Episode I

The Split Beaver
 

 

My offwidthing started with a climb called Split Beaver. In the local climbing circle, it had a reputation as a hard climb; it was steep, sustained, and--worst of all--it widened all the way up.

It is a beautiful, stand-alone line, running directly through a smooth granite wall. I went late in the season and led it on-sight, with much grunting and groaning, but my style was good. For the first time in my life, having big hands meant something more than that you were going to get cancer, or that your dick was really big. Where most people were suffering from rattly, shitty fist jams, my cleavers stuck. It felt good to rock a climb that was widely respected as a "burly" route.

 Yours truly, styling up Split Beaver, in Squamish, BC Photo: Matt Buckle
   

In what we will come to see as pure evil, some sick "friends" openly admired my feat of strength. They cloyed me with all manner of praise. They said things like "You da man!" and "Mr. Hengeveld, you just became my hero."

Deliriously buoyed by my success, I secretly fancied myself a hardman. "What," I thought to myself, "is all this fuss about wide stuff. It's pretty easy!"

And so it came to pass that I began, rather publicly, to wonder why nobody climbed the classic offwidths in the neighbourhood. "Why," I wondered aloud, "doesn't anybody ever do Pipeline? I know it's offwidth and everything, but I'm sure it's not as bad as people let on."

I began to seriously believe that climbers are just afraid of a good grunt. And my spouting grew, and grew, until it reached epic proportions. Eventually, it was known all over the kingdom that I was keen to do offwidths. And it was true. All that remained was for me to actually get on one, and that chance came on a fine day in June, the following year...

   
   

 Conor Reynolds resorting to a layback. Tsk tsk. Photo: Matt Buckle

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