As Twilight Fell

"You know you've had a good climb when you take your pants off and throw them against the wall and they stick," so said an Aussie climber as we walked passed carrying our kit. We were on our way to a first crack at a grade 10 and he must have known we were beginners as we followed Brendan, our instructor to the site of our first climb.
I'd signed up for a day of abseiling and rock climbing after some of Micko’s enthusiasm had rubbed off on me. We spent the first couple of hours covering the basics of abseiling on the basis of the old adage, ‘what goes up must come down,’ - it’s somewhat of a required skill when climbing. We practised on gradually increasing cliff faces until we had built up the confidence to descend down one of 25 metres. It was great fun.
The Australian system classes climbs from grades 1 to 30 where 1 is classed as the easiest and 30 the hardest technically possible. Brendan started us off with a 10, which seemed quite a bold leap for a novice like me. On the drive out from Katoomba whilst making small talk, I’d told Brendan that I was a computer programmer in my former life. With this in mind he should have guessed I was too nerdy to take on anything too challenging.
The group included a short, slight British guy called Andrew. He had ginger hair that would have got him picked on by bullies if he’d gone to a school anything like mine, but judging by his well-spoken accent, that wasn’t likely. He’d arrived in the dormitory at the Flying Fox the previous evening, coming to the Blue Mountains specifically for the climbing course. Arriving late from Sydney was Frederick, a thick set German who was the strong silent type. They both admitted to experience on indoor climbing walls as I wondered what I had got myself into, the only things I had climbed in my life were stairs.
The other two guys took their turns on the 25 metre high grade 10 whilst Brendan and I hung on to their safety ropes. They both made it to the top, though with a bit of a struggle. It was now my turn. I started off determined not to show myself up too much and began quite well but I was only covering the easy bit. Further up, just past halfway to the summit was an overhang that had me worried as soon as I’d seen it. Clinging underneath and already feeling tired it seemed impossible to get over. Brendan had instructed us that the secret to good climbing was to use the legs as much as the arms, but you can only do that when there's something to put your feet on. I reached over the jutting rock and grabbed a couple of handfuls of rock and began to haul myself over with my feet scurrying through the empty air below desperately feeling for something to lever off of. Brendan was yelling from below to get a foothold but there was just nowhere useful I could see that I could reach to put them on. I flung my legs forward in a vain attempt to get a meaningful contact with the wall but only managed to scrape my shins painfully along the rock face.
Exhausted, I pulled myself up and over with all the strength in my arms and just managed to clear the overhang. With weary arms and bleeding legs I scurried up the rest of the way to the top. It was a relief when Brendan declared that it was time for lunch after my abseil back down.
I tried to hide my shaking arms as I took bites from my ham and cheese sandwiches that felt as heavy as if they’d been made out of solid lead. I couldn’t get enough water – it tasted like liquid gold. Goodness knows how I was going to get through the rest of the afternoon, my poor technique at that overhang had left my arms with little energy and Brendan had declared that we were going on to tackle a grade 12 next.
When we got there it actually looked easier then the grade 10. There were no overhangs to worry about and so I became a bit more optimistic. I began my climb quite well with my confidence building and some of the pain in my biceps from the build up of lactic acid was beginning to fade. However, halfway up I seemed to run out of handholds. I looked all around, shuffling along the ledge I was precariously balanced on, trying to figure out what to do. Putting too much faith in the grip of my climbing shoes I reached up to the only handhold I could get to and tried my foot scurrying method again.
Suddenly the cliff face was falling away from me. There was no life flashing before my eyes moment, just the thought that I hoped the yelp I emitted didn't sound too pathetic. Brendan took the strain in my safety rope and held me dangling in the air. I swung back to the cliff face and abseiled back to ground level with his laughter echoing across the canyon. It felt good to get back to ground and it took a few moments for the adrenaline rush to subside. I watched the other two guys make their attempts, cursing myself as they made it to the top.
We moved on to a cliff face with two routes, one a grade 13 and the other a 12, but my confidence and stamina were rapidly depleting. Again on both attempts at the 12 I was left dangling, dependent on Brendan’s sure hands and very much to his amusement.
“I’ve never seen anybody fall off as spectacularly as you!” he teased. At least the others were now beginning to struggle. Only Frederick managed the grade 12 after several attempts. I was left exhausted and covered in cuts. It felt like I had taken a shower and cleaned myself using a cheese grater rather then soap. Muscles I didn’t know I had ached for days afterward. That days’ climbing has to have been one of the hardest things I'd ever done and I include programming complex computer applications, learning advanced quantum mechanics and trying to remember to leave the toilet seat down in the comparison.

* * *

You know you're getting old when it takes two days to get over a hangover. On my last night in the Blue Mountains a short, tough looking Australian with cropped hair called Michael arrived at the hostel. At first, he was reluctant to talk about what he did for a living, but after a few beers I found out he was a professional boxer and had just won a fight the night before. He was very generous with his prize money, paying for drinks and entry into a small nightclub for the group of half a dozen or so of us that went out from the hostel. He was a fighter at lightweight, but keeping up with his heavyweight drinking proved to be impossible, it was clear that he was on a major wind down after the fight. I found him to be extremely likeable and I had great admiration for the dedication he showed when he talked about his profession. The only thing was that so did Lucy, and I have to admit to a pang of jealousy as he became her tree. It was time to call it a night after Michael refused to take me on in a drunken arm wrestle. I left him and Lucy to it, managing to make it back to the hostel just in time to catch the live transmission of the FA Cup final from the UK. I didn’t remember much of the match, my stomach punishing me for leaving it empty but for beer by sending me to the toilet repeatedly.
It was a great week in the Blue Mountains though; I very much enjoyed the bush walks through the various canyons and past the waterfalls of the area. It was humbling to come across some original Aboriginal artwork on a cliff face on one walk that must have been hundreds, if not thousands of years old. There were pictures of tribesman hunting alongside images of various animals. There was also the text from a primitive hand that read 'Mark woz ere' and another that said ' Matt 4 Katie'. I just wish I knew what it all meant.
Apart from the small touristy bit at the edge of town at Echo Point and the walking tracks the place is practically unspoilt. I was happy to hear it when Brendan had told us that the authorities have banned any further development in the area. I returned to Sydney feeling suitably relaxed. I had decided that the next leg of my journey would be northward along the east coast. The city was a shock to the system after the calm of the mountains. I took a last walk around town, the hustle and bustle a complete opposite to life in the Blue Mountains. I passed a store that had a pre-recorded voice bellowing into the street in the style of a hyperactive Ronseal commercial.
"Super savings! Nothing over $10! See how much you can save! We’ve got cheap T-shirts, cheap sunglasses, great savings on jeans, everything you need! Just come on in and have a look!" It bellowed in an infinite loop in an aggressive Aussie accent. I felt so sorry for the people that worked there.
I thought I'd take a look around King's Cross, the city’s red light district as twilight fell. Strangely, it was all men that approached me. Passing one establishment called Porkies, a short stocky man ran up to me.
"We've got a menu - come on in and have a drink," he said aggressively, grabbing hold of my arm.
"Er… no thanks mate, I'm not looking for anything," I replied.
"We've got a brothel if you want a fuck," he snarled.
Never. And I was thinking Porky's sold bacon.
"Not really, I'm fine thanks," I said and he stomped off. Now I'm no marketing genius, but surely they should have used a cute looking woman rather then a psychopathic knucklehead to drum up business.
The next day I headed up to the town of Newcastle, a freshly purchased bus pass giving me access along the east coast of Australia on The Greyhound bus network. What appeared as a small sleepy town was actually the second largest town in New South Wales and was also famous for being the world's largest coal exporter, one and a half million tons of the stuff passing through every week. There were some nice beaches and coastal walks to explore and some nature reserves, but my main reason for going was the accessibility to Hunter Valley, the wine-producing region. I booked myself into the YHA and signed up for the next available tour.

* * *
Friday 27th May 2005 10:22am. The seven of us in the tour group arrived at the first winery called Coopers, a small set up producing just 3000 bottles a year. On the menu were six wines available for our group to try. For completeness we tried them all. The Shiraz was disappointing considering it's one of the chief wines that the region was famous for and also one of my favourite blends. The other star, the Semillon was quite nice which is high praise indeed as I'm not a big white wine fan. The Rose was pretty disgusting though and smelt like someone from a previous tour might have thrown up in it.10:41 Next stop was Tatlers, a slightly larger operation with a charismatic host that reminded me of Brutus from Popeye. Most of the dozen or so wines we tried were good, though the Shiraz was a let down again. There was a nice Chardonnay; again I don't usually go for them. There was also a desert wine that tasted of toffee. I was already beginning to feel tipsy by this stage.11:06 On the way to the chocolate shop we saw a police car that had pulled someone over. Disgraceful I thought, being drunk at this time of day. The amount of free samples at the shop was disappointing as I had the munchies, but the Chocolate Rocks were interesting. They were made up of chocolate and covered with a sort of sugar coating like a posh M & M but they left a strange aftertaste as if there were traces of real rocks in them. I needed more wine to wash the taste away.11:19 The next winery we arrived at was called Sobels. There was a massive St. Bernard dog and the biggest spider I've ever seen in it’s web over the porch. It looked like we had walked into somebody’s front room when we got inside. The Semillon tasted like cold tea and the Shiraz was crap again. Why could nobody here get it right? The Merlot was excellent though. I wondered if the dog gave rides. Heck, the spider could have taken a small child. Many of the wines were beginning to taste the same, but we were then treated to some port. I think I may have been given paint by mistake, but I still drank it. Some of the others in the group were asking intelligent questions, but the best I could come up with was "What's the alcohol content in this". It was 18.5 % by the way.12:05 Just before lunch we go to the Golden Grape winery. After some ordinary stuff we get to the speciality liquors. There was a butterscotch one that tasted fantastic and one that was like Baileys with coconut in which I also very much enjoyed. We finish with one that had chilli's fermenting in the bottle which our entertaining hostess made us all down in one together. It was an acquired taste and very hot. I now felt sick.12:35 Lunch. I was the only one to have brought my own sandwiches and the burgers at The Golden Grape looked fantastic. I wasn’t too jealous as everything tasted of chilli anyway. It would have been so easy to fall asleep in the sun.2:10 Drayton's. Shiraz: shit. There was more white port that should only have been used to clean toilets, although the Tawny Port was nice, but I'm the only one in the group that thought so. There were other red and whites but my mind was fogging. The host was the latest in a long line to tell us that wine colour is determined by the grape's skin and that all wine would otherwise be white.3:05 We go to the cheese shop. I wished they sold kebabs. Though not a big cheese fan I try some cheddar. It tasted of plastic, though I couldn't rule out that I was eating plastic.3:25 McGuigan's. There were red and white wines but I didn't care, I just wanted them given to me. I loved everybody but tried to start a fight with a pillar that was looking at me funny. I realised I was drunk when I thought it was a shame that they weren’t playing Come on Eileen.

* * *

After having the dorm to myself for a couple of nights, I was joined by an older Australian guy. He seemed friendly enough during the couple of brief chats that we’d had. Up until this point I'd been quite lucky not to have been stuck with many snorers but with this guy, I was genuinely worried whether the foundations of the hostel would hold. ‘A snore like a shire horse’ would hardly adequately describe the noise that he generated. As I lay in my bunk across the room from him, I tried to think of something to throw at him to jar him out of it. But I was limited in options by what came to hand:
1) My sandals - may hurt too much and result in a fight.
2) My full water bottle - may cause injury or death.
3) My trousers - may lead to him getting the wrong idea.
To cap it off, the fucker got up at 6.30am, waking me in the process as he moved about with the subtlety of a wounded wildebeest.
I went to the Blackbutt Nature Reserve just outside of Newcastle for the day. I saw plenty of proper Aussie wildlife - kangaroos, emus, wombats and all sorts of birds such as parrots, kookaburras and galahs, but the stars of the show were the occupants of the koala house. A couple of them were actually awake and it was fascinating to watch them clamber about. I hung around for the talk which the guy struggled nervously through, apologising for 'stuffing it up', but at the end he announced we could make our way downstairs to pet their oldest koala Suzie and ask questions in small groups. As I made my way down I tried to think up something to ask - 'How old is she?' and 'How long do they live?' was the best I could come up with. I was let in to see Suzie behind another guy and two girls. As we approached Suzie and her handler one of the girls dived straight in.
"How old is she?" she asked. Damn.
"She’s eight," replied the handler girl, an attractive brunette who was feeding the koala bear from a bottle. After the two girls had their pet I got ready to ask my question.
"How long do they live?" But I realised the words were not mine. The other guy had got in there first. Damn, damn.
"About 15 years in captivity," said the handler girl. The guy moved on and it was now my turn with Suzie. My mind raced for a question as I smiled like an imbecile at the handler girl and ruffled at Suzie’s fur. The only thing I could think of was, ‘What’s the alcohol content in that?’ referring to the milky liquid that Suzie was consuming.
“Well, um… thank you, “ I muttered and followed the others out of the pen thankful that the idea had at least stayed in my head.