Adventure Magazine

Derek Cheng at the top of Point 2135, surrounded by the wild and remote Central Darrans.
Jimmy left me his down jacket and I settled in for the night,
watching their head-torches as they moved up a wall they hoped
would be the quickest way out. Again, and not unpredictably,
they got much more than they bargained for. It took four pitches
of sparsely-protected climbing, meaning any falls would be long
and potentially dangerous, before they topped out—thankfully
fall-free.
It was 3am when they reached the top of the valley. The following
morning, Jimmy decided to take all of our gear from the bivvy
spot to Camp Derek in case, due to my injuries, it was best to
head back to civilisation from there. It was about 24 hours after
my fall when they managed to return with my first aid kit, and
some food. By then, my morning shivers had dissipated; Camp
Derek was basking in afternoon sunshine.
Tramadol and ibuprofen brought relief. It wasn’t until several
weeks later that I realised I’d probably broken my tailbone. My
self-diagnosis was based on the acute pain I felt when sitting or
lying in certain positions. And there was one particularly telling
symptom: for weeks, it was really painful to shit.
—
I’d met Jimmy and Ben the previous summer in Homer Hut,
in Fiordland, and quickly learned that Jimmy was basically Mr
Darrans; he always knew exactly where we were, which peaks
we were looking at, and the best way to proceed from wherever
we happened to be. Ben was also an ideal Darrans companion
for his easy-going nature, rope expertise, and his penchant for
calorie-rich butter, and his willingness to carry it to remote places.
Having spied some neck-craning, virgin rock a few weeks earlier
on his way out from Tutoko Valley, Jimmy had enlisted us for a
first-ascent mission. I’d done some first ascents before but never
in the steep, glacier-carved rock walls of the Darrans, where the
scenery and the sense of adventure are the finest in the country.
We had trudged in with several days of food and a week-long
weather window, so I saw no point in heading down because
of my tailbone woes. At worst, I could sit and relax on tramadol
vibes at Camp Derek while Jimmy and Ben explored the cliffs.
By the following morning, however, I felt sufficiently drugged up
to put my butt to the test. The upper face of the detached megablock
appeared to be blessed with twin cracks, while the lower
face offered a few potential paths to access them. With more
than a touch of nerves and an abundance of tramadol, I chose
the line of least resistance.
I went into a slight panic when, about eight metres up, my
attempt to widen my stance in the middle of a stem corner was
met with a sharp butt-pain. I had to improvise, climbing the face
before traversing onto slabbier terrain.
When we reached the upper face, I started up the left crack
because the right one, uninvitingly, was full of loose blocks of
rock. But higher up, I became increasingly tangled in mental
knots and physical shakes, and I eventually slumped onto
the rope. I offered the lead to Ben, who lowered me and took
over, climbing above my high point where the crack became
increasingly flora-filled.
It’s not easy to trust handfuls of bushes with all of your weight
on vertical terrain. With his forearms ablaze with lactic acid, Ben
yelled down a warning to me that he was going to fall. I braced
myself, but he’s decently heavier than me, and catching him
catapulted me upwards and across the cliff, my head, shoulders
and back rag-dolling against it as I spun uncontrollably.
When I settled, I realised my right shoulder was bleeding. I had
been slung 20m across the wall, which had eaten a 4cm-long
chunk of flesh from it. Luckily, as if I was prepared for this exact
scenario, I had a pocket full of tramadol.
Ben eventually pulled back onto the wall, traversing to the right
crack to avoid the tenuous bush-pulling. The real motivation for
the day’s mission became apparent once we were on top of the
mega-block; Ben had left his camera there after topping out the
chimney two days earlier, and had wanted to retrieve it.
The 150m headwall above us looked thin, hard and, in the
blazing, afternoon sun, unappealing. We descended. Even
though I’d added a bleeding shoulder to my woes, it felt
invigorating to have climbed something new.
46//WHERE ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS/#233