Abseiling, rappelling, rapping, whatever you choose to call it is the art of descending a rope in a somewhat controlled manner in order to reach lower ground. The operative phrase here being “somewhat controlled.”
Using a variety of devices ranging from figure 8s to Grigris, the aspiring rappeller places their trust into a combination of aluminium, nylon and knots that they hopefully remembered correctly. If climbing is the art of upward movement, then rappelling is the art of voluntarily stepping off of things your ancestors spent millions of years trying to avoid. Rappelling is the tax we pay as climbers for getting to the top.
Though there are exceptions to this. I’ve found myself needing to rappel for all sorts of reasons. Getting the hell off a mountain during a torrential thunderstorm. Checking out holds on a potential project. Bolting new routes. Entering crags. Leaving crags. Realizing that I should have never gone to that crag in the first place.
Traditional Anchors
I was once climbing in the Magaliesburg, topping out a great single-pitch crack. After belaying my partner up, we head over to where the rap anchor was meant to be. “Oh look.” I thought, “a beautiful piece of white webbing wrapped around a boulder, how reassuring”. The webbing looked good, the boulder looked big, and so off we went! At the bottom my partner decided they’d like to lead the route, so we boogied back up the crack and returned to the rap anchor. This time while threading the rope I noticed the backside of the webbing was a bright red colour.
Turns out that was it’s original colour and, what one could only assume to be years of being baked in the sun had bleached it white. Apon further inspection, tracing my hand along the backside of the webbing where it disappeared behind the block, I found it being sawn in half by a sharp edge. It was already halfway through!
Needless to say we retired that anchor and replaced it with fresh tat. Since that day I’ve developed a deep appreciation for a bolted rap anchor. The traditional alternative still confuses me. “No bolting” venues that “preserve the adventure”, “protect the wilderness” and “leave no trace”. Nothing but years worth of sun bleached slings, faded cord, rusty maillons, abandoned carabiners and enough nylon detritus to make a stuffed toy. This is certainly not something two discrete, painted, glue-in bolts could fix – that would be unsightly.
Bolting
Sometimes when you’re bolting a route, hazards need to be taken care of before the community can play on it. At the Colosseum, rapping down what would become Rust, Dust and Guts I noticed a large, precariously balanced flake that needed to be dispatched. I got to work on it with my crowbar, pushing and pulling at it like a giant loose tooth. Eventually it toppled. Bouncing off the slab below with a magnificent gong, and devastating everything in its path, including the brand new path we had just built.
After taking care of that flake I looked up to see the last holds I’d chalked and was suddenly made aware of my rope, making a new friend with a tiny sharp edge. Apparently they were well acquainted by this point as my rope only had a few strands of core left. I did the most gentle jumar of my life, tied the frayed section off and beat that edge out of existence with my 2lb hammer. After which I promptly rapped to the ground, 30 metres away, and changed my underwear.
The Golden Rule
Rappelling does require one thing from you. Keeping at least one hand on the “dead” end of the rope while you descend drastically increases your chances of survival. This is why we usually incorporate the use of a third hand. Aka a prusik. While descending from the first ever trad climb I’d done (without a prusik), my rope was running through a large thorn tree. I figured if I gave a big push and paid out enough rope at the right time, I’d skip straight over the thorn tree and make it passed without a problem.
I, in fact, paid out and jumped just enough to land directly in the thorn tree. Instinctually, I put my hands out to protect my face and let go of any and all ropes. I started to plummet and instantly grabbed above the ATC I was using with my left hand. A fist full of rope, minor rope burn and one very tired bicep had just saved me from falling to my certain death.
Every climber eventually learns that there are two kinds of rappels: the ones that go exactly to plan and the ones that become stories. The stories in this article are all true. Some are embarrassing and some were expensive. They came alarmingly close to being told by someone else. But they reinforce the original definition rather nicely. It is, after all, the art of descending a rope in a somewhat controlled manner. And if you’ve been rappelling for long enough, you’ll eventually discover just how much work the word “somewhat” is doing.
All that being said, let my stories serve as the example of ‘how not to abseil’. Be prepared for the unexpected, use your prusik, and don’t take any unnecessary risks.
