Monday, August 27, 2012

Sand and Granite


South Africa
TONY: After all the percolated coffee and dirty toilets in France, landing at Cape Town airport greeted with a soy latte and a clean loo felt like a return to civilization. I’ve always wanted to live in a place where you could surf in the morning before work and climb in the evening after, and Cape Town delivers that in the most beautiful location of any city I’ve ever been. It also has decent night life and excellent food, a mix of Asian, African and European and the best condiment known to man, Mrs H.S Balls Original Recipe Chutney (Laura: Julie thinks she’s seen it in your fridge at home. You NEED to put us in contact with your supplier!) Laura’s sister Jeanette kindly offered us a room in her apartment in Rondebosh, a leafy suburb close to everything, with a view of Table Mountain to wake up to every morning. She was great company and an excellent part time tour guide, and we saw a lot in the week we spent in an around the city. The highlight was probably the little seaside villages dotted across the peninsula, each with its own character and beach and mountain vista. Eating fresh seafood at sunset on the fisherman’s quay in Kalk Bay, watching the seals try to steal some of the last catch of the day while it’s being bought in by the colorful little fishing boats... There are also African penguins, and everyone knows I’ve got a soft spot for penguins. We climbed one of the classic table mountain routes, ‘Jacobs Ladder (16)’ in a single very long day. Julie lead most of the route, including the amazing traverse pitch. Climbing this steep cliff high above the town and the ocean was one of the highlights of the trip. 

Beautiful traverse pitch on Jacob's Ladder - with Cape Town below
Table Mountain with our lovely hostess Jeanett
Sad to leave Cape Town, we picked up a rental car, filled the boot with Biltong and headed north, through empty countryside to the Cerderberg Wilderness..  We starte to feel it was all a bit easy, just like home, and then we drove past Zebras (ZEBRAS!) We named our VW Polo ‘Von Smits’ to try to fit in with the Africaaners. The main attraction in Cederbeg, aside from the rolling hills and wildflowers, is the sandstone boulders, which attract scores of climbers from all over the world for months at a time. August is prime time for camping and bouldering at the ‘Rocklands’ when days are sunny and clear and friction is at its best.

At least, that’s what the guidebook I was reading insisted while we sat in the car watching the hail batter the windscreen. It was freezing, but thankfully only for a day or two, after which we got the sunny weather we were promised. We spent our one sunny day climbing with French, Germans, Russians, Czechs and Americans.  That night prompted by many a veteran Rocklands boulderer, we visited a fundraising performance at a primary school in a nearby village. The kids really put my primary school plays to shame with their incredible dancing and singing (although my family said my turn as ‘Trooper 4’ in ‘Captain Midnight’ at Castlemaine North Primary was inspired). Their choir covered a Ladysmith Black Mambazo track that I love, and traditional dancing was neat. The littlest kids were very cute in their enthusiasm.

Leaving the next day at 6, we made our way through South African and Namibian border checks; at least 6 windows to visit it turned out, but no one told us that until we tried to cross the border without some random stamp or fee paid or another. 
Tony in his element visiting endangered penguins on the Cape

Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens in Cape Town



Fishermen bringing in our fish for dinner - check out the seal


Julie and our fish at chips at Kalkies, Kalk Bay Cape Town
Namibia
It was really started to feel like Africa. The roads were straights and dusty, junctions swarming with families looking for rides and shacks made from tin cans selling beaded necklaces and collected firewood. I’d expected to see African animals in game parks, but we were already spotting ostriches, warthogs, springbok and gemsbok in the early morning and late evening from the road. We traveled up through Namibia, which is really one vast desert stretching from the huge red sand dunes of the Namib to the plains of the Khalahari. There are many local languages, and we learnt how to say hello in the Nama language, one of the “clicking” languages, from a girl at a roadhouse. Not easy to pronounce, and I have no idea how to spell a click. (I think they use apostrophes !nama) We stopped each night to camp in the desert. The first night we camped close to Fish River Canyon, the second largest canyon in the world behind the Grand Canyon, and watched the sun go down on its edge. We visited the Namib Desert dunes at Sussouvlei, and hiked through the red emptiness reminiscent of Arabia to the Hidden Vlei, a mud flat with petrified trees 600 years old. The colors of the flat white ground against the deep red dunes and the bright blue sky were incredible. 

Fish River Canyon (and a tiny Julie)
We continued north, Von Smits grudgingly absorbing the dust, corrugations and potholes. We’d been told not to pick up locals looking for lifts, but it was getting increasingly difficult to drive past families with their thumbs out in the middle of nowhere, happy as they seemed to be waiting in the blazing sun. When we asked again at a service station about picking up hitch hikers, the friendly man was emphatic in his insistence that it was to be avoided, and we would be harassed or worse, but we had to question his real motives when he mumbled ‘you’ll never get the African stink out of the car’. We were happy the next day to give a lift to a friend of one of the park rangers to the city, who we found out later worked as a nurse in a healthcare system with 700 patients per doctor, 7 days a week at a workplace 8 hours drive from home. We arrived in Windhoek, the capital, for a days rest and to collect provisions for a week camping at Spitzkoppe, the “Matterhorn of Africa”.

Von Smits in Namibia

Soaking up the ambiance at the canyon
Our desert camp in Sossusvlei
The incredible Sossusvlei dunes in Namibia


The only shade for kms, under a 600 year old dead tree in Hidden Vlei

JULIE:
To give some idea of the aspect of Spitzkopppe, you might imagine a Namibian version of Ayres Rock, in the shape of the  Matterhorn – it’s a great reddy golden mountain and boulder playground rising from a vast dry plain.

Our arrival at Spitzkoppe marked 5 days or so of dawn starts, unheard of for Tony, and a veritable miracle for me.  We not only survived, but continued the trend of pre-sunrise starts to climb a few longer routes in Spitzkoppe (the sun sets early here in winter).  But I get ahead of myself.
3 hours into our drive from the capital,Windhoek our recorded book about the travels of Livingstone and Stanley finished. I tied up my work, my laptop died and I realised I’d forgotten to buy a new book. I was utterly dismayed, expecting that the desert blankness for5 days would get more than a little boring (Oh, how wonderful, more, sand). 

Ah but the desert won. My simple mind just couldn’t comprehend how a place so dry with 5mm of annual rainfall could support so much life.  A base level of intrigue made each new sight a discovery, a thing to ponder and the rock is beautiful, smooth and sinewy.  The rock here is ancient, truly.  Apparently created by volcanic action well before Gondwana was even created, the granite didn’t pierce the surface.  Over eons, first covered by glaciers, surrounding earth cleared, to reveal the granite now exposed to the sand. That there is nothing around to see in any direction compounds the sense you’ve moved back in time. (The local town is a mere smattering of tin shacks, home to gem stone miners, and sits near a dry riverbed kilometres away).

Camping among the boulders at Spitzkoppe. 
The guidebook describes the ambiance as ‘spiritual’; reading which made me mentally vomit.  But, there is something truly special about real silence in the desert I can appreciate.  Your body must, I think, sense the silence, and shut down even those tiny defences it retains even when you’re fully relaxed on, say, a beach holiday back home.  In the desert even your ears can relax.  And it’s true that the stars are more beautiful.  

I have to admit that I didn’t relax straight away.  As we entered the Spitzkoppe Park I read a happy report explaining conservation success attracting fauna to the park – including leopards.  I was shocked. In my head, all I had to watch our for were snakes near the rocks.  Snakes, being Australian, I can watch out for.  But I figure I’m snack size for a leopard, and definitely not able to intimidate one.  

Thus commences night one, a tiny desert mouse scuttled around near the tent.  I was sure it was a leopard.  Tony snored. I shuddered!  The Leopard would find us now for sure!  I was sure I’d look up to glowing Leopard eyes through the fly door.  Then a fierce wind picked up and whipped the tent so fiercely I couldn’t make out leopard sounds from the sandstorm.  Unfortunately the cold, strong, wind hounded most of our trip and limited our ability to climb the balancy slabs* somewhat, though we did scuttle up P. Hufagnel on the towering smooth buttress next to our camp on one sunny afternoon  .   

Tony contemplating the next run out on P. Hufagnel
Abseiling off P. Hufagnel
The access to the climbs were quite lovely too. For our most satisfying climb we had to start the walk in from the ground to the far right of the Pontok range and trend up the low angled slabs past each of the 4 big pontok mountains all the way to the leftmost Pontok Spitz. The path lead through a maze of boulder steps and corridors.  Along the way we saw mountain hyrax, and odd plants like cactus trees, spiky desert plants with delicate purple flowers. 

Admittedly slab climbing of the flavour in the area is not my ideal variant of the sport– I feel too much at the whim of brittle rock to commit to 4 metre+ run-outs.  Tony on the other hand boldly (as his wife, I may say somewhat too boldly)  loves to climb slab routes.  He lead us up the 8 pitch “To Bolt or Not To Bolt” on our final, perfect weather day.  New monikers aside (“To bolt a little more?”), we reached the summit marker in the sunshine and I was awfully glad we’d done it.  Our names are now in the Summit Book at the top, recording our battle up the glorious crux, thrutchy chimney,  off-width crack and brittle traverse pitches, on our honeymoon. 

We left a little sandy, but happy to wash off and relax in a comfy bed in the Capital.  We learnt a little from other guests in the thoroughly recommended Rivendell Guest House; Etosha Game park further north is apparently teeming with game, including black rhino and is beautiful, and we’ve been tipping at roughly 5 times the going rate all trip.

Currently sitting at the airport, where our first internal African flight from Namibia has been delayed for 6 hours for maintenance.  Namibia is very developed, and so I suspect this marks the start of our “real” African journey.   We’re off to Zambia now to stay in a game lodge for a week and then catch the Tazara train through Tanzania over and then hang out in the very, very, cool sounding Zanzibar (just rolls off the tongue doesn’t it) with Tony’s Dad.

(*Slabs are rough rock that is less than vertical you patter up based on friction alone. Physically easy, apart from on the calves, it’s scary as one slip and you’d likely grater down, quite far since often (and in Spitzkoppe generally) the relative ease of the climb means protection is well spaced 4-10 metres apart)

Tony Conqueror of Pontok Spitz


A hug on the summit of To Bolt or Not To Bolt- our final day.



Sunday, August 19, 2012

Summit Fever


Alpine rock climbing was something I was really excited about. Australia has some decent sized cliffs, but the Mont Blanc massif of the French alps has 800 meter granite climbs at high altitude above spectacular glaciers. I somehow talked Julie into going there.
Chamonix was a bit of a blur. We had to get oriented, find accommodation (overpriced) and buy a lot of gear. We rented ice axes and crampons, a bought a book called "how to cross glaciers" which I skimmed through over dinner by way of preparation. Pretty straightforward really; stay roped together, and if someone falls down a crevasse, try not to fall down after them. If you manage to stop their fall, somehow build an ice anchor and a three way pulley system to haul them out. The same as rock rescue really, except on ice. 

Our first goal was the Envers refuge, a small alpine hut perched above the Mer de Glace glacier below some incredible granite spires. We like to make an epic out of every trip we take, so we filled our bags with way too much food and equipment until we could barely carry them before taking the Montenvers alpine train to the highest point we could, roping up and setting out across the glacier.
Eleven hours later we finally saw the hut. I think our climbing ability and experience were more than sufficient for the alpine climbing we were preparing to attempt, but our fitness and speed were not. Two months of eating daily three course 'menu du jour' french meals, together with incredibly heavy packs, meant we set a record as the slowest approach to the Envers refuge in the history of Alpinism, and we could barely put one food in front of the other by the time we were climbing the iron ladders that guard the last few hundred meters to the hut. Evelyn the hut guardian/cook wasn't happy to be preparing our dinner at 10pm, and didn't stop frowning at us for three days. 

The climbing above the hut was absolutely stunning. Huge snow tipped granite towers surrounded by glaciers, split by long hand cracks perfect for lacing with gear. After our unnecessarily epic walk in, we spent a morning recovering before doing our first route, 'Magic of the Orient', a 500 Meter pair of towers above the Blantyre glacier. Being our first alpine climb we had a couple of teething problems. How do we keep the ropes dry belaying off the ice? How do we stop the packs from skating off down the ice slope while we climb? How do we get onto the rock when the glacier is separated from the rock by a bottomless crevasse? We figured it all out eventually and had a beautiful afternoon climbing in the sun..

Julie high above the Mer de Glace on 'Magic of the Orient'
The next day we attempted a route called ‘Guy-Anne’, a series of cracks that trace a path up the Pont de Nantillions, the sharp looking spires high above the Hut. The crux of the route is a perfect diagonal hand width crack which is a grade less than the previous pitch at 6a+ but feels incredibly hard after 60 meters of sustained hand jamming. We battled through it, but leading all pitches in succession was taking its toll on me, and again we were moving too slowly to finish before dark, so we retreated late in the day. We didn’t get another shot at it, as the weather closed in the next day and we were forced to hike back down to Chamonix. 

Celebrating that I survived the cracks of Guy Anne
After a couple of rest days hanging out in arty cafes by the canals in Annecy, we forgot about the suffering involved in Alpine climbing and made a dash back to the alps when the weather cleared, this time on the Italian side, for a shot at a route on the ‘Petit Capucin’, a peak on the flanks of Mont Blanc itself beside the incredible looking ‘Grand Capucin’. Unfortunately this meant spending a night or two in the ugly prison like Torino refuge, a concrete bunker that passes for a Refugio. It is one of the highest refuges in the Alps and a necessary staging point for people attempting to summit Mont Blanc or many of Valle Blanche routes. It’s dirty, cold and uncomfortable, and when we were trekking across the glacier in the Valle Blanche before sunrise the next day, I envied the group that had pitched tents out on the ice, surrounded only by the magnificent peaks.
Our route, ‘Lifting the King’, is a 10 pitch 400 meter 5c route, with some nice climbing in an absolutely breathtaking setting. Behind, the summit of Mont Blanc is clearly visible. To the right, the sheer face of the Grand Capucin looks intimidating, but is tempting at only 6a+ if you’re willing to pull out the etriers. In the distance, the ‘Giants Tooth’ cuts through the clouds. 
Julie in the Valle Blanche. Our goal is the middle of the three peaks on the left of the photo

When we arrived at the base of the route, a pair of Italians were just starting out. We were dismayed, thinking climbing up below them would slow us enough to miss out on the summit, but they couldn’t figure out the opening sequence of moves up a steep crack, and left defeated. With the peak to ourselves, we climbed more quickly, with each pitch falling in good time. Belaying, I could see another pair of climbers across the valley on another route, a tough looking, steep, parallel crack that wouldn’t look out of place at India Creek, Utah, if it wasn’t for all the snow and ice. Next time.
Julie on 'Lifting the King', high above the Valle Blanche
The climbing was technical in places, with thin slabs, steep corners occasional cracks. For most of the morning the sun was shining, but in the afternoon cloud started to form and a bitter cold wind built up until it was almost unbearable.  (Julie – liar! the wind started on pitch 3).  Belaying and rope handling became difficult with stiff shaking hands, and Julie was struggling to communicate as her jaw locked up from the cold. We were still four pitches from the summit, and the crux pitch is the final steep headwall to the peak. Then we still had to get down, 10 long abseils and a two hour+ trek across the glacier to the refuge, probably in the dark. I’m sure Julie would have bailed if she didn’t have to face my disappointed expressions, but we kept climbing.  Reaching the top of the route in the late afternoon, we snapped two photos, glanced at the view, and headed down as fast as we could, blue from wind chill. It was a nice route in one of the most beautiful places I’ve been, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to talk Julie into alpine routes again. With a flight to Africa in a week, I was looking forward to some hot, dry desert climbing.
Cold and tired on the top of Lifting the King

Monday, August 6, 2012

Wide is Love

JULIE: As an Australian I think we assume that in terms of natural beauty there’s not much we don’t have at home.  But for rockclimbing, Tony and I were starting to realise that even if we have beautiful crags, we have nothing like the quantity of rock.  The whole South of France is one immense expanse of climbable rock, often in a spectacular setting.  

In Verdon, you stay at the top of the plateau rising from the hot sun-kissed fields in Provence.  As Bertrand turned each delicate corner on the windy road up, I had to check Tony was watching the road. It was difficult not to gawk at the expanse of sheer white limestone mountains, offset by perfect blue sky, and highlighted way down low by the merest shadow of a forest and an almost invisible line of the river that had carved it all.  Everything, about Verdon gives off a sense of grandeur. 

Perhaps imagine a hot version of the Alpes and you might imagine something similar to the reality. 

In any event, Verdon certainly merits its fame as one of the best, if most intimidating, places to climb. The question was whether we were up for it.

The weather was baking, about 37 degrees, and so Tony and I eschewed the real hardman climber location (a campsite) and found a hotel with cool tiles and generous provincial cooking for 4 nights.  Returning at 9.30 one night the manager laid out for us our meal of the day:  a selection of fresh tomato, basil and mozzarella, a plate of thinly sliced local ham, a salad of fennel ribbons, parmesan cheese and fragrant olive oil and a plate of fried eggplant slices dotted with thyme.  And that was just the entree.  We eventually discovered on leaving why our host was so confused we turned down the wine.  The 20 euro dinner and breakfast pension included our aperitifs and wine as well.  Not that we could fit them. 

Anyway, Tony’s careful study of the climbing guides for long months in Melbourne had resulted in some big plans.  With an increasingly wild man beard, his eyes lit up at talk of long classic climbs in the Verdon, the Demand in particular.  The Demand is a 400 metres long climb in full 30 degree + sun until about 2pm.  So it is recommended you start the climb when it hits shade.  400 metres is double the length of the longest climbs we’ve done so far in a day, and for the same length climb in Tasmania we’d been planning to start before dawn.   “We’ll just be faster” says my eternal  optimist husband. “And the belays are bolted, which will save time building anchors”.   I was dubious but can't help being carried away by his enthusiasm.   

After a day or so acquainting ourselves with the rock in the area (nice limestone, not as polished as other popular areas, bit a bit spicy on the bolting), we abseiled into The Demand, taking about 3 hours to get down all 12 pitches.  By the time we arrived at the base of the climb we were covered in sweat, I was sticky from the tin of red bull that had opened itself in our backback on the way down, half out of water and a bit tired.  It was 3pm. Nevertheless we started up the climb.   A real old style affair with jamming cracks, some awkward moves involving slinging dead trees for protection and a fair spot of polish in parts.  Not really my style, but Tony was on fire and enjoying every minute.  He cruised up some slippery jam cracks and calmly placed gear in places I wouldn’t have eyed twice for it (inside a large thrutchy chimney above a dead tree just waiting to pierce a falling climber, for instance).   By the end of pitch 4 or so we had to call it a day; we just weren’t going to finish before dark.  I thought longingly of our comfy hotel room and dinner, but would have slept on the big ledge above us if we’d actually had enough water to continue the climb the next day, which we didn’t.  (I'd brought some 'emergency' cake just in case). By the final abseil it was clear we’d made the right call, we were both exhausted.   We walked along the river and through an incredible 700 metres or so of tunnel through the mountain to get out.  The tunnel was pitch black and full of puddles.  I couldn’t help but think about The Hobbit when walking through and wandered what might lurk within; a toad it turned out, and some cool air which felt amazing after the heat. 

From the tourist carpark I then had to convince a passing Frenchman to drive me and my hairy, shoeless companion about 20km up the hill.  Tony by this stage was so tired it would have been up to me to walk to the car and return to get him so  I’m VERY pleased we found someone.

The next afternoon we climbed a much shorter, but incredibly intimidating route called Wide is Love.   From the plateau we abseiled down to a hanging anchor, with about 800 metres of void below.  The climb looks intimidatingly steep, with smooth rock and neighboured by some of the hardest climbs in the country.   With a team of “look downers” watching from the lookout to our left we made it out at sunset, on some of the most enjoyable climbing on little horizontal edges.  It was a most satisfying end to our few days climbing in Verdon.

And now Tony will tell you the story of our next stops in the French and Italian Alpes. It is best you hear from him, to get the story of the stark beauty of the area and the quality of the special granite there, else you might be left with the impression we walked up steep mountains and suffered in the cold for over a week…

Friday, August 3, 2012

Relaxed climbing in beautiful parts of France


JULIE: 
While traveling it is so difficult to observe without comparison- to home, to things you’ve seen before. I have a dozen insightful ideas a day … but none of these can I share with you, as it’s been more than a month since I last wrote about the trip, and all musings have fled to the recesses of my subconscious.  

But, just occasionally, my mind has stopped its niggling and left me in peace to gaze at something beautiful.   Our 3 weeks (22 June to 9 July) in the Gorges du Tarn were like this.  It is impossible to describe our stay in the area without painting the setting.  The Tarn river is a narrow, crystal clear river that twinkles in green. It flows steadily down to places we never saw and has carved out the largely rocky sides of the plateau into a magnificient steep valley. There are steep, long cliffs with fabulous climbing everywhere.  I’d ventured to say that it was the most beautiful part of France, (though as with all superlatives, they are the devils work and no sooner do you utter the words than swallow them).  

To get from the plateau you take a winding road a little larger than a driveway, which occasionally goes straight through rock caves hollowed for the purpose.   The stone village of Les Vignes (the vines) where we stayed is tiny. There are a couple of restaurants we came to know well over our 3 weeks where you sit and look down over the sparkling water, and out at all the cliffs – most of which have never been climbed.  The restauranteurs came to know us also, or at least our bright blue Renault driving up and down the town.  While bemused at the repetitive ordering of the one vegetarian dish on their menu for sure, they rewarded our enforced patronage with free drinks from time to time.  

Anyway, for 3 weeks in the Tarn Tony and I happily lived camped beside the gurgling river under shady trees.   The weather in France was already hot, around 35 or more each day, but in the Tarn we found shade in the steep gorge and cool evenings to rockclimb in until 10pm.  However, some days were too hot and so we’d float around in the river until early afternoon or go to a nearby town for some provisions.  A highlight was Severac  where we wandered up little cobblestone streets  to a medieval castle surrounded by poppies and plum trees.   We were able to explore the ramshackle castle all alone, for free.  Tony pointed out quite rightly how strange it was that such beautiful  places came about because of war.   

We also visted the Gorges de la Jonte, the next town over.   Here, remarkably, it was even more beautiful than the Tarn.  We climbed several longer routes in the Jonte, both around 100metres, 25 storeys, each.  Not that the height makes any difference to the climbing difficulty. The first was easy climbing up the L’Icorne, the unicorn.  You can imagine the high triangular point at the top.  At the top we had the option of going hands over feet along a wire hooked up between the unicorn and the main cliff, above a 100metre void, or abseiling down the unicorn directly.   As tempted as we were with monkeying over the tyrolean, we couldn’t see a way down on the other side, and so we abseiled down directly.  Later in our trip we pried ourselves out of bed early enough to avoid most of the sun on another climb in the Jonte – L’Arete Ouest (the western arĂȘte) of a huge cliff that looks like half a mountain has detached from the rest of its brethren to stand alone.   An early start was required as the sun was too hot to climb in.  However, the thing about climbing an arĂȘte is that it is scary… very scary.  You climb right on the edge the whole way so there are no ledges or corners to dissimulate the feeling of being so high.  And right from the start I had to step across a chasm to get ‘en route’.   The highlight for me was right at the top, out of sight of tony who was about 45 metres below courageously pulling a difficult move knowing if I fell I’d drop 6 or 8 metres into nothingness.   Tony then led the next pitches, as I think I used up all my courage then and there. He’s so much braver than I am!

There were a couple of days of rain during our stay in the Tarn.   Tony and I spoiled ourselves by staying in a nice B&B called “The Tranquil Place” run by a couple of British people. Evidently they hadn’t paid much attention during their colonial rule, as after a day or so John finally worked out we were Australian, not Belgian.  He pulled out his Rolf Harris Cds and rugby jokes immediately.  The rain managed to wet all our clothes so the next sunny day was a write off to wash them all.   Fortunately 50 metre climbing ropes can string up a lot of washing, though not sure what the other campers thought about Tony’s crappy socks.

Around the same time, we made friends with another newlywed American couple Allan and Charlotte and their friend Alex (a girl), who were completing post-grad philosophy studies in Spain.  Not sure if when you meet people initially you look for similarities only, but it seemed uncanny how similar we were.  Charlotte and Allan were also in their first year of marriage, are vegetarian and doing a lot of climbing all over the place; they were even considering following us into Iran for the festival.  While we nearly followed them to Spain, we resisted the urge and instead left the Tarn, sadly, for one of the most famous climbing areas in the world… the Gorges du Verdon in Provence.  Hopefully will see our new friends again in California some day.  Would be nice to follow in the steps of some other married couples I know who’ve made lasting friendships on their honeymoon!

Introduction to the Gorges du Verdon
Now I’ve been rockclimbing for years now, but when I looked down at the Gorges du Verdon, a massive 850 metres from the lookout to the tiny line of a river below, my throat choked up and I wanted to back away from the metal railing.  There is only one word to describe this place and it is spectacular.  

Tony did, eventually, entice me onto these amazing cliffs … but for more on these adventures you’ll have to tune in later.  (We’re off right now to sample some more adventures on the town in Cape Town, South Africa.)

Crazy exposure climbing a few hundred meters above the Verdon River. You can just spot Julie tied in above the lip of a void.