The Sanbag Man Cometh

I lived there from '91 to '93. A lifetime ago. Yesterday. I still have great friends there and I had a chance to go for free, on the condition that I do a presentation at a conference. A small price to pay.  But I knew about the sandbag. It would be waiting for me. I have dished it out and it is now time to take it.

So great to be back in Rio. You have to experience this city. Beaches, rainforest, 800 meter granite domes, poverty, crime, surfing, violence, huge climbs, butts, music - they got it all, baby. So great to speak Portuguese again and sit at the corner bars tanking down endless tiny glasses of ice cold draft beer to the crash of the surf.

The climbs: huge granite friction slabs with homemade bolts far, far apart and a funky black lichen that covers every surface and serves the dual role of sucking up the sun's heat and forming ball bearings under your feet. This is not climbing, this is technical hiking. When you climb it well you feel like you are dancing up a vertical face. When you don't climb it well you feel bad. Scared and bad. And shaky.

The first day I give my presentation. Check that off the list. Meanwhile Loco climbs Sugarloaf with my grand old climbing partner and sandbagmaster, Paulo. Sugarloaf is the centerpiece of the most beautiful city on the planet. And Loco climbs it with my old partner while I prattle on about spirals to the tune of PowerPoint. His comment - My toes are sore. This sure is different climbing from what I'm used to, you know, with holds.

The next afternoon I'm free to climb. Now, when I moved to Norway and started opening lots of routes I named the first 30 or so after friends: Sweet Anita, Fussbudget, Chez Anne, Roadside attraction, Swede tooth - and I named a climb for Paulo: Jungle Boy. Which is perfect - he's Mowgli on steroids. But also, I sort of figured if he ever got up to Norway he would have to climb his namesake and I imagined he would have trouble with it. He's short and it's a reachy climb. An evil idea, but you have to understand our relationship. We sandbag each other. From way back.  He responded in kind by opening a new climb in my honor - Caipirinha Noruegesa - Norwegian Caipirinha. Caipirinha is the national drink and one of my many weaknesses. That afternoon was my chance to climb my route.

The sandbag is early and obvious. Walking along the jungle trail in Tijuca forest - a rainforest inside the city limits - he allows - I think it's five-ten. A bit further down the trail - hard five-ten. At the base of the climb - consistent five-ten plus. As I cast off - people think it's five-eleven. NOW, we're talking five-eleven slab on that black, slimy lichen that is swollen with rain from the day before with virtually no handholds and the first homemade bolt of this "sport route" 4 meters off the deck. As a warmup climb.

I'm doing Elvis before the first clip and he's loving it. Just go up 20 meters or so and there's a hold. Fecking Friction - I remember now why I thought I'd died and gone to heaven when I moved from Rio to Switzerland - lots of holds and lots of bolts! I know the concept - trust your feet, stand up straight, take small steps, pretend that insignificant stain on the face is a ledge and stand on it - but I'm wigged out from the start and he is loving it.

While I sweat to clip the first - did I mention homemade - bolt, Paulo hikes up the the slab left of me to the first bolt on his route 20 meters off the deck. He doesn't use his hands. Above me he calls - there's a nice breeze if you ever get up here. I sweat, cuss and cry my way through three bolts and just can not get to the fourth. I think - let Loco push it up one bolt and I'll rally. But loco heroically pushes it up 30 meters before he loses his nerve due to looming friction and rope drag. So he ties off to a bolt, brings me up and I set off on the last 20 meters.

For a short while there are good holds on steep terrain, and then it's friction again. Fecking friction. And I'm wigged. And my technique goes to hell. And Paulo, who is now rapelling off of his multi-pitch route, is throwing pebbles at me. And he's going to rappel right down my route so he tosses his rope at me. Then, while I'm clinging to the slab like a cat to a screen door, he rappels over my rope right past me saying - I've never seen this done in 3 pitches before. I've had enough. I grab his rope after he passes me and batman to the anchors, clip in, and cuss him out thoroughly in two languages. As Gwen follows him down the rope she says - man, you guys must have a strong friendship to survive shit like this.

Yeah, well, I've sort of done the same to him.

At the base again I give him props. Man, you did sandbag me that time. Maybe after two weeks here I'd be ready for that friction shite.

I love Rio, but I'm glad to be back in a town where the climbs have holds.