Climbers Reflect on Life, Community, and the Future of Arapiles.

With sweeping climbing bans looming over Australia’s world class climbing Mecca of Dyuritte/Arapiles, people have been coming together to share stories and memories of the rock, the community, and the beloved campground—The Pines—that shaped them. Two of these videographers and writers, Claire Williams and Carey Scheer, have put together a collection of interviews with climbers whose lives are intimately entwined with the place.

Zorba Parer

As told to Claire Williams 

Dyuritte always felt like home to Zorba. A few years ago, at a crossroads in life, he returned to The Pines—and this time, he just stayed. 

Climbing has been a constant in my life, though it’s threaded through a lot of chaos. I’ve weathered marriages, battled alcoholism, and cared for my mother through her final days as she succumbed to dementia. When she passed, my then-wife and I came to Arapiles to decompress from everything.

For years, I fit climbing around my life, but after fate had thrown its hardest punches—the death of my parents, upheaval of COVID, and trying to rebuild myself through a 12-step program—I found myself at a crossroads. I came to Arapiles because, frankly, nowhere else felt safe or even appealing anymore.

One rainy day, I arrived at The Pines. It was practically deserted—just a few campers huddled under a big gypsy tent. The rain was torrential, so we stayed put and talked for two or three days about the troubles of the world and my life. 

By the end of it, they turned to me and said, “Dude, why go back to your life? It sounds pretty trashed.”

I asked, “Do you think I could just stay here?”

And they said, “Yeah, man.”

So I stayed.

Hitting rock bottom and finding myself here was transformative. Arapiles offered me space—not just physical space but emotional space. 

This place, with its towering cliffs and sunlit pines, offers more than just rock climbing. It provides a rhythm—waking with the sun, sleeping with its setting, living simply in sync with nature. Here, you find a community unlike any other, where strangers become roommates in an ever-changing living room of campfires, shared meals, and conversations under the stars.

Arapiles is not just about climbing; it’s about transformation. When I first arrived, I was physically unfit, emotionally strained, and socially withdrawn. Over time, through the kindness of this community and the challenges of the rock, I rebuilt myself. I lost weight, regained strength, and found a new sense of purpose. Strangers became friends, sharing meals and stories, and offering support when I needed it most. For months, I survived largely on the goodwill of others, finding that helping others climb or simply being part of their journey often led to an invitation to dinner.

For me, the physical act of climbing became a metaphor for healing. On the rock, every route is a lesson in discipline, patience, and trust. Climbing forced me into the present, quieting the chaos of my mind. The environment—home to wallabies, kookaburras, and even the humble stumpy-tailed lizard—offered grounding I had never felt before. In those moments, I reconnected with something bigger than myself, something divine, whether you call it God, the universe, or simply the energy of life.

Climbers come and go, yet the spirit of the place remains. There’s a deep respect for the land, for the traditions of climbing, and for the unspoken rules dictated by the mountain itself. Leave no trace. Respect the rock. Protect the flora and fauna.

Yet, there are contradictions. We revere this place, but we also share it with the imposing Telstra tower—they leveled part of the mountain to build it, leaving a massive scree pile that scarred the landscape that feels out of place amidst the pristine cliff line. While climbers are criticized for bolting—a necessary act for safety—larger, more destructive interventions go unquestioned.

Despite these challenges, Arapiles remains sacred. It’s not for everyone—those afraid of heights or uninterested in the adrenaline of climbing might not find solace here. But for those who are broken, seeking connection, or simply in need of space to rediscover themselves, this place holds transformative power.

I once dismissed this place as a trad crag for the “fat and old”, but now I see it for what it is: transformative. Walking the way of Lady Dyurrite has changed me. It turned me from a sad sack into someone who wakes up at 5:00 a.m. ready to squeeze every ounce of joy and life out of the day.

This is more than a climbing destination. It’s a space for renewal, a place where life begins again.

Aaron Lowndes

As told to Claire Williams

Owner of The Climbing Company Natimuk, Aaron leads a team that introduces nearly 3,500 kids to climbing each year. This gives him, and the guides he employs, a front row seat to witnessing how people grow and develop through the sport.

Five years after my first visit to Mount Arapiles, I made a life-changing decision. I left my corporate job to pursue a career as a climbing guide, driven by a desire to connect more deeply with the landscapes and communities that had shaped me. Over the next nine years, Melbourne Climbing School became a cornerstone of the climbing community.

In 2023, an opportunity arose that would redefine my work. Chris Peisker, owner of The Climbing Company Natimuk, was preparing to close its doors. Rather than let this vital hub for young participants in the sport disappear, I stepped in to take it over. 

Overnight, my small business transformed. I went from running courses solo to leading a team of guides. While we continued offering technical skills courses, the focus shifted to facilitating school trips, introducing thousands of young people to the world of climbing.

Each year our guides introduce an estimated 3,444 kids to climbing at Mount Arapiles. This effort relies on a team of 70 trained and qualified guides, about 30 of whom live in Natimuk—a small town with a population of just over 500. 

Despite its importance to the climbing community, Mount Arapiles faces challenges. The recent management plan has had a profound impact, especially on our industry and the young climbers we introduce to the sport. Before the plan, we had access to 57 multi-pitch climbs suitable for educational groups. Now, 42 of those routes are slated for closure, leaving just 15, many of which are too difficult or inaccessible for beginners. Key areas like Pinnacle Faces, Mitre Rock, and The Pharos—essential locations for youth groups—are now off-limits.

This isn’t just a blow to our business. It’s a loss for the guides who depend on this work and the thousands of kids who will miss the opportunity to experience the transformative power of Arapiles.

Rob, one of our guides, told me about a recent experience leading a school group at Mount Arapiles. The school had booked two consecutive weeks of trips, bringing different groups of kids each time. In the first week, there was one boy who stood out—not because he was loud or disruptive, but because of how quiet and withdrawn he seemed. 

His teacher pulled Rob aside early on and said, “This kid’s struggling. He’s not doing well academically, and he doesn’t have many friends. Just make sure he has a good time.”

Taking the teacher’s words to heart, Rob made a point to encourage the boy, especially when he showed a natural talent for climbing. From the moment the boy put on his harness and touched the rock, something clicked. Climbing seemed to give him a confidence that he didn’t have in the classroom or the schoolyard.

Over the next three days, Rob watched the boy transform. With every climb his confidence grew—not just on the rock but in himself. By the end of the camp, he was smiling more, speaking up, and carrying himself differently. The shift was subtle but profound, and Rob could see the spark of pride that had been lit within him.

After that group left, the second week began, bringing a new batch of students, but the same teachers. 

One of them approached Rob during a break and said, “Do you remember that boy from last week? He’s completely changed. He went back to school and became known as ‘the rock climber’. That’s what everyone calls him now. His confidence has soared, and his whole social life is different. He’s proud of himself for the first time.”

In just three days, this boy had gone from being shy and overlooked to being recognised for his strength and skill. Climbing had given him something to be proud of, something he could carry with him long after leaving Arapiles.

Rob’s story is one of many that show how climbing can transform lives. It’s not just about teaching technical skills or helping kids conquer a fear of heights. It’s about giving them a chance to discover new strengths within themselves—strengths they might never have known they had.

For us guides, moments like these are why we do what we do. They remind us that climbing isn’t just about the rock; it’s about the people who climb it and the stories they take with them. And sometimes, those stories are life-changing.

Mount Arapiles is more than just a climbing destination; it’s a hub for community, adventure, and environmental appreciation. As climbers, guides, and educators, we share a responsibility to preserve this unique place and ensure that its magic continues to inspire future generations.

In this ever-changing world, one thing remains constant: climbing isn’t just about reaching the summit. It’s about the experiences, the connections we make, and the impact we leave behind for those who come after us.

Simon Mentz

As told to Claire Williams

From a teenager flailing about the crag on old sailing rope, to guiding and collaborating on guidebooks, it was an evening in The Pines when Simon realised he wanted to be a climber. 

I was 18, fresh off getting my license, and clueless about climbing. There were no gyms to practice in, no instructors to guide us. My mate and I packed up the car with old gear and youthful optimism, eager to see what climbing was all about.

Our first climb was a route called Minimus. At grade 13, it seemed approachable for two complete beginners. The guidebook’s warning—“ideal for deflating beginners”—barely registered. We were too busy tying together two frayed old sailing ropes to form a questionable top-rope system. What could go wrong? Miraculously, the rope held, though it’s safe to say our egos didn’t. 

Back at the base, nursing our wounds, we spotted a group of seasoned climbers scrambling up toward the bluffs. Intrigued, we decided to follow them. One climber immediately stood out—he was clad in Lycra tights, clean-shaven except for a tuft of hair on the crown of his head that gave him the look of a modern-day Buddhist monk. His physique was chiseled, and he effortlessly hung sideways on the rock as if gravity didn’t apply to him. I remember staring in awe, thinking, Wow, this is incredible. 

That climber turned out to be Chris Peisker, the original founder of the climbing company. Years later, fate brought us together again when I became a guide, and he became my boss.

That evening, we found ourselves sitting around a fire at The Pines, the campground that has been the beating heart of the climbing community for generations. The climbers told us they’d been living there for months, chasing the perfect route and sharing stories under the stars. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a climber. 

One memory from those early days still stands out: watching German climber Stefan Glowacz soloing at Arapiles. He and his friends showed up and started climbing the cliffs next to us. His movement was flawless—like a ballet dancer gliding effortlessly up the rock. I was spellbound. It blew my mind that someone could move so comfortably and gracefully through such terrain.

Stefan was one of the best climbers in the world, and yet there he was, climbing right next to us beginners. That’s one of the amazing things about climbing: it’s a global community where you can find yourself sharing the rock with the very best.

As my skills improved and my passion deepened, I found opportunities to give back to the climbing community that had shaped me. Collaborating with Glenn Tempest to contribute to the Arapiles guidebook was one of those opportunities. For generations, this guidebook has been revered as a Bible—pored over daily for inspiration and guidance. Contributing to such an iconic resource for one of the world’s most renowned climbing destinations was a dream project.

Our goal was to blend the humor and inspiration of earlier editions with the user-friendly features of modern international guides, including high-quality topos and detailed maps. We placed particular emphasis on improving the information for easier climbs, ensuring they were well-represented with accurate descriptions and quality photographs—an endeavor far more challenging than capturing images of harder routes. The positive feedback from climbers around the globe has been incredibly rewarding, affirming the effort and passion that went into this project. 

Now, years later, it’s bittersweet to reflect on some of those climbs. Take Minimus, for example—the first climb I ever attempted. As I improved, it became my go-to warm-up route. I must’ve soloed it 5,000 times over the years, unroped and confident. But now, I can’t even go near it. It’s like losing an old friend. I look at it from afar and feel this deep sadness—not just for the climbs I’ve lost but for the experiences that future climbers might never get to have. 

The Pines, much like Yosemite’s Camp 4, is more than just a campground—it’s a gathering place of climbers from every corner of the globe. Beneath those trees, friendships are forged, stories are shared, and the spirit of climbing thrives. It’s a place that stays with you long after you leave.

In 38 years of climbing, I’ve never grown tired of driving out to the mountain. Every time I arrive, it feels like coming home. This mountain has shaped my life in ways I could never have imagined. It has taught me resilience, community, and the beauty of pushing beyond your limits.

Arapiles isn’t just a climbing destination—it’s a sanctuary, a proving ground, and a home for dreamers. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.

Louise Shepher

As told to Carey Scheer

Louise Shepherd is a pioneering figure in Australian climbing, celebrated as one of the top female climbers of the 1980s. She was the first woman to tackle routes in the mid-20s, with standout ascents like Tales of Power (26/27) in the US and Lord of the Flies (26) in the UK. At Mt Arapiles, she made history with her onsight of Trojan (25), becoming the first Aussie female to ascend at that grade.

Louise has turned her passion into a profession, working as a climbing guide at Dyuritte/Arapiles and introducing young people to the sport that has shaped her life.

My whole life is climbing. Climbing has given me everything: friendships, physical exercise, mental exercise, a reason to travel, work, a connection to nature, community, and it’s tested my limits in so many ways.

I started climbing when I was 20 years old. I’m now 66. I first came to Arapiles in 1978, just a few months into climbing. I looked up at a climb that I now know is called Skink (18). I remember thinking, ‘Gee, I wonder if anyone can climb that!?’ It all looked so impossible and improbable.

My boyfriend at the time, Kym Smith, led the first pitch of Arachnus (grade 9), and I led the second. It goes through this overhang section with big jugs, and then eventually the wall blanks out. There’s no protection. It’s at an angle, but it’s a very intimidating place for a beginner. I ended up leading this slab section with no gear.

I got to the ledge, looked out across the magnificent views from the Watchtower Wall, and this profound sense of relief washed over me. I’d made it without killing myself or breaking my legs. I remember thinking, I wish I could just be a second. But I had to lead because Kym was also a beginner—we were at the same level. Later, I realised those terrifying moments are part of the whole thrill of climbing. You spend the rest of your life trying to recreate those early experiences, but because you’re experienced, you can’t.

Climbing starts off as this great adventure, this death-defying activity, but then it seeps into your bones. It’s about connecting with the landscape. It has a real spiritual dimension to it.

Arapiles is this little gem in the middle of the Wimmera Plains. When you get up there and look across the plains, you can see the impact humans have had on the environment. We’ve cleared the plains to grow canola, wheat, barley, and oats—all for the benefit of humankind, because we need to eat. But it also has a heavy impact on the environment. The plains used to be a mosaic of native grasses, bovine lilies, chocolate and vanilla lilies, and yam daisies. It was a place with wallabies, kangaroos, and scattered buloke. That landscape has utterly changed.

Then there’s Arapiles, which is not just fantastic cultural heritage, but also environmental heritage. There are still native grasses, kangaroos, and wallabies flourishing here. Climbers care about the environment because we’re so immersed in it. We tread lightly on the landscape—we’re talking hands and feet on very hard rock. Climbers have worked hard not only to minimise our impact but also to enhance the environment. We’ve planted native species, weeded, and built stone tracks to protect the gullies. We’ve done tens of thousands of hours of volunteer labour to give back to the mountain.

I work as a climbing guide, and I feel so lucky to have access to this on my doorstep and to be able to introduce others to this landscape. I know people like to wax lyrical about their own backyard, but I’ve climbed all over the world. There is no place like Arapiles. It has hard climbs, but it’s the easy and moderate climbs that set Arapiles apart from every other cliff in the world. I’m so blessed to have Arapiles because it’s the best place to teach.

These days, kids come along and sometimes they’re so urbanised that they really don’t even know how to move their bodies. You arrive at the bottom of the cliff, and they look up and go, ‘No, we’re not going to make it up there.’ But then, 99.995 percent of the time, they get up there. They’re so proud of themselves, and so proud of their mates. I have a very satisfying job.

I’m very worried about the bans if they remain in their current form. I feel for future generations who won’t be able to enjoy these beautiful climbs I’ve loved for 46 years. It’s a very sad place to be. It’s such a loss, not just to climbers today but to future climbers. It’s a loss to the whole community—the whole of Natimuk, the whole of Horsham, the Wimmera region, all of Victoria, interstate and overseas. So many people have come and loved Arapiles with a very light touch.

Climbers are doctors, nurses, teachers, health care professionals, engineers, soil scientists, builders, plumbers, electricians. They work on the wind farm. They guide at Arapiles. It’s this big range of skills that climbers bring to this little, tiny town in the middle of the Wimmera. It’s bucking the trend of country towns shrinking. If the bans go through, the town could lose a big part of its heart and livelihood.

I think there’s a way around this that could satisfy both Indigenous people and climbers. I think it’s possible for cultural heritage to be absolutely, totally celebrated while still allowing climbing to coexist with it.

Geoffrey Gledhill

As told to Carey Scheer

With nearly six decades of climbing under his belt, Geoff Gledhill has a deep appreciation of the sport, the lifestyle, the environment and the benefits these things combined can bring to people and communities.

At Arapiles, you meet so many people. I’m happy to climb with whoever comes along. Most people I climb with are younger than my kids. They don’t feel like young people to me—they just feel like people. What’s it like to be 80? You’re very conscious that 90 is only 10 years away. You’ve got to have the mindset of a lifestyle climber.

Some of the climbs I’m most proud of, I did in my sixties: the Comici Route on Cima Grande in the Dolomites, the Beckey-Chouinard on South Howser Tower in the Bugaboos—I wanted that one more than anything. I’m also proud of Mount Asgard on Baffin Island; that was 10 years ago.

I don’t think I could do those climbs now. You’ve got to learn to accept it. Just because you can’t climb as hard as you used to, or you’re not competitive anymore, that doesn’t matter. You’re just doing it because you love moving over rock. As long as you can do that, it doesn’t matter how old you are, or how frail you’re getting; you’re going to be doing all right.

If you’ve got a problem in your life and you’re dwelling on it, and you go climbing, that problem is not important anymore. That’s what climbing does for you, and Arapiles does it better than anywhere else. You just work your way up and look out across the patchwork of fields, all different colours depending on the crops. You get higher and higher and look across to the Grampians. Once you’re at the top, you can see the curvature of the earth. It’s just magic.

I credit climbing with helping me to age well. If Arapiles stays open and there are still a few easy climbs I can do, I’ll probably still be climbing in 10 years. The proposed bans will limit the number of climbs I can do. When I first heard about the bans, I felt pretty depressed. What really upsets me is that young people won’t have the experiences I was able to have. I don’t know if my grandkids will take to climbing, but if they can’t share the climbs their grandfather enjoyed, that’s sad, isn’t it?

The thought of these bans not being reversed, or not reaching a compromise—I just can’t get my head around it. Parks Victoria’s tagline is “Healthy Parks, Healthy People.” If you close people out of their parks, how are they meant to be healthy? And how are the parks meant to be healthy if you crowd a whole bunch of activities into half the space? It breaks my heart.

I’ve spent a lot of time doing track work here, so I feel I’ve got an investment in this place. I kept bumping into Walter Braun, a climber building stone steps up Pharos Gully. I took an interest in his work, and he said, “You can come help if you like.” Little by little, he taught me how to do it. Eventually, I was splitting my time between climbing and stonework. Once we finished Pharos Gully, we moved onto Central Gully. I’ve found stonemasonry as satisfying as climbing—in some ways, even more so. Those stone paths will hopefully be here for 100 years or longer. They protect the environment, eliminate erosion, and they’re pleasant to walk on. These paths are for everyone, not just climbers.

The impressive cliffs here—it’s only human to love them. It’s only human to see the beauty in them. It’s only human to want to be near them.

This story originally featured in Vertical Life # 50. Grab your copy here