Les Calanques: Day 4

Day - Wednesday - Le Bec de Sormiou
I wake up, toasty warm and surprisingly comfortable. The bed of rocks seems to have conformed to my body in the night and makes a perfect mattress. I look over at Aaron, who has his emergency blanket wrapped around his feet and the hood of my puffy coat on his head. The tent is starting to feel like home. I get out and pee and note that it has rained overnight. In our perfect spot under the overhang we hardly noticed.

The sky is still a little grey, but I can feel the sun making an effort to appear. We make no effort to hurry, but by a little before nine everything is packed away, our bags are hidden in the bushes, and we are making our way towards Le Bec de Sormiou with only what we will need to climb. The day before I had shown Aaron how to coil the climbing rope into a backpack. He wears it now and I carry the small second's pack with the topo, a bottle of water and some cashews.

It takes longer than we expect to get to Le Bec, and after a bit of downclimbing we find ourselves meters from the ocean on a strange sort of beach, looking at the departures of the first climbs.

"Do you see any bolts?"
"Not really."
"I saw one way up there," I point about fifteen meters above us.

Between us and the first bolt is a series of steep pockets and cavernous holes. We see old, tattered bits of climbing rope threaded through some of the tunnels, and I deduce that this must be the beginning of "Antecime". It looks wet and greasy. The pitches above look slightly cleaner, but not amazing.

"Wanna keep going?" Aaron asks me.
"Sure."
"This doesn't look too great to me."

To get to the beginning of the other routes, we will have to traverse out left and climb a short approach pitch graded somewhere around 4+.

We traverse the rocky "beach" and arrive at the approach pitches.
"I'll go." I say. The pitch is quick and easy, though a little bit wet, and at the anchors at the top I put Aaron on belay.

"Uh, it's gonna take me a few minutes to get ready." He informs me. I watch the waves.

Once begun, it doesn't take Aaron more than half a minute to climb to where I am, and he continues around to the left, still on belay, to find our route.

He finds some anchors and I join him, and though we are still unsure about our location, we decide to go for it. Aaron leads the first pitch, which should be 4+. It feels about right.

At the top of the first pitch, I look up at the next one. It should be 5c, and it looks like another steep, greasy flake. The movements are neat, despite the slime-covered rock, and it's quickly over. I look to the right of our route and see some scary pitons protecting a thin 6c. I decide we're on the right route. The next pitch is a long 5b, and Aaron takes it. Seconding, I am impressed with Aaron's lead. For a 5b, it's exceptionally thin and very balancey. The bolts are adequate, but not generous. As I arrive the belay, I look up and examine the 5c above. It's soaked.

"Why do I always get the wet pitches?" I demand.
"Just lucky, I guess."

After some scary slab moves on wet limestone and an airy traverse to the anchors, I belay Aaron up to the large ledge. By this time, we're more than 100 meters above the ocean and the exposure is amazing. We're one pitch from the top and I'm thrilled.

"You're up!" I say to Aaron as he arrives.
"I think you better take this last pitch. I'm beginning to feel the effects of climbing more in the last week than I'm used to."
"Come on, it's only 5a. It looks great." I tell him.
"You sure it's only 5a?"
"Pretty sure. We could check the topo."

We do, and it's not.

"Shit, it's 5c. Good thing we checked."

I drink some water and give the pack back to Aaron.

The last pitch is amazing, if a little sparsely bolted. Near the top where it gets steep I see a maillon rapide hanging from a bolt. Somebody had to escape the route, by the looks of it, only about 10 meters from the top. Must be the crux, I think to myself.

I get to the bolt, clip it, and look at my options. The holds are all there, but they're a little far apart. I stretch and grab the jug, excited to have made it, and sprint for the finish.

As I top out, the wind blasts me in the face. It's coming from the West, and we've been sheltered the entire climb. I'm thrilled and let out a yell. I put Aaron on belay and bring him up.

"Welcome to the top!" I say.

We put on some extra clothes, drink some water, and eat some cashews above the Mediterranean.

"Perfect belay ledges!" I exclaim. "Perfect belay ledges on every pitch."
"Classic."

"Did you see that quick link?" Aaron asks me.
"Yeah! I guess somebody had to rappel off. I tried to take the thing off, but it was fused shut."
"Must've been the crux."

We walk down, and as we're discussing our options for the afternoon, a storm rolls in fast and hard. The blue skies are replaced by angry storm clouds, and as we huddle under a trash shelter sorting out gear in the village, a woman offers us a ride back to Marseille. An exceptionally nice offer, but our tent and all of our gear are still in the bushes.

"Non, merci. Mais c'est très gentil!" I tell the woman, and she shake her head and gets in her car.

Instead, we walk back to the overhang, pitch the tent and take refuge for the afternoon. The storm clears as quickly as it arrived, and we decided to walk to Marseille, to see what kind of exit we're in for the next morning. It only takes an hour to get to town, what looks like a predominantly North-African suburb. We laugh as a sports car skids around the corner with the sign marked "Mosquée" and shake our heads at the teenagers riding wheelies on their mopeds. Suddenly, we find ourselves in front of a shopping center.

"Let's go the the mall!" Aaron says.
"Okay."
"If we were 13, this would be AWESOME."

But we do go in, and it turns out to be a supermarket. After picking up more cheese and bread and a glass from which to drink Pastis, we head back towards camp. In front of the store we see an advertisement for a magazine called "Votre Beauté". The cover features a redheaded model, and she's topless.

"Hold on a second." Aaron says. He's surprised by the public nudity, and no doubt interested in the feature article.

"It's our second muse!"

Our prophecy seems to be coming true, and we make our way back to the tent.

Tomorrow we leave.