It's hard to not be scared sometimes. I keep forgetting that this is sport climbing and nothing bad is going to happen, nothing really bad. There was a time when I was trad climbing, and really bad things can happen doing that. Even so, it's hard to not be scared anyway.

I got to Burkliplatz about 15 min too early, but it wasn't an uncomfortable wait. It was a warm sunny morning and from my spot on the corner I could watch hundreds of people combing the Saturday flea market for treasures among the trash. Across the road Zurich's big lake shone like the sky. Constant traffic growled by over the Quaibrucke bridge from Bellevue and I scanned it for Jorge's big truck. He was about 15 minutes late, his morning duties taking longer than predicted.

We had to go climbing somewhere near Chur because Jorge was invited to some sort of party there at 5pm. My guidebook suggested a klettergarten close to Sargans, which is only 20 min drive from Chur. This klettergarten was situated near the top of the Pizol - which in winter is a fairly popular ski-resort. As we drove through the canton of St Gallen the weather clouded over considerably. I had not brought enough clothing to deal with the cold, much less rain. By the time we pulled into Wangs, the village from where we would ride gondolas and chairlifts up the mountain, I thought that perhaps I should have considered what conditions a klettergarten situated at 2300 metres altitude might offer when the sun isn't shining.

When we got to the car park we found that it was packed with cars and we had to put the panzer in a second spill-over area. We hadn't realized it but we had chosen the one day of the year to come to the Pizol when it was hosting the Pizol challenge race, a team event involving biking and running up and down the mountain. We bought tickets for the lifts and from a rickety old gondola watched bikers puffing their way up to Furt (which is a station about half way to the top). We stepped out of the gondola and made our way past crowds of bell-ringing spectators and gasping competitors to the first of two chair-lifts which would take us to the top. At Furt the bikers handed over to runners and from the chairlifts we watched crazy people try very hard to induce heart-attacks as they struggled up the mountain-side. The bell-ringing business was constant, apparantly you could rent little cowbells for about CHF 5 for the event and almost every child was enthusiastically ringing away. I dont know how this encourages the competitors.

Riding the chairlifts was cold, we had passed into a thick belt of cloud and the air was very humid, I drew my hands into the arms of my light jumper and pulled its hood over my head. I worried that with all this water in the air the rock might be too slippery for climbing. From the top station, which was heaving with cheerful onlookers and oxygen-starved runners (not too many were running by this stage though), we stopped for a bathroom break and coffee before taking a walking trail west. Every now and then we had to step aside for lunatics jogging out of the mist.

At just before noon we broke through the cloud deck and reached the klettergarten, the sky was blue and the sun was warm. Excellent! We were so close to the cloud level that while climbing we would occasionally lose sight of each other whenever a gust washed some fog over us, but mostly it was sunny and bright. There were a few groups climbing on the left side so we scanned our guide book for do-able routes on the right.

That should have been a big clue right there. Everyone climbing on one side means the other side isn't too popular - and usually that's because it's unreasonable. But we didn't think of it at the time.

We found a long 5b (Sonnenuhr, which is the german word for "sundial") in the book and settled on that one. Under the base we got ready and I told Jorge he should do the first lead. Last week in Baden I wasn't too pleased with my performance so I had planned on taking it easy. Jorge started up and I got comfortable with the belay. Initially, things went well. While Jorge worked his way up I relaxed in the shade and listened to the cowbells, some of them being rung by actual cows.

At about halfway Jorge ran into a problem. He had spent a long time resting at a bolt trying to figure out the route, the bolts were widely spaced and the 5b rating turned out to be a bit of a sandbagging. Later we would learn that it was one of the first routes put up here and the rating was born in an era when first-ascensionists were prone to modestly understating the difficulty. Jorge started moving up over the bolt at about the same time I decided to adjust my stance, I looked down briefly to find another spot to stand and then things were suddenly happening with the rope. Automatic reflexes brought things to a halt and I looked up, Jorge had fallen. That was new. I don't think he's ever done that before, not even in the gym.

After about ten minutes he gave up. I lowered him off and said that I would have a go. The problem is that Jorge has developed into a bit of a gun climber, while my abilities seem to be tapering off this year. The prospect of me being able to improve on Jorge's attempt did not seem very likely. I wasn't able to do it either. I struggled up to his high-point, only then realizing the extent to which we were being sandbagged by the rating, and futzed around looking for something Jorge might have missed. I also took a yelping fall of a couple of metres before chosing to end the comedy and descend. I cleaned off the lower draws, resigned to losing the top one to the mountain.

Jorge was not interested in losing gear. I suppose he felt bad because the draw we left up there was mine and he had placed it. All we had to do was climb a nearby route which would take us above the draw and then collect it again on the descent. There was only one problem with that idea, the sole route which would do this for us was a 6a called, appropriately, Pizol challenge. It even looked hard. As bloody-minded as ever we made the attempt anyway.

Jorge led the way again and again he was stopped, this time at a spot just before halfway. The last draw he placed was another one of mine, and wanting to demonstrate his solidarity with me he replaced it with one of his own. I guess he didn't give me much chance of improving on it, and truthfully, neither did I. Nearby a couple of climbers had settled down for a bite to eat. They would soon be making their own attempt on Sonnenuhr, maybe they would return our draw for us - they seemed, if quiet, friendly enough. Jorge came down and I prepared to have a shot at it. All the while reflecting on the following salient facts - this climb is two grades harder than the first one, Jorge is a stronger climber than me and I'm turning into a knock-kneed nelly. Oh well, cant hurt to try - well, actually, maybe it could?

I second-guessed myself all the way up to Jorge's highpoint. I was getting really pissed about things. I mean why was I climbing at all nowdays anyway? I'm only here now because Jorge really wanted to go climbing. In fact, I cant remember when I was the one to provide the impetus to go. Climbing hasn't felt like fun for the longest time. It's possible that it's because I've been trying too hard and getting in over my head too quickly. I haven't been to the gym since the winter, so I'm not even getting any regular practise. This was not going to work. With those thoughts I got to the last hanger and I had all but given up before I had even tried. Once there, however, I decided to settle my personal climbing situation for good. I would try as hard as possible to get to the next bolt - and if nothing came of it then maybe it's goodbye climbing, I prefer hiking in the mountains with Leila in any case.

I started up and backed off maybe three times in quick succession. On the fourth I moved up higher, made a desperate grab for a hold I couldn't really see and then kept going looking for somewhere to rest a bit. The next bolt was a really long way off. I did find a balancy stance but it wasn't good enough to stay put for long. I was past the point where I thought it was not ok to peel off. I thought that if I came off there that would be it, I would quit. Then down I went. Falling is not fun. The world spins out of control and I haven't even the presence of mind to put confidence in my partner and that excellently maintained bolt below me. It's just a blind tumbling panic.

Of course I'm ok, with no more than scrapes on my hands. Hindsight was insisting it wasn't so bad after all but I was shaking all the same. Too ashamed of myself to ask Jorge to lower me off I stepped up to try again. I got higher this time, and this time somehow getting up to that stupid bolt. I clipped it and looked back down, Jorge was giving me the thumbs up. The bastard - he's encouraging me! I managed four more bolts after that. Between each one I was scared stupid and discovering that I can swear in german really fluently. Sometimes Jorge would keep me tight too long while I passed a bolt and I would curse down at him to gibt! (it should have been "gibst!" - as in "you give!" - but he understood anyway). Finally, with only two bolts left - and having downclimbed twice from dodgy stances trying to get to the second last one - I had to stop. I was mentally and physically exhausted, and I was shaking too much to keep a stance. Jorge lowered me off.

We left the rope in place (Jorge agreed to try and finish it) and took a long break, our neighbours on Sonnenuhr had been stopped at the same place that we were. They retrieved our draw for us, which was nice, and told us about the route - how the other routes around the left side were much easier and with many more bolts. Jorge and I sat down and in a ruminative mood ate some sandwiches and drank some water. A herd of cows had gathered down at the base of the scree and the gonging of their bells was cacophonous. Jorge was pleased and impressed with my climbing, and that meant a lot, so I guess I'm not quite ready to give it up. When it was his turn to finish it off it seemed like he did the last bolts really easily. When I followed I found the whole climb impossibly difficult, even on top rope I was freaking out. I couldn't get my head around how it was possible to lead a section and still not be able to top rope it afterwards.

At the top Jorge and I got ready for the descent. I had trailed a second rope up with me because with only one we would be a couple meters short of the base on abseil. We fed the second rope through the anchors and tied the two together (long tailed fisherman's knots - I never could get used to the EDK) I set us on spider-rappels and went down first so I could control Jorge's descent if he lost it on the way down. He came down and really enjoyed it, commenting that it was the highest climb he's been on and the longest rappel he's done.

At 4.06pm we had to bail, Jorge was going to be late for that party. We trundled back down into the fog and made our way back past cloud-bound cows to the chairlifts. Riding them down was cold and spooky, visibility would drop to almost nothing and in silence we floated like ghosts through the grey.