I'm not afraid?
Who's a chicken, scaredy cat, mummy's girl, sissy coward? I am! Let me explain. There's a peak next to Table Mountain. It's called Lion's Head and towers approximately 1000 above sea level. Seeing as I've got Hanna (of Grahamstown fame) and her boyfriend over for a long weekend, we decided to climb it. Joining us was Hanna's (and my) Swedish fellow Cape-Town based friend Anna and, more importantly, her climber friend Guillaume (not French, Huguenot) and a rock climber extraordinaire.
Below is a photo of the two.
Now, the route to the summit snakes round and round the peak until it gets to the top. Children and pensioners do it! It's meant to be easy enough. But the curious sugar-cone shape of the peak makes it a pretty surreal walk. The smooth slopes make you lose al sense of perspective. The city below looks more like Legoland than a full-scale metropolis.
Alex walking along the precarious path, with Sea Point or Clifton on the Atlantic seabord sprawling on the right.
Hanna. In the distance you can actually see the area where I live. In between the dam and the three tower blocks.
I don't know when in the past few years I developed vertigo. As a child I loved climbing. Trees, cliffs, buildings. But yesterday when the walk up the hill became more of a scramble, and we had to hold on to crampons and chains bolted into the rock with sheer drops on at least one, sometimes two sides, my head just started spinning. I fought off one or two panic attacks. But 50 or so metres from the top, I couldn't go any further. While the otheres climbed up to the summit, I remained on a 9 square metre ledge in a fetal position, eyes closed, trying not to hyperventilate.
In short, I panicked. Here is a photo from below of the ledge (halfway up the remaining cliff approximately) where I could go no further. If you look closely, you might be able to see the four others on their way down from the top. (actually, you can't. It's too far. but that gives some sense of the scale)
I don't know if it was the large vultures soaring below us, or the uninterrupted view straight down into the Atlantic, or the huge expanse of sky and air around. I was terrified. My legs shook. I felt sick. TI had this returning vision of skull cracking open against rock, limbs flailing as my lifeless body bounds off the rocky promontaries. And that nauseating compulsion to jump out into the nothingness...
Still, the view was beautiful, even from where I sat. And maybe I'll try it again... It might be a case of repeated exposure making it a little less frightening. On the way down, the bits that made me cringe on the way up felt like nothing compared to the windswept eyrie of the summit. Another picture of the view:
I commemorated my defeat with the following photo of me looking very scared. Below that is a photo of me and Hanna looking strangely similar before the ordeal that separated the mouse from the men.
Below is a photo of the two.
Now, the route to the summit snakes round and round the peak until it gets to the top. Children and pensioners do it! It's meant to be easy enough. But the curious sugar-cone shape of the peak makes it a pretty surreal walk. The smooth slopes make you lose al sense of perspective. The city below looks more like Legoland than a full-scale metropolis.
Alex walking along the precarious path, with Sea Point or Clifton on the Atlantic seabord sprawling on the right.
Hanna. In the distance you can actually see the area where I live. In between the dam and the three tower blocks.
I don't know when in the past few years I developed vertigo. As a child I loved climbing. Trees, cliffs, buildings. But yesterday when the walk up the hill became more of a scramble, and we had to hold on to crampons and chains bolted into the rock with sheer drops on at least one, sometimes two sides, my head just started spinning. I fought off one or two panic attacks. But 50 or so metres from the top, I couldn't go any further. While the otheres climbed up to the summit, I remained on a 9 square metre ledge in a fetal position, eyes closed, trying not to hyperventilate.
In short, I panicked. Here is a photo from below of the ledge (halfway up the remaining cliff approximately) where I could go no further. If you look closely, you might be able to see the four others on their way down from the top. (actually, you can't. It's too far. but that gives some sense of the scale)
I don't know if it was the large vultures soaring below us, or the uninterrupted view straight down into the Atlantic, or the huge expanse of sky and air around. I was terrified. My legs shook. I felt sick. TI had this returning vision of skull cracking open against rock, limbs flailing as my lifeless body bounds off the rocky promontaries. And that nauseating compulsion to jump out into the nothingness...
Still, the view was beautiful, even from where I sat. And maybe I'll try it again... It might be a case of repeated exposure making it a little less frightening. On the way down, the bits that made me cringe on the way up felt like nothing compared to the windswept eyrie of the summit. Another picture of the view:
I commemorated my defeat with the following photo of me looking very scared. Below that is a photo of me and Hanna looking strangely similar before the ordeal that separated the mouse from the men.
posted by Linda at 12:46
2 Comments:
Dear daughter! I can see a heritage here. In the 70's a similar thing happened in Norway as we were climbing Besseggen. It was not me! (Your father). Do not worry, it can be managed.
That picture of you looking nervous in front of all that gorgeous scenery made me laugh out loud! Sorry to hear it wasn't so much fun though....
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