‘It won't be any worse than Crib Goch. Same kind of exposure and a bit longer, but you'll have no trouble at all' so said Alun, prior to the AT trip to Mallorca. I wasn't convinced.....
The plan was an assault on the Serra de Cavall Bernat, a 2km ridge just outside of Puerto Pollensa in the North of Mallorca, that island Mecca for British sun worshippers and party animals. Everyone I had spoken to had said the area was stunning and the ridge a classic. The terms used to describe it had been loose and encouraging, but non-committal on the subject of exposure.
A perfect Mediterranean day greeted us as we started the walk up through the Boca Valley to approach the ridge. Fears that the owners of the Boca Valley land may have closed access (as is quite common in Mallorca, where there are no official public access rights to land) were unfounded and, surrounded by wind-sculpted rock and wild herbs and with stunning blue skies above, all seemed to be going quite well, for the time being. Alun's comments to the effect that the ridge looked very wussy compared with the guide description also served to allay my fears quite nicely. Hey, I was an outdoorsy, lemme-at-em kind of girl, nothing was going to stop me now....
The progression from ‘not able to stand on a chair' vertigo sufferer towards the ultimate goal of nonchalant climber was coming along nicely, with a Snowdon Horseshoe foray being a somewhat scary success, but success nonetheless, and a few longer walls at the local climbing wall pushing the boundaries all the time. I was not yet ready to tackle the Troll Wall but I was getting there. However, the concept of a Crib Goch ten times longer than the original had been causing some apprehension for quite some time, and, as any vertigo suffer has probably identified, adrenaline is not always your friend.
Having walked along the valley to the end of the obvious path, the sea and the end of the ridge were clearly visible. The ascent up to the ridge itself was straightforward, following goat tracks (and shit) over grass and herby tufts with a little basic scrambling here and there. Alun's cry of ‘we'll take the direct route!' over a small outcrop was shortly followed by the sound of splintering rock and a thud as the man himself hit the herbs, leaving rather a large amount of skin behind on the rock. The rest of us decided to take the ‘indirect' route, thus avoiding further bloodshed.
Now, up to this point, I had begun to ‘get into the groove' as it were, and was pretty much relaxed. However, on reaching the col at the start of the ridge proper, my anxiety levels started to climb rather rapidly. The beginning of the route along the ridge is what can only sensibly be described as an easy climb rather than a difficult scramble, starting from a notch where both sides of the ridge are clearly visible. A rope is definitely a good idea, given that the most obvious ascent line takes you within a few feet of a 1000ft drop down to the sea. In retrospect, this was one of the two most difficult and most terrifying sections of the entire ridge. Having used up all the swear words I knew, I started to just repeat a few good ones, a kind of mantra to keep my mind focused away from the great yawning chasm I perceived to exist to my right, but refused to look at. This short and really rather easy climb definitely marked a high point in my career of terror so far, with me mulling over the possibility of turning back. Checking out the option of descending the way we had come, I came to the conclusion that forwards was the only option. I eventually gained the top and, despite the fear induced nausea and desire to pass out, felt extremely good, especially when told by the others, in no uncertain terms, that the worst was over and it would be much easier from here on in. I'm sure the Mars bar dangled carrot-fashion just ahead of me didn't hurt my resolve either....
‘Lying bastards!' is all I can say. It just kept getting more taxing, and my adrenaline levels just kept rising!! The first climb was a pretty good indication of what to expect from the rest of the route, plenty of technically easy but mentally quite challenging scrambling up and down the minor peaks and troughs which make up any limestone ridge. There just weren't going to be enough Mars bars in the world. Don't get me wrong, the view off to my left was amazing, with jagged chunks of limestone dropping steeply, but at least visibly, down to the Boca Valley and a glorious blue sky above, marred only slightly by the vultures circling hopefully (I'm pretty sure they weren't a product of my overtaxed adrenal glands). The others, happily taking the direct and obvious line along the top of the ridge, assured me that the views out over the sea were fantastic, pointing out boats which were just tiny specks. I took their word for it. Meanwhile, I picked my way gingerly over what was almost certainly a far more perilous and less defined route of limestone fins and buttresses, down to the left of the ridge, climbing up to the crest again whenever the route demanded. The important thing was that I couldn't see the drop, and could maintain an illusion of contact with solid ground. My mind was operating on a pretty basic level at this point ‘one foot in front of the other, check....amazing views, check.....horrific, gut-wrenching, precipitous drop 1000ft into the sea, check' The only disappointment for me of the whole ridge experience was to not see that one for myself, but it was case of self-preservation. If I had checked out the view on the steep side, I would probably have freaked out and not been able to finish the route. It was a case of pushing myself to the edge of my fear, but knowing where the final safety barriers were and making sure I did not go beyond them.
The route was fairly clear, with most of it following the natural line of the top of the ridge. This is without a doubt the safest and most sensible way to do the ridge, not the ‘scenic' route I took around the left hand side. It also leads you past the rather interesting ‘rock windows'. Not a Van Halen biopic, but natural holes in the ridgeline caused by erosion, the first of which is only a short way beyond the first ‘climb'. Not a reassuring thought for someone who likes her rock solid. I managed to avoid looking through any of these windows, except for one which I passed without realising, inadvertently glancing to my right, straight through it to the view of the sea and cliffs beyond. This was about as close as I got to spotting the boats out to sea, and definitely closer than I would have liked.
There were some colourful language moments and I made my peace with a fair few deities (whichever ones were prepared to listen and guarantee me a blissful afterlife) on a couple of very narrow sections of the ridge, which in my head resembled rather closely those pictures you see of the Cirque of the Unclimbables. However, despite the best efforts of my imagination, I didn't plummet to meet my untimely and rather watery demise. I don't think that was ever a genuine possibility, but it certainly felt it at the time. It's quite disturbing how adrenaline can actually make things more dangerous for you in these situations. Whereas the others walked over these short sections with ease, my hands and knees approach made life much more difficult for me, leaving me inherently unstable and therefore probably more likely to slip.
Lunch was a welcome break, with me maintaining maximum contact with the rock, sitting where I could pretend there was no big drop, and the sun shining down. It was a shame the pasties we had bought from the local bakery had disintegrated en route, leaving a mass of pastry crumbs and congealed meat products in the bottom of the bag. We left the bits for the vultures in the hope that it would be all they would get to eat that day. It was at this point that the others owned up to blatantly telling me porkies, with their ‘the worst is over' line, admitting that they had no idea whatsoever about what was to come at any point. The up/down nature of the ridgeline meant that something new and ‘exciting' was always appearing just over the next rise.
The other really tricky part of the ridge is a 20m or so section of climb down to the left, rather than ascent. This down-climb appears shortly after the ‘double tower' and is unavoidable. A rope was definitely a good idea on this one as a fall would have been extremely unpleasant, and quite likely given the nature of the rock. Not too much in the way of exposure though, so I actually enjoyed the experience. The second of the ‘rock windows' can apparently be found between this descent and the final col.
The last leg of the ridge was really a bit of a let down after the rest. Rather peculiarly, I was disappointed to see that there wasn't much left in the way of ‘scary bits', just a basic scramble onto a large flat area with stunning views out to sea, and a few final subsidiary humps. I think my mind had decided ‘if you can't beat ‘em, join ‘em' and was beginning to quite enjoy the fear. One last short easy scrambling section up to the final rise and the end was nigh. A panoramic view over the Boca Valley, to Puerto Pollensa itself and the sea off to the right was a great reward after the intensity of the ridge.
After a full day of clambering over rocks, shuffling on hands and knees and balancing on knife edge limestone shards, the descent route was a hellish anti-climax. Over an hour of mind-numbingly tedious, yet tricky descent on scree and boulders, trying to avoid the ubiquitous goat shit (it was even spotted on the narrowest points of the ridge) left ankles and quads knackered and sore. However, the route eventually joined onto the road to Puerto Pollensa and, from there, my primal instincts dragged me to the nearest bar for a few well earned cervezas. After a day's battling with my most persistent and all-consuming fears, I had done what I had come to do. I was a beer-drinking patron in a Mallorcan tapas bar, not seagull food splattered across some rocks at the bottom of the Cavall Bernat ridge. In a strange and masochistic way I even enjoyed it, the experience leaving me feeling exhilarated and invincible. What's more, next time Crib Goch will be a walkover, not a crawl over!
