Last days in Tertenia

We left the house early to walk over to the Wednesday market. The sky was blue-blue, but the air was especially crisp and cold, perhaps only 5C. Based on the forecast, we’d been wondering if it would be too hot to climb at southwest-facing Quirra, but that morning it seemed unlikely to be a problem. We could see our breath as we walked. At the market we stocked up on a selection of fresh vegetables from the same man we’d seen there every week for the past month, the one who told me that climbing was very, very dangerous when we first met. He’d just finished setting up and was munching on a sandwich he’d purchased from a food truck that specializes in roasted meat. He asked what we ate for breakfast and then proceeded to display his half-eaten sandwich, leaning forward to give it a conspiratorial critique. The beef: excellent; the eggplant: okay; the bread: not so good. As I fished out money to pay him for our purchases, I told him that it would be our last visit to the market. He made a gesture of surprise and regret—we’d become regulars—and then began to wish us well, holding out his hand for me to shake. As he did this, my own hand was already moving toward his with a 20 euro note. He took the bill but tossed it down in mock distain, taking my hand instead. With respect to climbing, he told me to remember “prudenza” peering at me with a sort of fatherly sternness, then making sure I understood by asking me to say the word back in English: caution.

One last stop to buy more olives and boar sausage and to collect more well-wishes, then we were on our way to Quirra.

By the time we arrived at the base of the cliff, Ulysse had already declared it unlikely that he would climb there. It was only 10:30 am but it must’ve been over 20C against the rock. However, I was keen to try the climb that I’d made some progress on two days before. At that time, we’d met Elisa and Andrea, two local climbers from Cagliari. Elisa happened to be working on the same climb as I was. I couldn’t help but contemplate our completely different approaches. I tend to go quietly up to a climb, hoping that no one is watching, as though I’m sneaking up on a skittish horse. Elisa looked more like Muhammad Ali psyching up for a prize match. She ran back and forth, she jumped up and down, and then she recited a detailed plan to Andrea. I admired her energy and determination. Would that I was more like her! 

I wished her luck and she said, “Well, I will do my best. I cannot do more than my best!” Bravo Elisa!

But that was a different day. One thing that climbing has taught me is that my best can vary wildly from day to day. This day, with not a hint of wind, I was sweating just standing immobile at the base of the cliff. Although, for the first time ever, I climbed the bottom cleanly—a series of burly yet technical moves that for me is the crux—the heat quickly sapped my energy and also seemed to make my already sore fingertips even more tender. Sending would have to wait for another day. We packed our bags and headed to Jerzu, hoping that the higher elevation would provide some relief.

The climbing style at Jerzu is very different from Quirra: technical face/slab climbing. The rock is highly textured with tiny pockets and sharp little bumps that are generally too small to be useful, while at the same time manage to obscure the few pockets and bumps that actually are. The guidebook mentioned that the climbs are harder at the beginning of the season, before climber after climber has contributed to a trail of chalk to show the way. Yep, I agree with that. One might as well have been climbing blindfolded. You just had to feel around for some little thing to hang onto and then try to shift your weight to take advantage of it. Jerzu is certainly a great place to practise footwork and balance. And the scenery! Majestic buttes rising up from wide, lush green valleys, complete with the chiming of sheep bells. Maybe because I grew up on the prairies, this place seemed other-worldly, like it would not be at all strange to spot a giant or a hobbit.

At the end of the day, we watched as the sun sank toward the green hills to the west, casting a golden glow upon the valley for a few magical moments. “I guess I am a helium worshipper,” said Ulysse, squinting, and smiling toward the sun. Cheers to that!

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