Climbing in the Pub.
(With respect to ‘Duke’ Tritton)
My climbing days are over; though I never was a gun,
Could almost get up twenty but always had some fun.
I was an old traditionalist, my rack was always full
And on the odd silver jug I was always known to pull.
I climbed at Booroomba and shirked the falls.
And I climbed at Frog and Piddo and even Western Wall.
And though I am a truthful man, I find when in a pub,
I never dogged a move or took a worried slump.
Climbing up at Kakadu where the rock is full of sand,
And green ants and snakes are apt to bite your hand,
But the boulders there are tall and fine as if cut from glass,
But I wimped out on a move and fell down on my arse.
And at Waipinga where the sky is bluer than the sea,
I did worry about the sharks and cried to fuckin’ watch me.
But when you’re pouring piss down your neck,
You never feared to hit the deck.
At Cosmic I climbed a 19, a wrinkled, tough-walled line,
And when I was hanging on the bolts felt fine.
My arms were aching badly but I fought it all the way,
Couldn’t afford to slip a move, with the camera out that day.
And when I’d grab the quickdraw, I’d hide it with my hand,
But I sooner grab a bolt than on the ground to land.
But I never pull on gear or take a worried slump,
When I’m with my mates drinkin’ in the pub.
Now when the seasons over and the Poms have all gone back,
And even the hard up Austrians head to Frog up the track,
When we go into town and fill up with beer,
There is no talk of shonkiness, or aid or fear.
There’s not a bit of truthfulness, it must make the angels rock
To hear a group of climbers in a bar room on the rock.
Because there’s no one there to say whose the loser
When your climbing strong, down the local boozer.
James Woodser.