Vertical Life #42

EDITOR’S NOTE

Pause

As one year ends and another begins, it feels like we enter a sort-of collective twilight zone. No one seems to know what day of the week it is, automated out-of-office emails become frequent flyers in inboxes, and—if you’re anything like me—all your climbing is fuelled

by Christmas leftovers.

In an attempt to escape the annual deluge of holiday emails and social media feeds flooded with counterfeit contentedness, I deliberately selected my summer climbing crags based on a lack of reception.

Given I live in lutruwita/Tasmania, you’d assume that this particular criterion wouldn’t narrow the list of crags down in any meaningful way, and while you’d be kind of right (and that’s on being with Optus), I found my desperation for seclusion meant that I needed to create some space between myself and the busyness of the islands popular summer crags.

I’d spent the months in the lead-up to summer producing edition #41 of Vertical Life, with a focus on Tasmania’s summer climbing, so the irony of my deep need to withdraw wasn’t lost on me.

With Christmas leftovers in tow and an “if you need me, no you don’t” attitude along for the ride, I found myself driving four hours northwest of nipaluna/Hobart to skate* up and down the scree slopes of Queenstown Tasmania’s Mt Lyell (timkarik Country). With a landscape shaped by the impact of over a century of mining, and the Iron Blow framing a significant part of the surrounding mountain skyline, it’s impossible not to find yourself contemplating your place in the world.

The tree-less mountainscape creates a deafening silence when you’re alone on the mountain, with laughs echoing down the valley, and power-screams bouncing between neighbouring mountains. Needless to say, the good folk at the Linda Cafe can definitely hear if you’ve biffed it.

Bouldering with close friends and new friends alike, in a place so far removed from the shackles of social media, helped settle me back into the reflective part of the end-of-year twilight zone; it was shockingly the first real moment I had truly hit pause during the year. With this as the backdrop, bouldering felt like a breath of fresh air again, and I found myself noticing the simple pleasures I’d come to take for granted after a decade of climbing. The cold texture of rock brushing against my skin, the familiar crisp sharpness of a pocket’s edge under my fingertips, the pure joy of looking at a line and wondering if I’m capable, and the way a friend's face lights up when they reach a highpoint.

This space between time granted me a pause, and that pause transported me back to why I fell in love with climbing in the first place. No routines, no plans, no goals and no ambitions—just me and the simple pleasure of being on the rock.

Coz having a good time on the Rootin’ Tootin’ boulder, Mt Lyell Queenstown (timkarik Country), lutruwita/Tasmania.

Mitchell Scanlan-Bloor

14 AUTUMN 2023

On this trip I was reminded that the space between the end of one thing and the start of another always offers us a natural moment to pause, we just don’t always make the space to take it. If we’re talking goals, this between time is the perfect opportunity to analyse our strengths and redefine our capabilities. If we’re talking failure, this space gives us the opportunity to synthesise what we’ve learned and adjust our trajectories. When we rush through this time either driven by an eagerness to skip to what’s next, or to tell people what we’ve just done, we miss the opportunity to soak up the learnings and reflect; and it’s in this cycle that we eventually stop noticing the simple pleasures that make our experiences so rich.

After experiencing the joys of climbing with new eyes for what feels like