Arapiles, Oh Arapiles

The title and subtext of this 1989 Rock article was quite deceiving. As it would lead you to believe it is a series of articles about the spiritual connections at Mt Arapiles. The first dystopian reality piece by Greg Pritchard that reads so well, you question if this were once a true reality.

ARAPILES ON 30 DOLLARS A DAY

Greg Pritchard

IT HAD BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE I was last at Arapiles. As the shuttle bus from Melbourne drove along the road from Horsham to Nati, I saw the familiar lump of the Mount, hovering softly in the afternoon haze. I felt relaxed as if returning home. I wondered if much had changed.

The complex underneath the Watchtower Face was new. The bus pulled up and we all sprawled out, everyone hurrying in to the reception area. I planned to camp at the Pines but went in anyway, just to see the place. An extremely opulent foyer greeted me. A long cream-coloured room lined with plastic palms and large framed prints of the better, and some of the older. famous climbers. One portrait of Muir brought back a wave of memories.

At the end of the foyer was a large reception desk covered in bone-coloured leather. A large sign above itstated: “Only accommodation available is Sudholtz Barracks. No camping.’ This pulled me up short. What of the Pines? Full of curiosity, I waited in the queue at the desk.

A pretty young girl with long blonde hair and very blue contact lenses greeted me. Her Lycra tights were an even brighter blue than her eyes and she wore a canary-yellow T-shirt that said ‘Rubbers: for the best protection available’. I was amazed. “Can I help you?’ She had an American accent. I asked about the accommodation scene. The pines, she said, had all been cut down and the area was now closed for regeneration. A night in the barracks (part of the complex, I later found out) would cost me $15. I asked about climbers living in Nati. She said yes, there were many climbers with houses but they all had explicit no-doss rules. Then she looked at me with what amounted to contempt and said she would not divulge addresses, even if I said I knew the climbers. Also, she continued, the nearest hotels willing to put up climbers since the violence of the 1989 International Meet were in either Stawell or Keith.

So it looked like a night in the barracks. I paid her my $15 and received my bed number and locker key. A door to the right of the desk led me down a corridor to a room with 40 beds. Mine was close to the door. I stowed my gear and headed for the café I had seen signposted. I was quite hungry after the trip. The café was divided in to two rooms. One was full of tourists eating filth, pizza and the like. The prices were astronomical. In the next room I could see a collection of Lycra-clad muscles eating what appeared to be more healthy food. I stuck my head in the door and had a look at the prices. Over 50% cheaper. I started to wander in but the turnstile bar would not yield. Turnstiles have never really been a problem so I just vaulted over.

I strolled up to the counter and was nonchalantly perusing the menu when a firm hand grasped my shoulder. I turned around to see a short man with a body that reminded me of a herd of pigs on a water-bed. He was upset and it looked like feed time at the trough. ‘Get out.’ His eloquence matched his physique. ‘Why?’ I countered, being no stranger to witty repartee. The sows that were biceps rippled ominously. ‘So I don’t hurt you!’ Even I had to admit that despite his limited vocabulary he had a good argument. ‘Just going. But I thought I’d grab a bite to eat. I’m starved.’ The sign says’, he emphasized, ‘no tourists’ and pointed at a large hanging sign that was so obvious I hadn’t noticed it.

‘Oh’ I said, as it became clear that this was all a misunderstanding. ‘I’m not a tourist. I’m a climber. My Lycras are in my bag.’ Then where is your VCC permit card? he countered. I was right, but the misunderstanding had been mine. ‘Where do I get one’ I asked, trying to be helpful. ‘At the desk.’ The desk was closed, the plastic blonde replaced by a sign that said ‘Gone bouldering’. I wandered in with the geeks and had a hamburger that tasted ominously like the viscera of a road-killed rabbit. Cheap at seven dollars. The two-dollar can of Coke that tasted like cola-flavoured Drano failed to rasp the oil off my throat.

Very soon I was back at the desk, feeling ill and facing the condom full of walnuts. He gave me a four-page form to apply for a permit. It appeared that not only did I need a permit to eat but also to climb. It had some lovely questions: mother’s maiden name, what was the last 25 you led, what grade-certificate do you possess, what is Mike Law’s second name, his Ducati’s serial number? Stuff like that. Climbing had changed a lot since I’d gone to Korea to teach.

I filled it out as best I could and took it back to the pantyhose full of pineapples at the desk. He keyed my answers in and the machine spat out a little card and a list. The card said I had a temporary, three-day permit to climb at Arapiles, only on the listed climbs. The list was short and included such classics as I’ve Been a Bunny, The Fat One That Eats Meat and Was It Good For You Louise? I was also given a note stating that climbs on Tiger Wall, the Pharos and in Yesterday Gully were out of bounds because it was possible that peregrine falcons were considering a visit at some time in the future. The meat moron at the desk smiled and said have a good climb.

I caught a cab to town and wandered in to the pub. I pondered for a second whether I should drink in the Carrigan Lounge or the Matheson Bar. Hoping for a game of pool, I chose the latter. The room was full of brightly coloured climbers. It felt similar to putting your face close to a glass of vitamized rainbow lorikeets. They all appeared to be playing games, but there was no pool table to be seen. Only Bachar Ladders and the like. A pot cost me three dollars. I stood back from the bar. The room was lined with photos of great climbers on great climbs. The oldest one was of Wolfgang on Punks in the Gym. The best was Ben Moon on his creation Pus in the Jim, the grade-38 traverse of Tjuringa Wall.

The noise in the place was incredible and everyone seemed to wave their arms slowly as if trying to fly in mud. There was a lot of static in the air, possibly caused by all that Lycra rubbing together, or sexual tension. In the corner two sets of muscles were copulating on the floor.

My only conversation all night was with a young woman with red hair, tights, singlet, contacts and a cigarette burn on her cheek. Ooh, I like older men’ she started. “What grade do you climb?” Twenty-two’, I lied. “Sorry’, she said, and turned to go. Bitterly I called after her. ‘Hey, what do you use for a personality?” “Same as you’, she answered. ‘Alcohol.’

The next day was fine so I joined the queue at the base of Fang, one of the permitted climbs. As I understood it, you stood in a line and when it was your turn clipped in to the end of a steel wire. As you climbed, it was taken in. If you climbed too slow it winched you up. A leading permit was hard to obtain. Only 300 people in Victoria had them. No one had done a new route at Arapiles for three years as it was no longer allowed.

While I waited for my turn I perused XI. This once-great climb was now a scarred trough. Years of people putting bolts in and other people chopping them clumsily out had left their mark. There were three plaques at the base. Two for people who had fallen off trying it without bolts and one for a bolter who was caught in the act by three choppers. They had clipped a krab and bracket on to part of his anatomy and thrown him off the top. Fortunately for him, this ‘bolt’ didn’t hold. Nasty. The climbing was as it had always been-fun-though Fang was never a pretty move.

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