HOLLY HUNTcan't resist a challenge, but when a group of climbers suggested she join them on an adventure in the Elbe mountains of Germany, little did she know what she had let herself in for
IT’S PITCH BLACK, I’m scratched and smeared in mud from head to toe, and I’m lost in a remote corner of the Czech Republic, scrambling and sliding down a steep bramble-covered hill, swinging from branch to branch, and praying that my hand will reach the next bush as I slide steadily faster into a dark abyss. For some reason I was convinced, when we set out to hike up to the crag, that wearing flip-flops would be a good idea. I now only have one mud-covered flip-flop left.
How did I end up here? The crux of it would be that I have a huge character flaw: if someone (especially a man) mentions a challenge, I have to do it. I think it has something to do with growing up surrounded by boys, having to fight my corner for a second helping of blackberry crumble, not to mention battling my way, generally from the rear, through every competitive sport known to man. “Oh, she’s only a girl: give her a soft shot,” announced loudly in the middle of a tennis match, still sends my blood boiling.
Inevitably, on more occasions than I care to remember, I’ve ended up with limbs in slings, wounds bandaged up or hobbling along on crutches. So when a group of obsessive climbers suggested I join them to take on some of the most spectacular routes in Germany – I had been in a harness once before – I immediately replied, “Yes, of course, I’m there,” managing again to completely forget all those previous broken limbs and twisted ligaments.
Our destination was Sächsische Schweiz (or Saxon Switzerland) in the Elbe Sandstone Mountains, in eastern Germany.
Now I had signed up I began to do some research. The more I read the more my stomach turned at the prospect of what I’d let myself in for. This was no ordinary climbing spree: this was a pilgrimage to the birthplace of free climbing.
In free climbing – the most popular form of climbing – nothing helps you up the rock but your own might and determination. Ropes are used only for protection against the possibility of a fall.
I showed a climbing friend my weedy-weak arms, convinced he would persuade me to stay at home for my own safety. But he explained that there is a reason climbing is one of the fastest-growing sports.
“Only a third of it is physical. The other thirds are technical and mental. It will test your technique and confidence in your ability just as much as it will test your strength. And,” he added excitedly, “it’s a sport, like surfing, that you can take all over the world, from Mont Blanc to Table Mountain.”
More than 60 million years ago Saxon Switzerland National Park was the bed of an ancient ocean. Sand, clay and shells formed layer upon layer of compact sandstone. As the oceans retreated the sandstone became exposed to the elements.
Tectonic pressure from rising mountains caused almost right-angled break lines to form along the brittle sandstone. Ages of weathering ate into these lines, leaving towering pillars of soft black-coated sandstone.
These pillars now form 14,000 climbing routes via which you can conquer 1,100 free-standing peaks. If I managed to get up one alive it would be a miracle, I thought.
The range straddles the border of Saxony, in southeastern Germany, and the Czech Republic. In the early 19th century a Swiss painter, Adrian Zingg, wrote of an area he called Saxon Switzerland because it reminded him of home. Locals liked the sound of the name, and it stuck. The area in the Czech Republic is known as Bohemian Switzerland. Both have been declared national parks.
I flew from London to the tiny German airport of Dresden, where one of the guys met me in a van full of climbing gear and we drove east. Dresden is just over 30 kilometres from Saxon National Park, but it felt as if we were driving into another decade. Eighties hairdos, white socks and tapered jeans seemed all the rage. Plastic flowers and gaudy garden gnomes sat on every wooden-shuttered window sill. Locals stared at us warily as we drove past.
We left the River Elbe and the town of Bad Schandau behind as we twisted through the autumnal forest. Just outside the village of Papstdorf is the Erna campsite: hot showers, food on request and, if you would prefer a proper bed, comfortable self-catering wooden chalets. It lies on the edge of the national park, far from anything but the sound of birdsong. It is a perfect location to base your climbing in.
The next morning we dined on rubbery German sausages and mustard served by large women who looked as if they wouldn’t be best pleased if you didn’t lick your plate clean. If you want to avoid this experience, book one of the chalets with a kitchen and cook for yourself. (Bad Schandau has well-stocked supermarkets.)
A few of us packed up the van, then we headed into the fairy-tale landscape of golden autumn forest from which the famous stacks of sandstone emerged. I watched a few of the guys shimmy up the rock and was then offered a harness. I smiled, trying to look calm and casual as I tightened into the straps and turned to face hundreds of metres of ominous vertical rock – rock that looked to me smooth, unblemished, gripless. But, to my complete surprise, each time I reached up I found a comfortable hold and managed to move my body skyward. Slowly but surely I was going up.
Before I realised I was above the trees, and the sun exploded on the rock in a dazzling light. I looked over my shoulder, and for kilometres in every direction all I could see was the reds and oranges of an autumn forest. Saxony is home to some of the largest tracts of indigenous forest in Europe, and I had the best view to experience them. I clambered to the summit in a state of euphoria. I was hooked.
The next day Dirk Uhlig and his girlfriend suggested we drive over the border to climb in the Czech Bohemian Switzerland. The climbing would be a little more difficult. Of course, I volunteered immediately.
I climbed into the back of the car to find there was no seat. Uhlig matter of factly handed me a rolled-up mat. I spread it out on the rusty springs and off we went.
As soon as we crossed the border the change in affluence was obvious. The police drove rust-ridden cars, and many of the houses we passed were boarded up.
We stopped in Hrensko, a village caught between cliffs of sandstone, to visit a climbing shop renowned for having some of the best-priced equipment in Europe. The roads on either side of the shop were full of Vietnamese traders selling Nick runners, Adida T-shirts and towels decorated with scantily clad women. During the communist era the government organised exchanges, swapping Czech labourers for communist Vietnamese workers. They never went home.
We drove farther from civilisation up narrow roads into the mountains, parked the car and hiked to the crag. The rock was slightly damp and smoother than what I’d experienced the day before. Uhlig tied himself in and then confirmed my fear of being totally out of my depth as he swung effortlessly up a shining gripless face.
Then it was my turn. As I reached for the first hold it hit me: climbing is one of the only sports where your ability barely matters. A complete beginner and a professional climber can still thoroughly enjoy a day out together. And it is not about being competitive with other people: it’s about you and the rock.
Suddenly all my fears and stresses didn’t matter any more: I was just out to have fun. I kicked and scratched at the wall with all my might and determination in a yo-yo motion – a metre up, a metre down – as Uhlig glided up the sheer face multiple times without breaking much of a sweat.
We were having so much fun that we didn’t notice the sun slip behind the hills. And this is how I ended up lost in the dark on a hill in the Czech Republic.
After what seemed like hours of chaotic falling we hit a road, and the dim lights of a lopsided Hansel and Gretel house came into view. A creaking sign hung over the door: a tavern.
Locals stared in surprise as our bedraggled group of mud-covered climbers stood blinking in the bright light. I looked around in amazement at finding one of the cosiest pubs I’ve ever walked into. A few pints and a delicious meal later – for five people it amounted to just over €20 – and we wobbled out of the door and back across the border.
Climbing in Saxony is one of the most awesome experiences I’ve had. It was also the most dramatic introduction I could have asked for to my new-found passion, a sport where nobody loses and everyone wins.
Go there
Lufthansa (www.lufthansa. com) flies to Dresden from Dublin. Germanwings (www.germanwings.com) flies from Dublin via Cologne-Bonn.
Where to stay and where to start if you're interested in climbing
Where to stay
Erna campsite. OT Papstdorf, Pionierlagerstrasse 89a, Gohrisch, 00-49- 35028-80513, www.oberelbe. de/erna. Find a German speaker to book for you.
There is a range of more comfortable accommodation options in Bad Schandau (www.bad-schandau.de).
Where to climb
Elbe Sandstone Mountains National Park is suitable for all levels of climbers. It has more than 14,000 routes in all grades. You can conquer some of the 1,100 free-standing peaks, which range between 10m and 100m high.
Christoph Schröder (schroeder@adventure service.de or www.adventure service-saupsdorf.de) runs English-speaking climbing courses from Saupsdorf. He will collect you from your accommodation and provide all equipment and tuition.
There are other climbing instructors in the area; prices average between €40 and €60 per person per day.
The outdoor shop selling well-priced climbing gear is part of a Czech chain called Hudy Sport (www.hudy.cz).
If you want to try out climbing at home first, Adventure.ie runs two-day beginner's courses in Dalkey, in south Co Dublin.
Other activities
After all that exertion, take a healing sulphur bath in Bad Schandau or a trip on a steam paddleboat along the Elbe. This boat is part of the oldest fleet of its kind in the world.
If you feel like more exercise, you'll find about 400km of hiking paths and 50km of biking paths to explore within the park. Wildlife is abundant, and the mountains are home to giant owls and lynxes extinct in many parts of Europe.
There are also a number of spectacular fortresses to visit, the most renowned being Festung Königstein.
I haven't been able to locate the name of our cosy pub refuge – maybe it was all a dream – but the cafe beside the church in Hrensko provides delicious meals at similarly affordable prices.
For more information when you arrive, stop at the outdoor store Bergsport Arnold in Bad Schandau (www.bergsport-arnold.de). It is owned by the father of modern Saxon-Czech sandstone climbing, Bernd Arnold, aka Lord of the Rings.