Walking the Dog - John Ewbank
First published in Rock magazine, this wild tale sees John Ewbank swap New York’s music scene for Blue Mountains mayhem with the infamous Macciza Macpherson — a saga of sandstone, sake, and the Dogface.
This article was originally published in Rock Magazine in 2011. The information, route descriptions, and access details reflect the conditions and ethics of that time. Climbing areas and their access arrangements may have changed significantly since then. Please consult up-to-date local sources, land managers, or climbing access organisations before visiting any of the locations mentioned.
With the much-anticipated release of the new John Ewbank book on the horizon, we thought it fitting to look back and share this classic story from the Spring 2011 issue of Rock magazine.
John Ewbank revisits his old haunt, the Dogface, with another canine connoisseur and Blue Mountains legend, Macciza Macpherson
It came through cyberspace while I sat unsuspectingly at my desk, dazed and dishevelled and drinking my morning coffee, recovering from a night of musical mayhem; New York is not an unkind place for an aging musician to ply a dying trade.
I read the email and saw it had been sent by someone who’d signed off with the amazing (and obviously made-up) moniker of Macciza Macpherson. I scrolled back up and read it again, laughing aloud at the writer’s clever use of such a witty nom de plume.
Oh Braveheart! Oh Mel! Oh Fat Bastard! Oh MacDuff!
The writer expressed such a hopeless and depraved love of The Dogface that his or her state of mind sounded close to bordering on my own obsessive sandstone-licking devotion. It was heartening to hear that The Vertical Beach was not only still standing, but that it was still appreciated, at least by a small band of aficionados.
The email even contained a few flattering sentences about the climbs I’d done back in the day, with my rope and pitons and my bucket and spade, back in the Dark Ages when the cliff was sometimes jokingly referred to as Ewbank’s Sandpit. We are all suckers for a well-delivered compliment, so a few days later I fired off a quick reply.
Dear reader, how was I supposed to know that Macciza Macpherson not only exists but is mad as a Megalong dingo?
8AM AUSTRALIAN EST.
A year to the day later, on a perfectly clear and harmonious morning at Bruce Cameron’s place in Sun Valley, bronzewing pigeons called from the bush and horny cicadas rubbed their rude legs together.
A hundred-billion naughty gum leaves fondled each other’s backsides in the strong and anonymous wind that blew down from the upper Blue Mountains. It was far-and-away the biggest meeting of Sex-Addicts Anonymous that I’d ever attended, and I supposed it to be their way of saying that what happens in the treetops stays in the treetops.
Everybody was getting some and, silly innocent me, I couldn’t wait to join in, in the only way I knew how: to jam my knee into a flaring crack, to get my tongue on to some crumbling sandstone and to bury my head behind an expanding flake of generous proportions — anything really, so long as it would allow me to practice the old rock climber’s ritual of embracing the world while simultaneously turning my back on it.
I finally realised that I had, (in my own foolish way), known as much when I was 14 years old. Oh, what a wasted life! Fuck ’em up the bum and let it rip, grim reaper!
New York and the dying trade of music couldn’t have been further from my mind as Macca and I stepped off the front porch and walked into the glorious blueness and yellowness and purple and green maddening possum-shit beauty of it all.
We were barely out of the garden before being stopped dead in our tracks; an old familiar perfume was insinuating itself into the air, chasing away the sweet smell of the surrounding wattles.
What was it?
The wind from the upper mountains increased, bringing with it extra lashings of the slippery and deliciously invisible wanton stinkiness. It was becoming almost overwhelming.
Macca and I were rooted to the spot, as helpless as the nearby stand of Eucalyptus oreades. Finally the pong was unmistakable: Eau du Chien.
We looked at each other, both of us greedily sniffing the air, both hungry for more, like two desperate dirty old men locked out of an orgy. I closed my eyes and breathed the intoxicating canine aroma deeply in through my nostrils: The Dog!
The beloved scent had wafted 25 miles, but the pungent stenchorama was still strong enough to bring back a thousand memories as it lodged in my nasal cavities.
The wind suddenly dropped, and in the ecstasy of the moments that followed I could feel my tail beginning to wag. Macca started to growl, faintly at first, but then with increasing volume, and all the while maintaining a steady timbre, like the meditational drone of a Zen monk, or the slobbering growl of a junkyard pit bull…. Uh
I was still hyperventilating and Macca was still growling when we rounded the bend and his famous car came into view: the steam and solar-powered Ford Fiesta with the wind and foot-pedal option.
It slouched beneath an ancient angophora, and as we approached I began to have second thoughts about our enterprise. Perhaps the intensity of it all would be too much?
Before I had time to express any misgivings it was too late; he’d found his keys and opened the front passenger door. My tail stopped wagging and I found myself farting, (with, I must admit, a not altogether unfamiliar mixture of fear and excitement), as he invited me to “squeeze myself in”, while explaining that he’d “not had time to clean the bugger out for a few days.”
It was at that fateful moment that the day began to turn very black. I became aware of the irreversibility of my position: my hands were tied and my goose was cooked.
I crammed myself in among 30 years of assorted cans, bottles, wrappers, tools, coffee cups, climbing equipment, clothes, books, CDs and what might have been several thousand empty packets of cigarette papers and thought about my life so far.
I don’t know what I’d done to deserve it, but I was now a part of a movable archaeological project, with my body position remarkably similar to that of the woman in the picture on page 81 of the Kama Sutra, where the couple are shown enjoying “The Congress of the Limpet.”
Macca cleared a set of socket wrenches, a large rasp and a can of Bondo from the driver’s seat, squeezed in and slammed the door. He took a final deep drag on his morning joint, turned on the ignition and slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
“It’s good to finally meet you mate,” he said, as we lurched out of the driveway, bounced over a speed bump and swerved our way on to the Great Western Highway.
“Likewise,” I said as my head hit the roof.
“Fuck me,” I thought, “we’ll be lucky to reach Katoomba, never mind visiting the kennel.”
10.30AM KATOOMBA TIME.
When we finally arrived at the abseiling capital of the world we were hungry as a pair of working huskies — who wouldn’t be after using the pedal option uphill for 20 miles?
Ignoring the bean sprout and tofu hotspots we headed for the AB Cafe and ordered the traditional Dogface breakfast: brains, bacon, two pork sausages, scrambled eggs, one lamb chop, baked beans and a crumbed cutlet with fried bread and a grilled tomato on the side, followed by a large pot of tea and a buttered rock cake.
By the time Zac Vertrees had arrived and rippled his way through the front door Macca and I were already under the table and licking the plates clean.
“Sorry I’m late guys,” he said, sitting down and ordering a coffee, “I’m going to have to take a rest day.”
He pulled up an extra chair to rest all his tired muscles and explained he’d gotten carried away at the gym the night before and done a 1000 chin-ups too many.
“Jesus,” I thought, “now we’re fucked.”
My rabies vaccination was overdue and my Rin Tan Tun meditation was going to really be put to the test. Macca showed his displeasure by nipping him on the ankle, though only in a good-humoured, West Highland Terrier sort of way, just enough to draw a bit of blood, nothing too vicious.
Zac in turn gave Macca a smart crack across the snout with a rolled-up copy of Rock, again nothing too serious, just enough to send him flying back under the table.
“These modern climbers,” I thought to myself, but all’s well that ends well, and by the time Zac finished his coffee he’d offered to come out and give us a push start.
Macca and I were finally off: no muzzles, no leashes, no collars, no license, no young man with large paws to pull us up the hard bit.
Perfect — I’ll continue formatting the rest of the story in the same style (cleaned dialogue, paragraphing, time markers bolded).
HIGH NOON ON CLIFF DRIVE
“Right,” sez I, “Where’s the pegs?”
“I haven’t got any,” sez Macca.
“Oh,” sez I.
“I’ve got loads of cams,” sez he.
“The crack’s too thin,” sez I.
“Oh,” sez he.
“Let’s borrow some from Adam Darragh,” sez I.
Off we peddle, back towards Katoomba.
12.30PM DARLEY STREET TIME
Who should open the door but Chris Peisker, the very one who has climbed more routes on The Dog than anyone, other than Yours Truly.
As Chris now lives in Natimuk and just happens to be passing through Katoomba, this is something of a remarkable coincidence: the three most devoted Dog lovers in the world, wagging our tails simultaneously within barking distance of the pound.
Adam, we learn, is away on a sex tour of Tasmania, Victoria being too expensive. Even worse than this though, Chris has no idea where Adam hides his pegs.
1PM KATOOMBA TIME
“Let’s get my pegs,” sez Macca.
“Where are they?” sez I.
“Hanging off a route on Point Pilcher,” sez he.
“Oh,” sez I.
Off we pedal to visit the Grose Valley.
3PM WESTERN TIME
Macca reappeared over the rim with the pegs and then fairly sprinted back to the car to get the makings for his mid-afternoon consultation with the Green Oracle.
If we put a spurt on we could still get in ten or 15 feet of climbing. With the steam on max, the solar panels out and the mainsail up, we started peddling. It was no time for the Highway Code.
A dog may be a man’s best friend but I was beginning to wonder about Macca.
By the time our return passage along the main street of Blackheath was scaring the local children half to death, I had totally lost faith in my daily practice of Japanese Rin Tan Tun Meditation.
“Stop right there, if you will please Macca,” I said, pointing towards the Ivanhoe Hotel.
I came out with two big bottles of sake, “Fuck the Rin Tan Tun and the horse it rode in on,” I thought to myself as I defied all laws of physics and squeezed the bottles into the car.
If there’s one skill an Old Dogger likes to think he developed from his lean years of howling in the sandpit, it’s his ability to think on his feet when the merde hits the étriers. The Rin Tan Tun may have let me down, but I had a strong feeling the sake would put me right soon enough.
For one thing it was Japanese, and for another it had a screw top. There’s more than one way to get on to a higher plane.
Like two bloodhounds hard on the scent we headed back east. Over the rise we went, smoke drifting out of the driver’s side window and with me in the passenger seat, finally, and happily giving in to my animal nature.
4.30PM DOGFACE TIME
“I’ll show you a short-cut,” sez I.
“Good on yer mate,” sez Mac.
“No wuckers,” sez I.
“I never knew there was one,” sez he.
“Only done it once,” sez I.
“I’ll leave the keys under this rock,” sez he.
“I’ll need a PhD in juggling to drive it,” sez I.
After hiding the keys Macca sat himself down beside the car for a final pre-climb meeting with Puff the Magic Gecko, and I decided to allow myself to cave-in completely and to decant one of the bottles of sake into an aluminium drinker that I’d managed, with some considerable effort, to crowbar out of the boot.
Five minutes later, and lit up like a pair of Christmas trees, we chuffed off into the bush, all sharps and points and thorns, you all know the story — one in the eye, two up the nose and three to the shin.
4.40PM
“Hang on mate. I think I left me iPod on the car roof.”
5.00PM
“It was right where I left it. Which way now?”
“Just down here a bit.”
“Gets dark early this time of year mate.”
“It’ll be good to say we got down at least.”
“Yeah. At least to say we got a look at it.”
“There might be a moon.”
“Are you sure this is right?”
“Let’s look at that photo.”
“I didn’t bring the guide.”
“You didn’t bring the guide?”
“Well I thought you knew the way.”
“Well fuck me, it’s been 40 fucking years.”
“I brought an extra headlamp.”
“That’s good.”
“What do we rap off?”
“A bolt. It sticks out an inch and a half.”
“An inch and a half?”
“So the rope would pull easy.”
“It should be easy to see then.”
“It would be in daylight.”
“At least we can suss it out for next time.”
“We can rap on a single and Jumar back up.”
“How far?”
“Only 30 feet! Less than vertical!”
“Fucking brilliant mate.”
“No worries.”
“Gets dark quick.”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Ow.”
“Jesus.”
5.40PM
“I think I’ve found it!”
“It’s not sticking out enough.”
“I wonder where we are then mate?”
“I wish we’d got an earlier start.”
“Too right.”
“Want to use it now we’re here?”
“May as well.”
“It’s half-eaten through.”
“At least we can say we got down.”
“At least we can say we had a look.”
“Better back it up.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“Wind’s picking up.”
“I love the sound of the currawongs.”
“Me too.”
“Do you want the other headlamp?”
“Where is it?”
“In the bottom, with the oranges.”
“I’ll get it when we get down.”
“At least we can say we had a look.”
6.30PM
“Macca! Macca! Are you down yet?”
Once over the lip I looked down into what had become total darkness, and far below I could make out an extremely faint yellowish glow of some kind, like one of those images sent back from the Hubble telescope.
No! It couldn’t be Macca’s headlamp? Surely?
The rappel was a full rope-length and hung free of the rock most of the way. I reached the scree and burnt my fingers getting the ATC off the rope. I’d forgotten that I’d forgotten how to rappel, and how cute a combination that was.
I started rummaging around in the bag that Macca still had on his back and found the extra headlamp, just as he said with the oranges, right at the bottom.
“Here it is.”
“I can’t believe mine’s already buggered!”
“Me neither.”
“It only fucking got it yesterday!”
“Where?”
“Coles. I won’t fucking go there again!”
“Where does this one turn on?”
“Toggle the gizmo on the top.”
“Is there a trick to it?”
“Nah, give it to me mate, I’ll do it.”
“Problem?”
“I think the battery’s dead.”
“You think?”
“Nah. It’s dead.”
“That’s a pity.”
“Must have been on all day in the bag.”
“Did I tell you about my shoulder?”
“You said you’d had your rotator cuff done.”
“Yeah. It’s not fully healed.”
“Well you can’t Jumar up there mate.”
“I’m going to have to walk out.”
“I’ll keep you company.”
“The scree’s going to be a laugh a minute.”
“I wonder what time we’ll get out?”
“I wonder where we went wrong?”
“I often wonder that.”
“I better give Bruce a bell.”
“No reception down here mate.”
“Want some sake?”
“I wouldn’t mind a drop mate; tell me about that Rin Tin Tin.”
John Ewbank once believed that climbing cliffs would make him happy; now he has come to believe that nothing will make him happy, except perhaps death, but now he complains that he won’t live long enough to enjoy even that.
Read about the new John Ewbank book Here!
More Ewbank Adventures: On the loose
