Psyched after a successful ascent of Zenyatta Mondatta, Callum and I decided to try something a bit more challenging. Continental Drift was first climbed in 1997 by three hardcore superhumans and has remained unrepeated ever since. We both knew the climb would be way too hard, but neither of us would admit weakness to the other.


A few days later I was sunbathing at the base watching Callum balanced precariously 100 feet above the ground, nervously placing a copperhead for the first time ever. Having placed about 3 heads on previous climbs, I shouted up instructions, "Just melt it in 'til it won't move". Later that day I cleaned the pitch to join Callum at the belay. His emotionless blank gaze and visibly receeding hairline suggested that it had perhaps been a tough lead.

The following pitch involved a lot of 'duck taped hook on hammer' reachy moves through seemingly smooth rock that honestly made my hair turn gray. This route must have been put up by giants with balls of steel. We fixed our ropes from the 2nd anchor and descended just in time to avoid an unexpectedly destructive thunderstorm.

We teamed up with 'Pass the Pitons Pete' and returned to the base with 150 liters of water, umpteen small mystery bags and an anti-socially loud ghetto blaster. A whole day was then spent hauling the junkshow up our fixed lines. Callum and I had a rest day while Pete led half of the following pitch, declaring it as "the hardest hooking you'll find anywhere". It became apparent that this climb would take longer than expected, so that night Callum and I descended to resupply with whipped cream, beer and other essentials.


I've heard that climbing as a team of 3 can be very efficient, with each person always either cleaning, leading or hauling. We decided it was time to put this theory into practise. Callum took over Pete's lead, finishing faster than I could finish my cup of tea. I jugged up and began soloing the 4th pitch while Pete cleaned the 3rd and Callum hauled. At this rate, we were going to set a speed record.

But then the inevitable clusterf*#k set in. Half of the haul bags were stuck under a small roof, somehow becoming incomprehensibly auto-clipped into Petes portaledge on the other haul line. Meanwhile, I had used up all my slings and carabiners, the rest were still being cleaned on the pitch below. Impatiently, I continued up getting stuck in the middle of a free move, my aiders wrapped around unreachable flakes beneath my feet. With a cam wavering in my mouth and unable to let go of some crimps, I tried without success to dislodge myself from this predicament. Rope suddenly zipped through my gri-gri, dangerously creating 50 feet of unwanted slack in the system. The wind angrily blew all 5 of our ropes into a single unfastenble knot and the noise of clattering portaledges made it impossible to communicate. I heard Callum muttering words of complaint as he attempted to haul 2 loads, retrieve gear from Pete, pass gear to me, stack ropes and eat a bagel simultaneously. I had a quiet chuckle to myself, watching Callum and Pete unravelling a tragically windblown free-hanging epic of biblical proportions.

And then it went dark. This is when we learned that small items such as headlamps quite easily find their way into the bottom of haulbags. I was only 10 feet away from a potential belay but for some reason I couldn't move. Shouts from below indicated that I had reached the end of our 60 meter lead rope. The situation was soon resolved and I returned down to a massive detached flake upon which hung a 20x30 foot monster vertical belay disaster. Callum emerged from a haulbag brandishing a flattened square chocolate cake and we celebrated my birthday.


Callum casually scrambled pitch 5, hands in pockets. A short while later, a concerned voice shouted down "I think I'm at the belay, can you pass me some beaks, blades and duck tape?" A particularly intricate and exfoliating anchor was then constructed with equalised half-in pitons randomly connected to each other with bits of 7mm cord, all of which seemed to be dependant on our smallest beak.

A strange 'sssssss' noise was emitting from a haulbag. Later investigation proved it was a can of whipped cream that had self-dispensed into our spare clothes. Our humous and 'french vanilla' creamer, cleverly padded by sleeping bags, had also exploded into it's surroundings.


An enjoyable 5.8 pitch led up to a perfect sunbathing ledge, where I watched Callum cautiously navigate through a series of razor sharp, dangerously loose blocks. A mattress-sized rock was improbably held to the wall 50 feet directly above the belay. I extended my tie-in rope, planning to superman dive off the ledge as Callum placed cams behind the mammoth block and mantled onto it. Pete opened another beer. Numerous dinner plates of rock crashed down but the teetering block miraculously remained unaffected by gravity. Named 'Trailhead', this pitch was exactly that. Simply the start to what would become an all-time outrageous adventure.

The next morning, we decided it was time to send a personal message to our friend Adam. On a commiting climb like this, it is important not to take life too seriously. We blasted ACDC on the stereo and unfurled the banner, knowing that Adam would eventually see it on the El Cap Report.


Classic childish humour at it's best, we were congratulated by hundreds of British climbers. A surprisingly large amount of Americans, however, took the message literally. They became angry, offended and mistakenly blamed Pete, which I thought made it even more hilarious. We cracked open a coconut which had somehow made it's way into our haulbag and Pete set off leading pitch 8.

Towards the end of a 2 day-long lead, we heard frightened shouts through the darkness above, " Ohhhh f*#k, I don't even know how, I don't even know how it's holding, ohhh fuuucccc...." followed by a sudden jingle of gear as Pete fell off, ripping gear and expensively zippering 3 screamers on a large plummet into the void below. He got straight back on and finished the pitch, more carefully this time.

On pitch 9, I encountered a large, unco-operative finger of rock, apparently held to the wall by a lack of gravitational pull in that precise area. My inexperienced mind couldn't figure out how to handle this beast. Everything I tried made the flake wobble and expand. Eventually, I stuffed an alumi-head into the back of it and pressed the loose feature into the wall with my hands, and then knees as I moved up. Keeping a constant pressure with my knees on the flake, I tapped a tiny beak into a seam above, which then fell out under the weight of a carabiner. I tried a few other places but with no success. Ignoring the sand which was pouring out of the finger flake, I equalized 3 micro-beaks, closing my eyes as I applied bodyweight. They flexed and squeaked against the rock, all 3 of them symbolically chirping in unison. Is this why they're called Birdbeaks? It was a wonderful yet disturbing sound. I had to keep moving. Seemingly endless sick hook moves led to a point where I was able to tap in a knifeblade halfway, tie it off and relax.


Callum did a great lead up to 'The Gorak', welding in a long series of heads and beaks. Upon reaching an expando nailing section, he shouted down for advice, having never climbed such a feature before. "Just clip into the next pin as you nail it" I responded, using my experience of climbing only one expanding flake ever. Callum was in danger of taking a huge fall if this was handled incorrectly. I was greatly concerned that this could cause me to spill my beer. As expected, the previous pin fell out as the next was being nailed in, he stayed attached to the wall and my beer remained in it's can. Later that day, I was half-way through a bathroom break when a terrific updraft of wind announced it's presence. A sparkling yellow stream of urine blew above the belay. Pete and I watched in horror as the event unfolded in slow motion. We frantically searched for cover but it was too late. We were drenched. Luckily, a quick 30-minute torrential thunderstorm came by, giving us a refreshing wash.


'Half a pitch Pete' climbed half of the following pitch while Callum and I drank tea and repaired our broken portaledge. At one point, faced with the perplexing dilemma of endless blank rock, Pete duck-taped a hook to the end of our comically flimsy portaledge pole, hooked a far away edge and committed to an uncertain future. We shouted up words of encouragement, "You're gonna die!".


The crux pitch 'Extraordinary Alien' loomed above. I fumbled around with a paper bag, off-loading the definition of a fear sh#t. Forgetting to eat any breakfast, I shakily racked up and began climbing.


After 10 hours of constant wide-eyed terror, I finished the pitch and returned down to the belay looking like a faded picture. If any more was said about this pitch, it would spoil the surprise for future ascentionists...

Pete uncorked a fine bottle of Chardonnay to celebrate the end of the difficulties. Callum zoomed up the final 2 pitches and we stumbled onto the summit, dehydrated, malnourished and having lost all sense of balance.