Learning to Lead Climb in Thailand
I spent last week in Railay Beach, Thailand. I had been there once before and fallen in love, despite staying there for only a few days. It’s the perfect setting for a climbing vacation; the world-class crags sit on picturesque beaches just a short walk from affordable hotels. This was my last week of vacation, and I was looking forward to enjoying this climbers’ paradise before returning to reality. Saying goodbye to friends in Singapore, I arrived at the Krabi airport around noon. I took a shuttle to the Klong Haeng pier in Ao Nang, where I piled into a longtail boat with a dozen other tourists and scooted off to Railay Beach.
The weather was hot and humid, but a relief compared to the scorching weather I’d had in Singapore that weekend and the torrential downpours in Hong Kong the week prior. I checked into my hotel right off the beach in the early afternoon and dropped off my bags. Tomorrow, I’d begin a 3-day lead climbing class with Real Rocks Railay.
Explanation (Feel free to skip if you’re a climber):
Lead climbing differs from top-roping in that the anchor point is not set up at the top. When top-roping, a fall is often only a couple of feet at most, as your belayer can easily ensure the rope does not have too much “slack”. In contrast, lead climbing begins with the rope attached only to you and your belayer. As you climb the route, you “clip” the rope into “protection”, or bolts, along the route. These become your anchor points as you climb up. If you fall from above your last clip, your fall will be at least twice as far as the distance between you and the clip, plus the stretch of the rope.
Although I had several years of climbing experience, this would my first time lead climbing, let alone outdoors. Bouldering has its dangers, but I usually feel in control even when falling. Knowing my own forgetful nature, and that making mistakes while lead-climbing can be life-endangering, lead climbing has always seemed much more intimidating. Outdoors, the danger can be even greater due to razor-sharp holds, unyielding fall zones and unexpected wildlife. However, I’ve always believed that growth comes from being out of your comfort zone, so I went to bed that night nervously anticipating the next day.
In the morning I scarfed down some breakfast and met Sarut, who would be my guide for the next three days. I had climbed with Real Rocks Railay when I visited Thailand six months ago, but only in a single-day beginner class with some non-climber friends. Our guide at that time was Rain, who happened to be on the cover of their pamphlet:
Rain was a younger, outgoing guy with a mischievous sense of humor, whereas Sarut was middle-aged and seemed to be reserved and serious. We made our introductions, exchanged some polite questions and began walking to Ao Phra Nang beach. I got the sense that he didn’t want to talk while walking, so our conversation tapered off as we trudged along.
Arriving at the small but pristine beach, I set my bags down and took a look around. The main wall was to the left; sharp and fingery and dotted with stalactites (or tufas). To my right, thick, soft white sand covered the ground for about 50 meters to the ocean. Ao Phra Nang is respected as one of the most beautiful of the hundreds of beaches in the area. It’s also known among climbers for the Monkey Man, who is a legend among the locals.
Before we did any climbing, Sarut overwhelmed me with information: How to tie various knots, set up my personal anchoring system (PAS), clip the quick draws, clean the anchor, and more. Then, in order to evaluate where I was before moving forward, he attached several quickdraws and a PAS to my harness and told me to get on the wall.
I started up the wall, moving much more slowly, cautiously than I normally would. The smooth confidence I had built up in indoor gyms was no good here. Arms and legs shaking, I proceeded, testing each hold several times before proceeding. Reaching the first bolt, I clipped my quickdraw, attempted to thread my rope through it, and…dropped the rope. I picked it up again and clumsily tried to thread it through as Sarut shouted instructions up to me. The rope felt much heavier than when we had practiced earlier. After close to a minute, I finally managed to clip my rope, arms burning with exertion.
Sweating profusely already, I started climbing again. Each proceeding clip required a similar amount of effort. Once I finally reached the top, he yelled to “clean the anchor!”. I tried to remember the steps he had just described on the ground below, but bungled them completely. Before I compromised my own safety, he told me to stop and yelled: “You failed!” Dejected and exhausted, I waited for him to lower me to the ground.
Once I was on the ground, Sarut calmly led me over to a training anchor on the wall near the ground. Handing me two quickdraws, he showed me exactly how to hold them, unclip them from my harness loop, and clip them into a bolt.
Everything had to be done exactly the way he wanted it. The quickdraws would be attached to my harness loops by the bolt end, facing outward. I would hold the wall with either my left or right hand, to simulate a real climbing situation. With my remaining free hand, I would have to grab a quickdraw from the corresponding harness loop. My four fingers would squeeze against the spine of the carabiner, while my thumb would apply pressure to the bolt end of the gate, palms facing behind me. Holding the gate open, I would move the quickdraw to the bolt and clip it in, with the gate facing away from the direction of the route. After five minutes of practicing, I felt I was ready to try again and looked over at Sarut, who was relaxing on a nearby log. He turned his head to me, told me “Keep going”, and laid back down on the log.
I went back to clipping, tucked away in a small corner of the wall. Tourist crowds had begun gathering to gawk at the climbers scurrying up the wall, taking pictures. I could hear yells of excitement and fear from the climbers, many of whom had never been on a wall before, and impressed murmuring from the crowds. I felt a slight twinge of jealousy: “Why am I stuck here doing drills and not climbing?”
After ten more minutes of clipping, Sarut came over and told me that was enough. I started to unclip the quickdraws, but he laughed and told me there were more drills to do. The next drill was to learn to thread the rope tied to my harness through the bottom end of the quickdraw I’d just attached. Since either only my left or right hand might be free, and the carabiner gate might face left or right, there were four different variations to practice. As before, Sarut had strict rules for how to clip, depending on the situation. I went back to the corner of the wall, repeating these motions while Sarut lounged again.
When Sarut was satisfied with my progress in one drill, we would move onto the next. Each drill would be done slowly, methodically at first but became natural and intuitive after enough repetition. After clipping, I practiced cleaning the anchor, a complicated sequence of tying and untying various knots that would be executed at the top of the route. As I practiced, I listened to the beginner climbing groups. Some were being cheered on by their friends to complete their climbs while others begged to be let down off the wall, exhausted. The tourist crowds began to fade, heading onward to the next island of their tour. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sarut said that I was ready.
As I tied into the rope, I was still quite nervous. What if all the drills I had done were wasted and I forgot everything on the wall like earlier? Sarut noticed my consternation and said simply: “Don’t think.” Taking a deep breath, I began to climb.
As I reached the first clip, I paused to recall the right set of moves to make. From below, Sarut yelled again: “Don’t think!”. Letting my intuition take over, I smoothly attached my quickdraw and clipped my rope, completing the whole sequence in only a few seconds. The earlier drills seemed to have imprinted on me at a deeper level. Sarut yelled “good” from below, a note of approval in his voice. I finished the clip and continued the rest of the climb.
Compared to my previous attempt, my clipping felt much smoother and faster. On the wall, time is at a premium. Every second spent clipping requires staying on the wall with the use of only three remaining limbs. This time around, I reached the top with energy to spare. My legs were not shaking, my breathing was deep and smooth, and most importantly, I felt confident and prepared. I cleaned the anchor and came down with a big smile on my face. Sarut smiled back and told me “Good job. More practice.”, to which I gladly agreed.
Over the next few days, I continued to learn from Sarut. He showed me how to build an anchor, how to make various knots, and how to carry my rope. He taught me to rappel down the side of a wall. One time, before a climb, he warned me that there were cicadas hiding in the cracks of the wall I was about to get on. Sure enough, as I approached the area he had pointed out, I saw a blur fly out over my head. All the while, my movements became more natural and fluid with each lead climb.
One day we shared the wall with a group of tourists taking a beginner lesson. One member of their group was loudly yelling instructions as each person in his group climbed the wall. “Move your left foot up!”, “Right hand over!” he yelled up the wall. Sarut noticed, and told him to tie into the rope for the route I had just climbed, which was much harder than the beginner routes. He pleaded for an easier wall, but Sarut repeatedly told him “No, it’s easy”, and he finally acquiesced. After a few failed attempts at the first move, each accompanied by a chorus of playful ribbing from his friends, Sarut told him to wait one second, and walked away. A few moments later, he walked back holding a step ladder and set it against the wall. With his friends whooping and applauding, the tourist had to laugh at himself as well. Afterward, I asked Sarut why he had made this guy try the route when he knew it would be too difficult. He shrugged and said “He talked too much. It’s annoying.”
On the third day, for lunch, he gave me 200 Baht (around $7) and asked me to buy him a meal from a specific restaurant. This was the first time he’d asked me to do him a favor and I was eager for his appreciation. I dutifully walked down the length of the beach to the store he’d asked me to go to, wading through knee-length sea water due to the high tide.
Arriving at the restaurant, I saw that it was closed so I went to the one next door and placed the order there. After receiving the food, I turned around and walked back to Sarut, excited to eat together.
When I got to there, he opened the bag. Sitting inside was a large Styrofoam container and two small bags, each containing meat, veggies and sauce. He raised his eyebrows, looked at me and asked: “How much did this cost?” When I told him 180 Baht, he raised his voice with displeasure: “That’s 180 Baht? That’s about double what you should pay for that.” Heat rising to my face, I offered to share with him my own food, but he emphatically refused. I apologized again, but he said it was okay, that he wasn’t mad at me but at the store that overcharged me. I still felt ashamed, though, and continued to try to make small talk as we began to eat. Exasperated, he snapped: “Could you please just sit over there and eat your food, quietly?”
I sat down quietly across from him. The one time he had relied on me for something, I had let him down. After a few minutes of silence, he said: “Sorry. I know you’re American but in Thailand we don’t stand and talk and eat. We keep those separate.” I wasn’t sure if that was the real reason he’d barked at me earlier (I’m still not), but I was glad to have an explanation other than anger.
When we finished climbing on the third day, it hit me that I would probably never see Sarut again. He handed me my lead climbing certificate and patted my back. We thanked each other, and I got a picture with him. I wanted to further express to him some sense of the deeper connection I had felt with him, but I left it alone. Even if I’d found the right words, I’m not sure he would have needed to hear them.
I left Railay in the early morning, when it felt like the whole beach was still asleep. The sky was dark, and it was silent but for the crashing of the waves against the beach. I went to the front desk to check out but no one was there, so I left my room card on the table and slipped out the door. I’ll be back one day. The rocks and beaches will be the same.
