Les Calanques: Day 3

Day 3 - Tuesday - La Paroi Noire to Sourmiou

I wake up, drier than expected. As I get out of the tent and walk around, I note that despite its flaws our campsite is extremely well hidden. We hang wet clothes on the bushes in anticipation of the sun and take stock. The cliff is wet from the rain but looks amazing. The rock is a dark grey, compact and beautiful.

The sun makes a tentative appearance and we decide to climb. The tent is so well hidden that we leave it pitched to dry, surrounded by our wet clothes.

"What do you want to do?" Aaron asked me.
"Let's start with this one, nice and easy" I say, pointing at a route on the topo. It's the original route, called La Paroi Noire. It consists of four easy pitches following the most obvious weakness right up the middle of the face.
"Let's bring the little backpack with an empty water bottle," says Aaron, "and I'll walk from the top back to the trailhead to get more water."

The line was first climbed in 1941. While France was occupied, notes Aaron. But not the South, I correct him.

Maybe this is why the French army gets such a bad rap: all of the brave Frenchmen were in the South, putting up rock climbs over the Mediterranean with pitons and hob-nailed boots.

After we finish Aaron goes for water and I relax at the tent. It is hot now, just as predicted, and I'm sweating in my t-shirt. Perfect. While we climbed it seems that the cliff has become crowded.

Our goal for the afternoon is another four-pitch line called "La Chaloupée". The name means "The Swaying". But at the base we see a pair of serious-looking Frenchmen gearing up.
"Excusez-moi. Vous faites laquelle?" I ask.
"La Chaloupée."
"They're on our route," I tell Aaron.
A quick glance at the guidebook reveals a line to the right.
"Looks like a 4b, then two long pitches of 5c."
"Beauty. Let's do it." He looks at the guidebook again. "I'll probably give the last two pitches to you."
"Okay."
We gear up, tie in, and start off. The first pitch goes quickly, but the the party to our left seems to be having some trouble. I'm not listening to their conversation, but there seems to be some question as to whether or not they are at the right belay.

At the anchor, I'm not totally sure that we're on route either. I start off on the only obvious options for a second pitch. It's a steep, greasy flake with horrible feet, and feels pretty stiff for 5c. I get to the belay, breathing hard, and belay Aaron up the pitch. I look up, and the next pitch looks a little easier, the line of bolts following a weakness up and left.

But as Aaron puts me on belay and I start up, I note with dismay that the line does not follow the weakness, but instead follows a rather spaced-out line of bolts directly up the clean face. It's beautiful, following small but positive face holds and technical footwork for 35 meters on amazing rock, almost to the top of the cliff.

I arrived at the next belay, surprised. If we had been on route, this should have been the last pitch. Instead I find myself on a huge belay ledge with what looks like a short pitch of relatively easy climbing above. I bring up Aaron and inform him that the last pitch is his.
"Your turn." I say.

It turns out to be short, as expected. There is only one bolt, at the 5.9 crux, and the rest is super easy all the way to the top.

We walk off, I retrieve the topo from the base of the climb, and we pack up our things. I look at the topo one more time, and discover that the party who was doing "La Chaloupée" ended up off route and at the belay of the climb we had decided to do, "L'eperon de droite." Instead we had done the first two pitches of "La Bavaroise" (a 4b for Aaron followed by a 6a for me) and the last two pitches of "Andromede" (a long 6b for me and a short 5c for Aaron). No wonder it felt stiff.

We've decided to go to Sormiou tonight, with the objective tomorrow of climbing one of many long routes over the ocean. It takes all evening to get to the next calanque, and as we descend towards the village we note that the cave I had spotted in the topo is fairly removed from anywhere we want to climb. From a vantage point we scan the large cave and decide that it does not appear hospitable. Our adventure the night before has instilled a certain urgency in finding a good spot, and we begin to scan frantically. We examine a few options and find nothing, but just before the village I see a small side trail. I check it out, and it's perfect. There is a mostly-level bed of pebbles underneath an overhanging cliff and a wall of bushes about shoulder height hiding the perfect rectangle of pebbles from the trail. It seems to be exactly the dimensions of my tent.

"Hey, check this out." I say to Aaron. "Is this good enough for you?"
"Does the pope shit in the woods?"
"What?"
"It's a mixed metaphor. Is the pope Catholic, does a bear shit in the woods."
"Oh."
"It means yes."

We hide our packs and make our way to the village. It's not quite dark, and we decide to check out the beach.

The beach is mostly rock and the ocean pounds rhythmically against the boat ramp. We sit down nearby and look at the waves. As I look at the photos that Aaron has taken on the trip, I notice one of a painting in the Louvre. It depicts three women, naked. One, a redhead, is turned away from the viewer and has especially rosy cheeks. I ask Aaron about it.

"It's the three graces." He tells me. "There were a million paintings of the three graces, but I really liked this one because one is blonde, one is brunette, and one is a redhead."
"And they're naked," I add.

To our right three people come down a rocky trail carrying large packs. There is a man and two women, one blond, one brunette, and the brunette appears much younger.

"That's totally mom, dad, and daughter out for a hike." I tell Aaron.

But as they get closer we notice that they are wearing harnesses.

"Cool. Other climbers."

They pass behind us and I think we've seen the last of them, but in a few moments they return without the harnesses, instead carrying soap and towels. They approach the beach and begin to strip.

The man is first. He's built like a climber, maybe a little short, and once down to his underwear he goes in the water with what looks like body wash. He starts to scrub, obviously cold. The brunette seems to be shy, though she has no reason to be, but the blonde, unreasonably thin and wearing dreadlocks, takes everything off and jumps headfirst into the water.

"I love that. Take a bath in the Mediterranean."
"I wonder if they're camping?"
"I saw a VW van in the parking lot." Aaron tells me.
"That must be it."

They continue to bathe, and it occurs to one of us: "That's the first muse!"
"We're totally gonna see all three on this trip."


"Cool."