Floods and Snowstorms

An ill-timed trip to England.

I wasn't expecting too much climbing as I was the designated nanny for the month of July. But still, with a very gay pink borrowed mountain bike and baby seat I had dreams of hauling the wee one up to Dartmoor with shoes and chalk bag and searching out bouldering. Enter the wettest summer in England maybe ever. Spent nearly all of the time in England pub-bound or cycling through the rain with baby in tow. One ferry-man, after a short crossing to Cornwall, flashed me his bedroom eyes and said - I do fancy the colour of your bike...

I knew the month was a write-off and I was a bad dad when the wee one would see me preparing the bike and say - are we going to a pub? Do you want a pint? I want a pint.

Exit soaking, flooding, pissingdown England. Enter the coldest, snowiest winter in Chile maybe ever. Snowstorms shut down the city, and work, for three days in August. I burned through 8 tons of wood in my drafty cabin in the hills.

A Brazilian climber friend flew in to ski, got sick of all the storms and flew back out. Come to Rio where the weather suits your clothes. Good advice as anyone who has had the luck to climb in Rio knows.

Then, overnight, winter turns to summer. To hell with spring. Tons of base and cloudless days in the Andes. Perfect ski touring weather, but perfect climbing weather. Ski up a mountain and watch your legs get stronger while your arms shrink? At least that puts off the harsh reality of dealing with a physique shaped by English floods and pubs and Chilean blizzards for another weekend.

Driving back from skiing today there were still cars parked at one of the local crags as the sun set. They're getting fit and I'm getting in thost last turns of the season.