Island Epic

Kalymnos, Europe’s climbing mecca, celebrated for its endless supply of classic routes, giant caves filled with vast networks of otherworldly tufa formations and blissful boozy evenings watching the sun melt into the sea. However, it was the island’s notoriety that had always turned me away. Having never been, it felt more like the Disney Land of climbing, whereas my climbing pursuits were more rooted in adventure and as I lived in London was always eager to get away from the crowds. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Andy and I woke on our third day of climbing just after sunrise, grabbed our pre-packed bags, quick breakfast, slug of coffee then out the front door and less than a five-minute walk to the pier where we were told a ferry came regularly. Our mission for the day: Wings for Life – a 250-meter 6a sport multipitch on the nearby island of Telendos. As we waited for the ferry, my psych turned to anxiety as the boat was nowhere in sight. We walked to the nearby port and chatted with some fishermen who assured us that the ferry would come and joked that it was on “Greek time.” Back at the pier one other person now stood waiting, he offered us each an orange that he had grown on his property in town, he was a local and like everyone else on the island, emanated genuine friendliness through fluid and casual conversation.

Someone had told me the previous day that during World War II a great arial siege had been fought to gain control of a nearby island which created an underwater graveyard of wreckage and debris. They said that it’s tradition for the local youngsters to dive down to the plains and harvest what explosive powders remained in the decaying bombs, craft homemade crackers, and toss them at each other during Easter, which was less than one week away. I fact checked this with the local who nodded his head and admitted that he had partaken in what he called a “silly tradition,” labelling it as dangerous and reckless with people losing limbs and occasionally their lives.

The ferry came and just before taking off, a couple came running down the pier and hopped on, they were friends of friends that we had met the night before for the first time. Felix had a determined look and Anna was wearing these retro 80s style outdoor glasses which looked totally badass – they seemed very confident and up for adventure. It quickly surfaced that they were doing the same route as us. New friends were always welcomed but selfishly my first instinct was to feel annoyed that we’d have to share the day and route with them. Again, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The sun shone brightly as we hopped off the boat and walked along the pier of a small town, unsure of where the trailhead was. An old man sitting on a bench, so motionless we hadn’t noticed him until he looked at us, simply pointed down a narrow walkway leading upwards towards the hills and out of town. Before long we were scrambling through deserted boulder fields just above the coastline and below a steep hill which formed the base of the island’s cliffs and summit ridge. The path was peppered with such an abundance and variety of pottery that it was hard to know if the fragments were from previous civilisations or recently built structures. I picked up a few shards that contained faint lines and designs and tucked them in my backpack. I also found an old rifle cartridge that looked like it could have been from the second world war. Better to be climbing than fighting in a war, although the two somehow didn’t feel a million miles apart.

 We scrambled up one last steep set of boulders to the base of the route and looked up. The line was clear – it shot up an obvious and magnificent ridge, then up the right side of an enormous cave which was filled with a galaxy of ancient stalactites, then up a final slab face. We rock paper scissored to decide who went first and lost, which frustrated me as we were keen to get moving and I wasn’t sure how fast the other team were going to be. Whilst waiting, I walked around the base of the cliff, up a narrow ravine and found a head high cave blanketed with goat poo. Walking delicately on the outer rim of fesses, I found nestled in a bush, a giant goat horn, which I proudly picked up and then ran back down to pack in my bag. I have a passion for collecting fossils and antlers, so the horn was a rare treasure, just over half my arm’s length in a withered cork-screw formation. I was grateful that we had lost rock paper scissors and meditated on how my ego’s instincts to do the route unaccompanied and first had gotten the better of me.

 The first few pitches were pleasant enough, impeccable limestone, totally unpolished, with long expanses of rock that felt like bubble wrap where all the bubbles had been popped and all that remained was the sharp outer rim of the circle, formed by centuries of rainwater and weathering, where each fingertip could delicately find its own pocket to nudge into. I felt very lucky to be able to reach such vertical heights through modern equipment and techniques that previous civilisations could have only dreamt of, though it was certainly possible to imagine a young and determined Greek citizen scaling these cliffs bare-footed, powered by the innate desire to explore the unknown and push human potential... “Safe!” shouted Andy, which shook me from my thoughts and narrowed my vision up one of the most glorious ridge lines I’d ever gotten ready to climb. The line of bolts shot straight up a steep backbone of rock, though the climbing was relatively easy, the exposure down both sides and length of the route looked wild and adventurous. Just before climbing, on the opposite side of the giant cave we were now approaching, on the most exposed part of a near vertical cliff edge, were two goats. I spent a few moments trying to understand the line they’d taken but couldn’t figure it out.

 We now stood below the first crux pitch, a slightly overhanging corner which I soon found myself nearly at the top of, bridging with my legs spread very wide, embracing what was for sure the hardest move of the route so far, and would prove to be the second hardest move of the whole 250-meters, when Andy yelled, “Hold-up!”. I grabbed a quickdraw from my harness, clipped it into a bolt that was just above head height then attempted to pull the rope only to feel it tighten. “Dude, I said hold up!” yelled Andy again. I looked a little closer at him and could see that the rope had gotten all knotted by his feet and he wasn’t able to feed out any more slack. There I stood, or stretched rather, my legs spread wide, a left hand in a dubious Gaston crimp, my right palming a blank face, unable to clip my next bolt. I enjoyed the precarious position and before long was on my way.

The second crux pitch, my favourite of the route, was a leftwards traverse along the top ridge of the super massive cave we had just climbed beside. The route both started and finished with a hanging belay which I noticed for Andy and I, having shared a small handful of hanging belays together on past routes, ever so slightly tightened our nerves, likely from the sheer exposure and slight discomfort of our body-weight pressed up against our harnesses. It also seemed to cause this sort of magical goldilocks effect that sharpened our focus and collaboration in a precise and fine-tuned manner. Every movement was both delicate and confident, and anything said, from climbing communication to ecstatic expressions of howling and hooting, possessed a sense of purity and rightness. Every time our vision focused on something new, it was hard not to grin with glee and triumph, from the vast sea speckled in sun dots, the main island of Kalymnos covered in towering sheets of limestone, the pitches below we’d just climbed, to the wildly exposed positions we were now hanging in – these were the moments we wanted, that we lived for and would no doubt forever chase.

I lead the pitch. Hand holds in abundance but sometimes tricky to find, moving along large hollowed out rock formations and hidden cracks or under-clings. The puzzle element of piecing together the sequences were constantly interesting with delicate footwork magnified by the price of falling on a traverse pitch.

We cruised up a few easier pitches, then reached the summit where Felix and Anna welcomed us with a giant smile. I showed them my goat horn and they smoked a celebratory cigarette. Cairns dotted across the summit, paving a path along the mountain and back down the other side. Conversation always in rich abundance, it felt special to have shared an incredible experience with awesome new friends. We found an ancient monastery no bigger than a small bedroom and walked inside to see fading painted murals along the ceiling. We hiked down a steep and narrow gully to find a secluded beach and went for a swim. The saltwater cleansing our countless cuts and scratches, healing and energising our bodies which at this point maintained the glowing pace of an all-day epic that had gone exceptionally well.

We reached the dock where a ferry had just left but then turned around to fetch us. We were told that it was the last one of the day and with the island town looking deserted, we’re very grateful that it had come back for us. Back on land, we re-joined our friends, tucked into a hillside restaurant in town, enjoyed rounds of beer and course after course of fresh fish and meat, swapped stories and watched the sun set across the island we’d summited.

Writen by - Sean Breza

Photography by - Andy Donohoe