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Courtney and our tough little machine somewhere in Tuscane.
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Our first order of business upon arriving in France over a year ago involved acquiring a car. While we certainly appreciate the undenyable convenience and charm of criss-crossing Europe via train, we are climbers with a dog and therefore have requirements satisfied only by our own set of wheels. After an initial foray with a VW camper van lasting less than a week (busted engine, ripped off, money lost - an experience too painful to recount), we licked our wounds and purchased a low miles 1990 Peugeot 205, embracing French automotive sensibility. Our white rocket (uhhmm, not really a rocket but sort of white for certain) has proven itself to us several times over, transporting us (and many others) here, there, and back again. Over a year and 60,000 km later (we've driven a LOT), we've encountered only minor problems as our hatchback has taken us to northern norway, southern italy, and everywhere else in between. It has rocketed us, Kona, a travelling companion, and our belongings across motorways at more than 150 kph (albeit with the engine and wind noise trying to top one another in sounds of fury, both adding to the frenzied highway death trap feeling). It has also taken as many as 5 of us (crashpads included) and Kona throughout the Fontainebleau forest. Clearly, underneath the car's petite, tinny exterior (people make surprised comments such as "your going all the way to Norway in that?") lies the soul of a true workhouse.
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Kona nestled in amongst the baggage, occupying the only available space during moving day.
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However, when cramming in so many people and so much stuff, even the most active imagination would be hard pressed to pretend that we were travelling in comfort, and we've certainly come to the conclusion that the car's only real drawback might be its petite size. And yet, in spite of its diminuitive nature, we just can't seem to stop acquiring things, THINGS, and more things. Camping gear, cooking gear, sleeping gear, food, dog beds, stereo speakers, multiple crashpads, computer equipment, camera equipment, climbing equipment, winter clothes, summer clothes, games, toys, etc, etc, etc. The simple life "on the road" cluttered by a mountain of possessions (how did we end up with so much stuff?) which has made our periodic moving days from country to country a stress invoking nightmare (one to which I cope like an insolent child, regularly giving up all hope in a fit of exasperation). As we assemble the jigsaw puzzle of possessions into the nooks and crannies of the car, Kona is soon nervously hopping up and down, jumping in and out of the car, panicking (justifyably) that we might somehow not have enough room for him. After the third rearrangement, we'll have managed to finally clear away a small space on top of the luggage, one just large enough for Kona's needs. Stress relieved, we're off once again, riding our trusted steed onto the next destination. - rp
(click on photos to enlarge)
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Matt Birch climbing the beautiful, high Misericorde with Greg Loh bravely (as always) spotting.
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We have returned, once again, to our home away from home in Fontainebleau, France. To an outsider, it might seem strange that when we have the entire european continent at our disposal, we continually find ourselves stomping around the same old forest. It feels somehow impossible to explain that this magical forest has cast a spell over us. In some senses, perhaps the familiarity helps alleviate our homesickness, providing us with a sense of center for our european wanderings. Certainly, we love the fact that we're always assured a chance to meet familiar faces and enjoy the company of our many friends who are similarly enchanted. Communities quickly form and continually evolve between both new and old friends, always providing companionship for forest exploration, nightly feasts, and rainy day card games. Kona seems to agree with both perpsectives, happily charging through his favorite patch of sand and brazenly shoving his nose between the legs of the people he recognizes. But truthfully, it's not just the familiar which attracts us, but it's the new as well. This forest offers a life time's worth of climbing. Each season of exploration reveals an overwhelming number of striking new problems. We've spent this season discovering obscure new areas, each holding at least a few examples of what makes Fontainebleau so special. Every time I'm here, I find myself urgently (and somewhat hopelessly) trying to etch the experience in my brain, bracing against the inevitable time fade, trying to bottle some small thing which will remind me of my happiness here - some small thing which will hopefully bring me back. - rp
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Courtney working a long problem of a different sort, the sloping lip traverse Eclipse, with John Wainright taking on less risky spotting duties.
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(click on photos to enlarge)
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