This one's a classic.
A hilarious, entertaining and insightful look at our multi-day ascent of the notorious 300m route on Mt Buffalo, VIC. Written by Ryan Siacci, this one comes straight from the Zen and The Art of Climbing archives. Circa 2021.
A great adventure. Grateful to have mates like Ryan to share these sorts of experiences and adventures with. Read on. Yeewww!
Some two-thirds of the way up Mt Buffalo’s North Wall is an enormous orange overhang. They call it “The Great Roof”, a description which invites interpretation.
Roof, at least, is pretty easy to nail down. Great, on the other hand, can be contextual. The First World War was originally known as The Great War, but I’ll wager it wasn’t a heap of fun. Maybe the term is used in the same manner as Alexander the Great, signifying a mighty and indomitable adversary. Or perhaps in homage to Peter the Great, the Russian Tsar whose legendary fondness for alcohol surely caused similar waves of nausea and vertigo.
In reality, “great” is probably just a synonym for “big”. It’s a fairly big roof, I suppose. Story checks out.
The protection, however, is certainly short of great. Below the roof are two rusted carrots, and even if these weren’t drooping like clocks in a Dali painting, the tell-tale void from which another had fallen out would remain cause for concern. At some point, I found myself relying on these questionable bolts to protect me should the next placement fail.
But I was pretty sure the piece would hold. It was a solid 0.4 Camalot, wedged into a snug constriction with all lobes engaged. Even so, the process of committing my body-weight to the small cam with hundreds of metres of thin air below me was a true act of faith. I stepped onto the ladder and breathed a sigh of relief with the ensuing lack of drama. Thus secured, I began to search for my next placement, all the while eyeballing the yawning void below and wondering how the hell I had found myself there.
The answer to that is relatively simple. Originally having planned to visit Blue Lake in Kosciusko National Park, I was dissuaded by weather most foul. Instead, Stan Meissner’s offer to bunk at his house and avail myself of his Big Wall tutelage was too good to refuse. Thus, I found myself at the foot of Mt Buffalo, preparing to quest up the North Wall via the celebrated line of Ozymandias Direct.
Sure, it’s no Yosemite, but Mt Buffalo Gorge is the premier Down Under Big Wall venue. Despite being somewhat vegetated and relatively diminutive, the steep granite rampart of the North Wall offers an experience unique among Australian crags. It saw a glut of attention in the 1970’s when long aid routes were in vogue, prompting the establishment of many classic trade routes and seldom-repeated testpieces, including Defender of the Faith, She, Fuhrer, Lord Gumtree, and of course, Ozymandias.
Many of these routes were later free climbed, but the sustained technicality and difficult protection keep them beyond the reach of most climbers. As such, the North Wall remains an appealing venue for Australians to find an introduction to the dark art of aiding, the ever-declining popularity of discipline notwithstanding. I was about to add my name to the roster of proper gumbies who cut their aid climbing teeth on Ozymandias, King of Kings.
Although I’d climbed much longer routes, some even more than double in length, I’d never done a route in Big Wall style. That means I’d never slept in a portaledge, never engaged in sustained aiding, and never hauled a pig. I had a lot to learn about the logistics, equipment and tactics required to make such an ascent. With this in mind, we decided on a two-day mission with an overnight stay on the wall, rather than a balls-to-the-wall one-day charge for the summit. We also decided on the arguably more proud “direct” version of the route, rather than the original line, thus negotiating the aforementioned Great Roof.
Gillian following the glorious layback flake on the first pitch of The Initiation
I spent a few days getting warmed up on Buffalo granite with my long-suffering climbing companion, Gillian Herriot. We began with the aptly named The Initiation, a fantastic two-pitch affair which demands a variety of techniques. Later, I pushed her to the limit on the hyper-classic Where Angels Fear to Tread, a long, proud and improbably moderate crack climb which certainly deserves consideration as one of the finest 17’s in Australia. Thus reacquainted with the subtleties of granite, I prepared to ascend some 300m of it, albeit in a very different style.
Stan and I purchased rations and packed our gear the night before the ascent, a task which extended into the wee hours. Although not particularly well-rested, we left his house on the morning of the 19th December 2020. It was an inauspicious start, as we neglected to bring the 2L of cold brew coffee that we’d planned on using as our expedient caffeine source. Having driven most of the way up the mountain, we decided to cut our losses and continue upward. Certainly, it was not the only misstep of the trip, but probably that of highest consequence.
At the head of the Gorge, we had saddled ourselves with harnesses and haul bags and began descending toward the valley floor. Even this approach could be regarded as somewhat adventurous, involving several steep sections which can be difficult to navigate with a heavy load. Fixed ropes facilitate the trickiest sections. A huge advantage is that water can be sourced from Crystal Brook, meaning weight carriage is at its heaviest for only a short time.
At the base of the wall, I loaded up with more gear than you’ll find in any Australian climbing store since COVID. That’s not a joke, just a sad observation of reality. It was to be my first aid lead, a tentative step into the wonderful (?) world of Big Wall climbing. It began with some sketchy free moves on moist slab which, although protected by a low bolt, had some ground fall potential. Shortly afterward, I gained “Slime Corner”, a product which does exactly what it says on the box. After using a nut tool to excavate green sludge from hidden pin scars, I was able to make my first tenuous placements and move up toward the corner proper.
This open-book corner forms one of the cruxes of the route, both in aid and free variations. The smooth, steep, relentless dihedral soars for more than 70m without fault or weakness. There are some thin placements in irregular pods, the legacy of ascents made before the advent of clean aid. Some of these piton scars accept cam hooks quite easily, placements which I found to be remarkably reliable and efficient. Even so, the gear can be tricky at times, and stopping to place it while free climbing would be legitimately godlike… I suppose that’s why so few climbers have ever managed it.
Looking down from the P5 belay with Big Grassy below
I linked the first two pitches, with Stan linking the next two. Without great incident, we found ourselves on Big Grassy, the famous bivouac ledge which is neither particularly big nor particularly grassy. Medium Slopey would be a more fitting moniker, but naming conventions aside, it forms an unmistakable waypoint and a convenient location to stash gear. We talked tactics and decided to make this our home for the night, though proceeding with the climb in the intent of fixing upcoming pitches.
I sorted the rack and blasted up the next pitch. I was beginning to get into the groove with this aiding malarkey, moving upward with far greater speed and efficiency. Perhaps Ozymandias regarded this casual ease as mere impertinence, as he shook me off his mighty shoulders as I neared the end of the fifth pitch. While leaning out from an awkward corner to clip a high placement, my etrier shifted suddenly against the granite. I was thrown off balance, pitching backwards and upside down when my heel caught in the rung. The next placement blew, and I rocketed past the void which had taken multiple hook placements, occasionally bouncing off various terrain features. Eventually, the rope came tight and I came to a stop without so much as a scratch. Hooray for helmets.
“Holy shit, dude,” said Stan, wide-eyed and incredulous. “That’s probably the biggest winger I’ve ever seen.”
It’s hard to say how far I fell, but let’s call it somewhere in the ballpark of 15-20m. Stan was looking out at the glorious alpine view at the time, but after hearing my heartfelt expletive, he had enough time to turn around and still witness the majority of the flight. I wasn’t particularly rattled by the event. Mostly, I was stoked that my next piece had held, and that falling on aid doesn’t blow your onsight, because there ain’t no such critter. I bat-manned up the rope and finished the pitch, handing over to Stan for the following pitch before fixing the ropes and returning to our bivvy.
Stan picking up a few bonus old school points with a night spent in the hammock
I don’t mind that Big Grassy isn’t big or grassy, but it really couldn’t hurt if it was flatter. Without suitable equipment, a night spent on the so-called ledge would be pretty bloody rubbish. A hammock and small D4 Portaledge made our evening comparatively luxurious, and we dined on a large slab of chocolate and some conveniently pre-made though lamentably soggy wraps. The morning sunrise was glorious, and the obligatory morning ablutions were relatively civilised.
We struck camp, jugged the ropes and eventually found ourselves below the Great Roof. Here, I took the sharp end once more, finding this pitch to be the crux of the route. The roof itself was relatively easy, albeit somewhat awkward, intensely physical and outrageously exposed. Stepping off those droopy carrots onto a glorified piece of fabric with the gaping void below is not a moment I will forget any time soon. But in fact, it was the top of the pitch which I found most demanding. The soaring corner crack eventually fused, requiring sustained hooking and some of the thinnest and most tenuous placements on the route. Fiddly RP’s and prayer found me at the anchors.
How good?!
This anchor was situated at what is dubbed Gledhill’s Bivvy, a faultless wall peppered with bolts and capped by huge overhang. After appraising the fixed hardware and comprehending the logistical complexity of a night spent here, I became nostalgically appreciative for the comparative plushness of Big Grassy. Stan began a short but airy traverse using the aforementioned hardware, a series of manky old carrots that are certainly not to be trusted. Afterwards, he pulled through a steep corner, gone from my sight but not from my hearing.
I listened to the various grunts, curses and cuss words and tried to imagine what the terrain might look like, but when I got up there, it was even gnarlier than I’d expected. They call it “The Fang”, which describes both the appearance and demeanour of the pitch. In a state of incomparable awkwardness, both leader and seconder must negotiate the hanging incisor as it attempts to shred both rope and flesh alike. The wide, wandering and flaring nature of this pitch make it just as difficult to clean as to lead, but thankfully, it forms the final obstacle on the route.
Stan leading out from Gledhill’s Bivvy with The Fang looming overhead
After Stan’s excellent lead of The Fang, he short-fixed and began climbing the following pitch as I jugged and cleaned. Soon, he had reached the end of the technical difficulties and began free-climbing up the easy terrain. We bullied the pig up a short but tight chimney and found ourselves at the base of the final pitch. Here, Stan pulled out another blitzkrieg lead as a minor squall began to roll in. At first I was dispirited by the poor conditions, but I quickly came to realise that the cantakerous weather was a fittingly epic finale to what had been a fantastic adventure.
I learned a lot during our two-day ascent of Ozymandias Direct. I’m far from mastery in this discipline, but I started the climb with little more than a few SuperTopo videos under my belt, and finished the route with a sense of competency. Every pitch imparted valuable lessons – an increase in efficiency, a handy new rope technique, or an indispensable tactical insight. I am supremely grateful to have made this ascent with Stan and for his wisdom, his patience, but most of all, his stoke.
Aid climbing is cumbersome, ponderous, and extremely out of vogue. Even so, I found it to have a certain amount of charm. It will never be my main jam, but if one aspires to climb all the things, one can never have too many tools in the kit. I am looking forward to applying the lessons learned on Ozymandias to the bigger walls of the world, but I will look back on my first wall climb with fond memories.
Ryan Siacci, Esq.
February 2021
We made a short film of this ascent with Hand Cut Productions and Bright and Surrounds: Check it out here - WATCH: Climbing Ozymandias at Mt Buffalo!
Ryan Siacci getting sendy (photo by Imogen Potts)
About the Author
Ryan Siacci. A jack of all trades with an undiagnosed case of OCD (Often Climbing Disorder), has climbed some of the great classics around the world. His life, work and love for all things vertical have lead him to some pretty interesting places including his current work in Antartica as a guide/field officer.
He's a great bloke, awesome climbing partner and creator of Zen and the Art of Climbing; one of the classic Australian-made climbing editorials. Insightful, inspiring, hilarious and informative is how I'd describe him and all of his work. Check it out.