Struck by Lightning

Boulder Ruckle always scares the crap out of me. It’s a huge cliff, made up of vertical, crumbling limestone. The top out invariably involves scrambling up unprotected choss held together by dirt. Every time I abseil in (40m, free hanging, fairly committing) I feel humbled by the place. Still, the climbing’s good, the gear's all there, and you’ve got to do something a bit hardcore every now and again, right?

I was partnered with a guy called Mick, who I’d got in touch with via the forums on UKC. He was the perfect person for Boulder Ruckle; wise, steady, seen it all before a million times. Just the match for my wide eyed, enthusiastic ineptitude. I wanted to have a go at a classic HVS called Lightning Wall, so he handed me the rack and in we went.

“How you doing, Boulder Ruckle?” I said as my feet touched the bottom. I hadn’t been here since last August, which, incidentally, involved a rescue epic. Boulder Ruckle didn’t respond. I looked up (and up and up and up), and felt a familiar sense of ‘Oh god, what the hell am I doing here’. Lightning Wall was a pretty intimidating route, climbed in a single long pitch, with a big traverse over the lip of a roof halfway. Nervously, I tied in and got going.

It was easy to the fault line, and I tried to extend my runners to avoid rope drag across the traverse. This didn’t work. I fumbled around on a small ledge before the crux bulge for quite a while. The gear was solid, albeit extended down to my feet, so I went for it. A couple of steep moves later I found myself clinging to a juggy undercut hold. Most relieving, until I gave it a tap and realised it was hollow. Brilliant.

My gear was way below me now, and can you guess where the only placement was? That’s right, behind the block. I wedged in a large nut and decided it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to fall off. So onwards, to the traverse! I made a committing step around a sort of arête, and found some very small, pinchy holds. And no gear. The rope drag was already hellish. I was making an absolute dogs arse of this, and it wasn’t hard to imagine Mick thinking the same; ‘Who is this idiot? I’ve got to stop climbing with random strangers off the internet...’

I gibbered my way across the traverse, still not finding any placements. For each move I had to balance on tiny holds and yank some slack for the left rope. After each tenuous step across the void, I was greeted with a distinct lack of protection opportunities. Mick belayed, perhaps wondering what he’d tell my mother.

Eventually, I reached the security of an arête, and thank god, some gear. Now it was just a case of keeping my head together and dealing with the rope drag. I clawed my way up, giving myself a stern talking to, until I finally made it to the usual choss and the top of the cliff. Mick followed easily enough.

I was fairly pumped after this, so I happily seconded Mick up a couple of routes, the last of which we only just got up before the sun went down. I’d never seen anyone climb so quickly or smoothly before. By the end he looked just about warmed up, while I was a panting, dribbling mess, dragging my arms weakly along the ground as we walked back to the car park.

Good old Boulder Ruckle, I fucking hate you.