We awoke, groggy from the night’s Greek celebrations, and packed up our tent under misty grey skies, all the while greeting late night revellers returning from one last sunrise over the towers, impassioned missions conceived very late and with liquid enthusiasm. There was a ferry to catch, but there was no urgency in the atmosphere as we edged out of the campsite and back onto the road, southbound.

Before the ferry, Tara and I planned to sample one of the greater Athens’ crags – Mavrosouvala. Did you know there are hundreds of world-class routes within 40 minutes of the Greek metropolis? It was not an easy decision.

The following day, winding our way down the narrow lane leading to the climbing, the notion that in six hours we had to board a ferry to Turkey seemed ludicrous. Young pine trees waved gently in unison to a light Aegean breeze, covering the craggy hills surrounding Mavrosouvala like peach fuzz and masking the concepts of traffic, deadlines and time pressure just 30km away – Athens.

It is a giant amphitheatre – The rock world class, Tufa structures for miles on steep orange limestone – a climbers’ paradise, almost. Unfortunately it was not all pine-scented fresh air and the delicate clinking of karabiners. Within a few short steps of the base of the crag the local climbers had done their dirty business. Having visited countless climbing crags all over the world, the issue of “how to defecate in the woods”, is very important to me.

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For F!#@$% sake, people, please please please do your business well away from the pathways, belay stances and climbing. I am talking 100m or more. It is really very easy and it is the responsibility of each of us to spread awareness and lead by example. Dig a hole, burn or bin your used toilet paper and then bury the remains. It was a shocking reflection of the local climbing culture that there was little respect for the space people frequent every weekend. The effect on two visitors was that it felt like a slummy utilitarian gym rather than an epic and stunning natural playground that it should be.

So, with our noses out of joint we climbed a little and then looked forward. It was time to head east, time to drop off our trusty little rental car and step into the unknown, trusting the spirit of the Roctrip to bring us to Turkey.

After a twelve hour modern ferry, a few hours layover on the island of Chios with the hilarious antics of one gruff and disgruntled port worker, the chaos of loading and unloading a barge with dozens of vans and the now famous Roctrip caravan, we arrived, borne on a warm breeze, to the port of Çesme, Turkey. Finally there!

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Wait. Oh and how we waited. Five hours at customs for the vehicles to clear the port authorities. We sat, soaking up the sun, waiting for the agents to drink the magical number of sweet Turkish teas which would at last allow them to stamp the requisite documents allowing us to continue. We learned to slow down our expectations to the eastern flow and then “kachunk!”, the paper was stamped and we were quickly told to leave. With our new captain, Isabelle, and her customised Ford Transit van we finally set off towards our first Turkish climbing location – Bafa Lake.

There is a unique phenomenon in Turkey, of which we took maximum use. You see, the enterprising owners of the cafés alongside the motor routes have installed three metre high water spouts, car washes, to entice travellers in for a Gozleme – a sort of Turkish quesadilla pancake hybrid. So, after fifteen car washes and a suitable volume of pomegranate juice and Gozleme we finally skidded to a halt on the gravel at a lakeside settlement to stock up for the coming days camping in the mythical and historic ruins of Heraclia at the side of Bafa Lake, or Bafa Golu in Turkish. Bring a tough light lantern along if you are planning this trip in the second part of the day.

Meandering down the farmer lanes in the golden light, passing the tiny hamlet of Kapikiri, the setting sun radiating a magmatic glow over the land and we were transported back to another era. Thousands upon thousands of gigantic granite boulders cover the mountain on the eastern shores of Bafa Lake and now, at the foot this scene, we were passing ancient city walls, an amphitheatre on the right; colossal granite blocks as perfect and true as the day they were laid, some toppled, telling stories of thousands of years; on the left a semi-submerged an old fortress. We would be climbing in a land of myth and legend.

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As the sun set over the farmers field where the roc trippers camped, we all chatted excitedly about the vast climbing potential laid out in front of us, hands sweating.

Bafa is beautiful, the climbing potential staggering. It is at once historic and steeped in atmosphere and also wild and untamed despite the thousands of years of habitation. It is also very hot. We awoke the next day in our farmer’s field, slowly steam cooking in the tent. After the cool and damp weather of the Balkans and Greece lethargy, unique to dry and hot climates, swept through camp like a fog.

Yet, the landscape begs to be explored. Within a day most of us had no more skin left. The granite is very rugged; it shredded our soft and warm skin. The most intrepid of the climbers rose at sunrise while the majority waited until sundown and with head torches, roamed out into the boulders, returning to the caravan for an evening gozleme and party. One night we stumbled upon the Petzl Team trying a very aesthetic 8A+ perched on a slope above the ancient ruins. Shrieks and grunts of pain, grumbles against the balmy heat and curses in all languages rang out. Despite the sub-optimal conditions it was inspiring to watch Dave Graham dispatch the boulder, floating up the tiny-edged hand holds as if he survives on a steady diet of helium. More than once on this leg of the trip we would watch in awe as Dave Graham and Paul Robinson used hand holds most of us would not even consider to thread their way upward.

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Back at camp local climbers outnumbered visitors like ourselves. The Turkish climbing scene is vibrant and brings a fantastic energy and, boy are they psyched to climb! Turkish climbers had driven to Bafa Lake from far and wide, proud to share their world-class stone with the best climbers in the world. We stayed up late into the night meeting and sharing stories. Dave and Philippe, reliable DJ’s to our animated conversation, kept things lively and then Said Belhaj and other multi-instrumentalists took the stage to jam out some futuristic world music. We drifted off to sleep with the rhythm of the night in our ears.

Through the local grapevine that night we got word of a special area. A climber’s paradise at 800m altitude. “Cool winds rustle the pine trees there. The boulders are a mixture of granite and gneiss. Easy on the hands and only twelve kilometres away”, they said.

Of course, then, everybody headed up for the final two days to Sakarkaya. Just to pronounce the name itself conjures imagery of the prolific, of vastness and airy space. High above the valley, the heat faded and, driving up with our friend Dan Bates in his trusty German registered car “Bismarck”, a 2004 Ford Focus station wagon. With the windows rolled down, and Karen, the Australian accent of Dan’s GPS device guiding us assertively towards the village, we recharged on the fresh mountain air.

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The mountain was covered in granite. In awe, we wound up the narrow road passing olive farms, alpine pine trees and the occasional burro. And then we were awkwardly driving through the tiny town square and down tiny lanes, which split ahead of us and split again into impassably steep and narrow driveways. We had taken a wrong turn. “I told you it was back there,” I’m sure someone mumbled.

Back through the centre square – but the size of a large living room and full of people. “Oops! Watch out for those chickens!” We waved like goofs, pointing and nodding, gesticulating what we hoped appeared to be a mimic of rock climbing. With a lot of “merhaba” and “teshekular”, we finally found the correct path and left the village behind. The village life brought us such a traditional view of Turkey, much more authentic than the infrastructure created around the climbing below in Kapikiri.

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As we unpacked our gear from the car, a local woman sauntered down the road towards us. Her gait was strong and her girth at least double mine – a mountain lady in her traditional Turkish floral print, parachute pants and a grin from the ages. As we greeted her, she stopped and shirked her heavy scarf, bulging with freshly picked fruit from her plantation and absolutely commanded that we take some. Delicious gigantic mountain pears, the size of large grapefruits, that crunched like apples. We offered her what we could and parted, grateful.
For two days there were crash pads under nearly every boulder in sight. The quality of the rock there is much friendlier than near the lake and, revived by the cold mountain air, it felt possible to try hard again. Back in the boulders, visiting climbers rubbed shoulders with the elite Petzl Team.

Shoes in hand, one could wander and share energy with a group of Turkish boulderers and then shift over to try something with a French, Spanish, Iranian or Bulgarian group — the list was endless. I found it inspiring and at once overwhelming to have so many climbers, so many voices, so much beta spewing forth at each boulder, so I set off on my own to find some peace and quiet.

I stumbled up the hill and turned the corner, arriving at a majestic crack overlooking the whole valley. Exposed, but with a very nice flat landing. Perhaps six meters high, the perfect width for hand jams. Of course, at such a boulder reminiscent of big wall style was Sean Villanueva O’Driscoll – multi talented big wall climber and jammer. Sean was kindly fixing a rope for some girls who were too intimidated by the height of the boulder to attempt their go at hand jams, but they kindly let me have a go before the rope went up. Classic. I recharged on the quiet on top and then there was Sean, climbing up to fix the rope, in his flip flops. Making it look extremely easy (which it was not).

On my way back down the hill I crossed Slovenian strongman Klemen Beçan and his lovely wife Anja, also seeking some solace from the crowds. With a conspiratorial grin, Klemen asked me, “Have you seen any highballs around?” His accent made wry from the grin. I had seen a possible line, actually, so I took him over. Along the way we picked up another climber, Tom, a fellow Canadian who was keen to join us. “There it is”, I pointed and sat down to eat lunch. Above us on a podium towered a massive boulder, its prow jutting into the crisp blue sky, drawing a line between shadow and sunlight. The line I had imagined was on the sun baked side, glowing orange in the daylight. Klemen nodded his acknowledgement and threw his single crash pad down between the shrubs at the landing and began putting his shoes on. Tom, I think finding it way too high, said his goodbyes and parted.

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“Do you want to go first?” Klemen asked, one shoe already on, his eyes twinkling. Fork in hand and with a fork full of lunch in my mouth I sputtered that he should go first. I threw down my fork and jogged up to spot Klemen, who was already midway up the wall. It was high and with one pad it was best that he did not fall. The rock crumbled slightly as Klemen squeezed harder to make a very long reach. I noted that and flinched to dodge a shower of grit. “Ya!” Klemen hollered as he pulled over the top of the block. “It’s very good. I think it is 6A if you do not look down. Otherwise it would be much harder!” he chuckled.

Well, my turn then. I became very aware of the radiant heat and its effect on my hands. I stuffed them into my chalk bag and then chalked, chalked again. Then I just tied the chalk bag to my waist. I would need it. I pulled myself onto the wall, Klemen would come around to spot me before I reached too great a height, I thought to myself.

The rock was pretty good. Granite edges, a bit brittle and with lichen on the surface from never being cleaned before, but the holds were mainly solid puckers of rock. Slopey on some and incut on others, more secure. I arrived to the very long reach just as Klemen rounded to corner to spot me. “It’s up there.” he encouraged. I stepped my right foot very high and shifted my balance onto it fully, my left hand squeezing a sloped edge, the dry lichen cracking into dust between my fingers. I reached up. Up a little more and was just short of the next hold. Gulp. I had to regroup. I lowered my right hand back to face level very slowly and, chalked my hands, trying to relax. At this point my feet were a good metre or more above Klemen’s outstretched hands. I would have to be dynamic to reach that next hold. Gripping harder, I raised my right foot back to its position and began the lever motion, pulling down hard with my left hand until I was almost pushing from it and in that moment the hold crumbled in my hand. In that fraction of a second I lurched up with my hand to grab the next hold, a pretty good edge and then quickly climbed the next few meters to the top, my heart racing — Right, 6A. I didn’t look down, but noted the down climb was pretty high.

Feeling more alive, we parted and I went over to Sakarkaya, a brilliant and inspiring overhanging wave of rock. The namesake for the location. It was really nice to have only three people around – Nina Caprez, Cedric Lachat and Daniel Dulac. A great change from the night before when there must have been a dozen people trying it. I had tried a few times, feeling like I would for sure do the top section, but struggling with a very long move from the sit start.

Feeling free, without pressure of so many people waiting to try, and also with a great deal of gumption with my storied and accomplished spotters, I managed to climb the problem after a few more tries, impressing myself by sticking the first move by surprise. Along with another beautiful line I managed in a few minutes the night before – Skeleton Spine 7C, the Sakarkaya Sit Start 7C on day two, remains a highlight of that part of the trip.

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The day was not over, though, as we continued to bounce between boulders, some hard, some not as hard, witnessing Paul Robinson and Dave Graham grab two of the worst holds ever – I know, Dan and I tried, too – and despite their protests of how hard it was, seem to float, one after the other to the top of “the hardest V10 ever, man! Probably 8A.”

Reuniting with Tara and her partner for the day Isabelle, we shared stories of our afternoon and celebrated our last night in Bafa Lake with what else? A gozleme, of course.

Onward to Antalya!


 

Words + Photos By: Read Macadam and Tara Atkinson