helping me to stay on the bottom a bit longer.  I would normally have been in the water heaps over December and January, but today was my first local dive since before Christmas.  Some six weeks back.  Purely because the conditions have been awful, and it hasn’t been worth the effort.  This morning drawn by the flat looking surface and colour differentiation, created by the underlying darker reef and lighter sand, I gave it a go:

There was still a dark band running parallel to the beach.  Sea wrack dislodged by recent higher than usual swells, for this time of the year, now forming an orderly line.  A result of the ocean starting to settle down since the rougher conditions, driven by cyclone Sean.  The poor conditions have however not been isolated to this one weather system.  This time of year we would expect an average swell of 0.5 to 1.3m.  But the swell this summer has consistently been over 1 meter, and more regularly than I would like it has reached close to 2 meters:

My rule of thumb is that if the swell has been below 1 meter for three days, the water clarity is likely to be pretty good.  This week it has hovered up around 1.5 meters, so I wasn’t completely fooled by the optical illusion of the colour differentiation.  I was however really keen to get in the water.  And it did feel good, but my reservations about seeing much very quickly became reality.  The water was cloudy, but I could make out the bottom so persevered.  Ducking down in the hope of seeing some fun finds:

The first underwater image being of Slimy Bags (Gloiosaccion brownii), the scientific name literally translating to ‘glue sacks’.  It looked like they were excluding the thick slimy substance held within the elongated balloon shaped sacs, from which they get their name.  Particles that had been suspended in the water were stuck to the substance, and there was lots more detritus covering patches of sand in amongst the reef as shown above.  The Western Gobbleguts (Ostorhinchus rueppellii) were one of the few species of fish I saw:

These fish are mouthbrooders, with the male incubating anywhere from 50 to 230 fertilised eggs for about two weeks until they hatch.  Most of my finds were seastars.  The above Mosaic Seastar (Pentagonaster dubeni), easily recognisable with its bright plates separated by thin light lines, has a backdrop that clearly shows how unclear the water was.  And below is a Pale Mosaic Seastar (Echinaster arcystatus).  I’m surprised how often I find what is claimed to be an uncommon species.  It is however one of the bigger species in the south west of Australia:

The largest seastar in our local waters is the Eleven-Armed Seastar (Coscinasterias calamaria), reaching up to 50cm.  The Pale Mosaic Seastar isn’t too far behind reaching 36cm, with the Mosaic Seastar normally not growing bigger than 8cm in diameter.  And then I found the below smaller specimen.  You would think the strawberry looking protrusion in the centre of the body would make this an easy identification, but no.  The closest match I could find, which I am not convinced of, is the Necklace or Tiled Seastar (Fromia monilis):

A matter of taste

After today, as we roll into February, the year will start in earnest.  The summer school holidays are coming to a close, which means the usual weekly routine of life for many will resume.  For me, my ease into the New Year continued to the bitter end.  I was not going to waste the last Friday of the first month of the year, and Howsie was more than happy to bag another morning out.  It’s been cooking this week.  Mid to high thirties every day, and this looks to continue well into next week.  We are however not in the throes of a heatwave:

The night time temperatures have been dipping below twenty, providing some late evening to early morning relief.  That still does not stop the day after day of hot weather slowly wearing down the energy levels.  Howsie, was therefore in a quandary when I asked him what he had in mind.  The location was easy.  He wanted to climb, as opposed to have a climb and snorkel which can be quite nice on these hot days.  So we needed somewhere that had a shorter walk in, longer routes, and maximises shade time.  That would be Wilyabrup:

What he could not land on was what climbs to climb.  After having pushed himself in recent trips out his head was telling him to continue to test his skills.  To do that, there are a couple of 25s at the main area that he has his eye on.  His body was however holding him back.  Weary from several days of working outdoors in the heat.  Reading the tone of his voice, as well as his body language, I suggested that maybe a fun day was in order somewhere that only had lower grade routes.  The place that sprung to mind being Driftwood Bay:

There’s nothing hard here, allowing his mind to relax into the fun of the traditional and slightly adventurous climbing.  I would normally bring a rap line for this place.  But seeing we hadn’t decided on the precise crag until we had walked to the top of the Wilyabrup cliffs we would have to make do.  It made us pay that bit more attention to our rope work when we belayed from above.  Coiling the lead rope, as the second came up.  Enabling it to be ready to be hurled over the edge, before we once more abseiled back down:

As we wandered toward the top of the cliff I asked how often Howsie had climbed here.  I could only remember one trip with him.  That was with Rongy and Josh, and we only managed one route before things went amiss https://sandbagged.blog/2022/05/28/chased-away/.  He had a vague memory of having had a second more successful visit with Mikie sometime.  Then looking up at the lines on offer, he couldn’t recall what they had climb.  That is not a bad thing because everything today would feel new:

This place gets very little attention and I have never seen anyone else climbing here.  We did however find the tell-tale sign of chalk on two routes to indicate recent visitors.  My last visit here was five months back with David, so the chalk was not likely to be from then..  Not unexpectedly we had the place to ourselves today.  Allowing us to enjoy the peace, and pick the lines as we pleased.  Although I have to admit to steering Howsie toward two lines in particular, as I doubt either of them have had an ascent by anyone other than myself:

We were not entirely alone.  I was hoping to come across a Carpet Python today, but it was not to be.  We did however find a juvenile Mallee Grass Mantis (Archimantis sobrina), a bit under half the size of the full sized adult we spotted at Cosy Corner just a week back.  Growing up to 4 inches long during their short 9 to 12 month lifespan, this species can be either green or brown.  This one, unlike last week’s, was nervous.  Keen to get away from us it adopted a technique that young mantises have before they grow wings, and that is to jump:

I first spotted the mantis while Howsie was relishing the crag classic.  Part way up he paused for longer than normal, due to spotting a Southwestern Crevice-Skink (Egernia napoleonis).  Skinks of the Egernia genus only occur in Australia, and are mid to large sized with a snout-to-vent length (SVL) of approx. 4 to 10 inches.  The SVL includes the head and body, but not the tail.  The two common species in our area being the little fella below and the King Skink (Egernia kingii), which can be up to 22 inches long including the tail:

Southwestern Crevice-Skinks are reported to often be curious.  Even after initially being disturbed, they can be quick to pop out of their hiding place to check if the coast is clear.  This one however didn’t move, not even after Howsie left it and continued on his upwards journey.  When I came up on second it was in exactly the same spot, only being able to squeeze into the tight crevice by depressing it’s body.  We went lead for lead today, and when I got to the top of my next climb the sun hit us:

We could feel it bite, and were only four routes in.  Fortunately the west facing wall below us was still in shade.  As such it was time to encourage Howsie to consider a route that if he climbed, I am sure would be only the second ascent.  A face climb with no cracks for gear, so it is a little run out.  There is also a very unusually sling placement low down, on a not overly inspiring small plate of rock somehow sticking out from the main face.  It’s a nervous climb, and I can’t think of very many people I would ever suggest such a route:

It is however exactly the sort of climb that Howsie enjoys, so I thought he would go for it and that he did.  The other line I was keen for him to have a bash at was a little more sane in relation to protection, but as with most routes here it looks scrappy and a little disjointed.  I’ve led it a few times since establishing the line, and really enjoy it but was keen for a second opinion.  Despite the sun starting to inch over the top of the cliff, making it hard to look up, I could hear sounds of delight as he worked his way up.  Suggesting it was a good choice:

This was confirmed as such, when I made my way to his belay on high.  It was time to even up the numbers, so the rope got thrown over the edge one last time.  It was my turn to make sounds of delight, as I led us out on the last route of the day.  We agreed that Driftwood had been a great choice.  With eight climbs under our belt we were feeling a little weary but thoroughly satisfied.  Despite the at times runouts, loose rock, and rambling lines it was a worthy place to visit, although our opinion on that is probably skewed by our climbing taste:

Weighing up the choices

I dread to think how many times I have walked into Wilyabrup.  Hundreds for sure, but how many hundreds I have no idea.  And for a great many of those trips we have been the first people at the crag.  If you haven’t already guessed from my posts, I like early morning starts.  Today Seb and I walked down a little later than usual, but we were still the first to wander to down the track.  With a car already parked up before we got there, you may ask how we could be sure that no one had gone down for a hike, run, or just to get their Instagram image:

The evidence was clear.  Not one but three cobwebs stretched between the vegetation on either side of the track.  Unbroken, and looking extra stunning as a result of beads of water generously drizzled over them.  The spiders were out of sight, no doubt hiding in the vegetation.  We didn’t trace the trigger lines to see if we could spot them.  Instead ducking underneath and leaving their webs intact behind us.  I remarked to Seb that in all my time of coming down here I cannot recall ever seeing webs across the track like that:

The beads of water should give an indication for the slightly later, but not by much, start.  It had been raining overnight and the threat of more hung all around us.  The forecast suggested we had an hour or more before the risk of precipitation should ease to nothing.  The day could have felt very wintery with messy waves crashed in, a threatening cloudy sky, and wet rock.  The temperature is what gave it away, there was no need to rug up not even when we first arrived:

It was great to see Seb was not put off getting out this morning.  In fact I doubt wild horses could have kept him away.  He was keen, very keen.  As such I had already formulated a bit of a plan for the day, and it all started like yesterday with a trad line on a wet traverse.  Quite a few grades easier, so while the conditions may have made the heart beat a little faster I felt it was well within his ability.  It certainly had the desired effect and the section, which many people find tricky when the rock is dry, had him on edge:

Pulling through the crux, Seb went on to establish the belay.  Perched halfway up Steel Wall with a great view.  This is where one of Lou’s cams, which I recently bought of her, got its first use.  The trad leading teaching continued, as I assessed each placement and I made suggestions.  Noting the spacing between gear, whether it was the best selection of nut size, the angle a cam had been set, etc.  For the most part the gear was bombproof, and even those I could pick a fault with were reasonable it’s just they could have been better:

As a dive instructor Seb gets the safety aspect, and takes it seriously.  Eager to hear what I had to say and keep learning more.  Each time I reminded him that he should also assess and provide any comment he had on my placements.  Not that he had much chance to do that.  I sent him up the second trad pitch to the top, during which he found not one but two great pink tricam placements.  Another person has been converted to paying homage to the use of the pink tricam.  You may laugh but there is a bit of a global following:

An ode to a pink tricam (https://www.swarpa.net/~danforth/climb/sinkthepink.html) exists.  I don’t know why but many people are drawn to wanting to place this piece of gear.  After two fine trad leads, which had him beaming, it was time to turn it up a notch.  This time on bolts.  We rapped back to the halfway ledge and I was most disgusted, as a few others who read this may be, when Seb casually reached up to clip the first bolt.  Not needing to pull any of the start moves.  Tall people have the advantage on most routes:

Being able to reach past sections shorter people need to work.  There are the occasionally routes that have a section that has compressed moves, which taller people struggle with.  But they are few and far between.  Seb ate up the sports line, and then we rapped back down.  This time I had a lead, up a rather nervous trad line that I would not have suggested he lead just yet.  I laced the bottom half with six small placements all of which were pretty good.  I think each time I climb this line I find more gear:

After that however it gets run out, and there is only one other piece of gear way up on the wall near the top.  A narrow slot that most people, not that I’ve seen many people want to try this route, don’t find.  It was the perfect place for one of Lou’s smaller cams, so it had been a good buy.  Seb watched on nervously, as I inched my way up.  Probably thinking I was a little mad when I would stop to fiddle my camera out of its protective case.  Then after taking an image of the gear, fiddle the camera back in the case:

He lapped the route up, stating he was glad I had led it.  While I have thrown him on a few trad lines some of which I’ve known people get scared on, each line has been carefully considered.  And a bit like Sam from work, Seb has a hankering for trad.  With a calm head, an eye for how to place protection, and gaining far more satisfaction from popping gear in than just clipping bolts.  Not everyone has it or gets it as quickly as I’ve watched them progress.  It’s cool to observe and I’m lucky to have the time to help them on the journey:

Time was catch-up with us and there was a choice.  Another lower grade trad line, a real peach of a corner.  Or a sport line that was going to be at the upper end of Seb’s current ability, but would see him scale the mighty Steel Wall from top to bottom.  The images give away his choice.  While he had really enjoyed today’s the trad climbing, he just couldn’t resists pushing himself.  As suspected it was a battle, but one he preserved with and conquered.  Which I was pleased about, otherwise I would have had to jump on the sharp end to finish it off: