The document describes the authors' ambitious attempt to establish a new route up a 400-meter basalt pinnacle on the small island nation of São Tomé and Principé off the west coast of Africa. They faced numerous logistical challenges with limited supplies and medical aid available on the remote island. After 15 days of difficult climbing through varying weather, they succeeded in opening the route but still had to clean it and achieve the first free ascent. On their final attempt at the hardest pitches, the author stuck two big dynos and overcame the 8b crux, completing the first free ascent of this challenging new route.

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A little over a year prior to our departure for
São Tomé, staring at my computer screen in my
apartment in Monterrey, Mexico, I stumbled
across what I hoped would be my next big wall
objective.
A Google search of ‘The Tower of Mordor’ had
led me to a dated tourist information page about
the small island nation of São Tomé and Principé
that lies off the west coast of sub-Saharan Africa.
I’d never before heard of the country. Considering
that it’s one of the smallest in the world, this was
hardly surprising. Browsing the pages of the old
website, with its design and layout typical of the
early 90’s, I caught the first glimpse of the what
is still the strangest peak I have ever seen. Rising
up out of a sea of green was a 400 metre basalt
pinnacle whose summit was hidden by clouds. It
commanded its surroundings with an authority
that would capture the imagination of even the
most seasoned coach potato, and possessed all the
qualities of my dream big wall.
Infatuated with my new discovery, I began
researching and planning for a possible new
route up the tower immediately, obsessing with
the idea that one day I would be able to visit this
mythical island whose landscapes resembled a
scene from the film Jurassic Park. As fortune had
it, my discovery of the wall happened to coincide
with the launch of the Adidas Outdoor ‘Claim
Freedom’ initiative that was looking to support
the realisation of projects in the outdoors. Luckily
my proposal was selected, and the dream climb
was set to become a reality.
The project was ambitious on many levels,
requiring every detail to be meticulously
examined. Logistics were not the only challenge;
to take on such a wall I would need a climbing
partner with solid big wall skills and a strong
work ethic. Sergio “Tiny” Almada was a friend
from Chihuahua, Mexico, who had put up a
number of routes on the big wall of El Gigante,
Mexico and also established the route on El
Diente’s North Face with me. A calm and practical
thinker, we had worked seamlessly together in the
past and I knew we made a strong team.
The island itself offered little in the way of
supplies or modern medical aid. If something were
to go wrong, we would be completely on our
own.
When we finally reached São Tomé in May
2016, I stood on the roof of our jeep and peered
through a pair of antique, leather-covered
binoculars towards the spire. I breathed deeply at
the reality of the task at hand.
The days following our jeep-rooftop
reconnaissance unfolded in what can only be
described as a concerning manner. The carefully
laid plans that I’d spent months polishing fell
apart faster than a pair of $5 flip-flops. Firstly, we
discovered that there was nowhere in the country
you could get camping gas. Not only could you
not purchase it, but it was also impossible to
ship or fly it in. We looked at conversion options
using the gas bottles that were available on the
island to our jetboil, but the parts were not readily
available and, even if we shipped them in, it was
an unrealistic solution to the problem. It was clear
that, if we wanted to sleep on the wall using our
ledges as we progressed, we would simply have to
eat dry, packaged food.
Which brought us to our second problem:
purchasing dry goods in São Tomé means
purchasing imports. These are both hard to find,
limited in variety, and incredibly expensive. To
add to this, the dry goods they did offer still
required water to rehydrate them, which brought
us back to the first problem: no gas.
It seemed we had just two choices; commit
ourselves to a diet of oatmeal, tuna and water for
14 days, likely resulting in complete exhaustion
through hunger and malnutrition, or fix lines
as we climbed and jumar to the high point each
day to continue the climbing, an option which
would also result in complete exhaustion through
physical exertion. Neither option seemed much
better than the other. Both would ultimately
be hard, and after some thought we decided
that jumaring what would eventually equate to
kilometres of rope was the lesser of two evils.
With the big decisions made, we packed the
remainder of the food we had already purchased
and prepared to leave for the wall.
Our first day carrying gear packs to the wall
happened to coincide with a huge storm that
seemed to rock the island’s foundations for several
days. Depending on your outlook, this was either
a fortuitous learning experience or a short trip
to hell. Trudging through the dense jungle, we
arrived to the shelter of the advanced base camp

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(ABC) only to discover that the line we had
decided upon from afar was a gutter of death.
Water cascaded from the corner we had planned
to climb, as huge rocks and giant plants surfed the
torrent that flowed from the wall. After consulting
the weather forecast for the island, we agreed that
it would be suicide to take the planned line, given
that rain showers were expected for most of the
trip. Instead, we decided upon a more direct line
up the steepest part of the wall, hoping to take
advantage of the shelter the capping roof provided
from the elements, even if it did require more
difficult climbing.
Fifteen days of pain and exhaustion ensued
as we fought for every inch of progress. Slaves
to time, we submitted ourselves to an arduous
schedule that began with a meagre breakfast at
5.30 a.m. and ended after dark when route finding
became unjustifiably slow. As pain drowned out
hunger, the route became a battle of willpower
over adversity, with each day growing increasingly
harder while we climbed through fluctuating
weather: high humidity, blistering heat, and heavy
rain.
On the evening of June 2nd, we arrived at the
convergence between rock and jungle, a sign that
we had reached the summit ridge. As we pulled
over the lip into the thick undergrowth, my heart
began to race with excitement as to what we
would discover. Having exhausted all of our static
rope, we had fixed our dynamic climbing line for
the final 2 pitches, and now only our 7mm tag
line remained to cover the distance to the summit.
As I tied in, I began frantically clawing my way
through the loose bush, consumed by summit
fever. My hands bled as the sharp plants cut into
the creases of my fingers, and ants marched their
way up my waterlogged trousers on their own big
wall adventure. Ten metres below the top, the line
came tight and I was forced to remove it, tying it
off to a nearby tree.
Covering the short distance to the peak’s highest
point, we arrived in time to catch the setting sun
casting its crimson light across the world below
us. I could hardly believe it. The idea that we
might never reach this point had begun to creep
into my mind, that we simply didn’t have enough
time or equipment to make it possible. Now, with
just four days remaining before we departed the
island, we had succeeded in completing the critical
stage of establishing the route.
But the challenge was far from complete. We
still had the task of cleaning 15 pitches, removing
over 400 metres of rope, creating a rappel line,
and the biggest challenge of all: redpointing the
route. With no time to lose, we spent the next day
removing the moss, plants and blocks from the
route and preparing our equipment for the climb.
The following morning arrived sooner than
either of us wanted. Rising groggily from our
bed in the dirt, our aching muscles creaked into
motion as we made breakfast. With supplies
beginning to dwindle, fifteen spoons of oatmeal
with the consistency of concrete and a cup of
coffee would be all we could afford in the way
of sustenance for the day ahead. Still exhausted
from the weeks of opening the route, we stood at
the base of the route and gathered our thoughts
as we prepared for a free ascent of the line. The
plan was to focus redpointing the first four pitches
in the roof which seemed to be the hardest, then
sleep on the portaledge before aiming to complete
the remainder of the route the following day.
The climbing went well, and we made good
progress. But the difficulties were far greater than
we had anticipated. We climbed the first 7b pitch
with ease, but pitches 2, 3 and 4 proved much
harder, with the desperate second pitch featuring
8b climbing. Unable to climb these pitches clean
that day, we decided that we would rappel to the
ground and attempt them again the following
day, though this would be the absolute last
opportunity to achieve an all-free ascent. That
night, tired and frustrated, we went to bed early
with the goal of waking with the sun and giving it
everything we had.
Waking early the next day, we ate our breakfast
of oatmeal and once again walked to the base
of the wall for our final attempt. Tiny went
first again, climbing the first 5.12 (F7b) pitch
with ease, and I followed. Switching over at the
second pitch, It was my turn to take the sharp
end. Tightening the velcro straps of my shoes, I
stared at the wall above, rehearsing the moves in
my head. This was the 8b crux pitch of the route,
a bouldery roof section that involved two big
dynos on slopey holds followed by a technical 8a
section to the anchors. I had practiced the moves
the day before and knew them intimately; all I
had to do was stick them. Chalking my hands, I
double checked my knot and threw myself into
the climbing above.

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Stepping off the belay, I clipped the bolt that protected
the first dyno and set up for the move. Locking my
eyes on the catching hold, I launched myself upwards,
clenching the edge perfectly as my legs swung out below
me. Regaining my composure, I placed my feet back on
the wall, clipped another bolt and took a deep breath.
But it wasn’t over. The following dyno was the hardest,
a large throw to a frictionless sloper at the limit of my
reach. Positioning my feet on small pebbles, I summoned
all my strength and launched again skywards. Time
seemed to stand still as the weathered skin of my swollen
fingers took hold of the polished volcanic rock. To my
amazement, my hand firmly grasped the target hold.
Reacting quickly, I raised my heel onto the tooth-shaped
protrusion of stone that would allow me to complete the
final crux move. As I reached up to grab the small pinch,
my hand slipped. I fell through the air in a moment of
weightlessness, and a sinking feeling came next as the
rope stretched tight. I had blown it. Tiny and I stared at
each other as I hung there in space. the unspoken words
drifted in the empty space between us ‘we won’t be able
to climb this all free’. Pulling back on to my high point,
I made my way up to the anchor where Tiny joined me
shortly after.
We fought hard up the two pitches that followed,
making solid links but, again, we were unable to send
them without falls. With just two days remaining, we
were out of time and would have to continue climbing
the route in order to establish the line. Reaching the
portaledge that evening at the top of pitch 4, we discussed
our disappointment over a tinned tuna dinner. We had
both worked harder on this route than anything we’d
tried before. If we could just complete the remaining 11
pitches to the summit cleanly, we could leave the island
content with our route and our efforts.
The next day we rose at 5 a.m. and packed away the
ledges. Gearing up, we planned to climb simultaneously
through the easier pitches above and stop to belay
traditionally only when we guessed the difficulties to be
5.11+ (F7a) or harder. Pulling on my shoes and bumping
our fists to signify we were both ready, we charged the
350m wall above with less difficulty than the roof below,
arriving once again at the summit almost 13 hours
later. Standing atop the lofty peak, our hard work was
rewarded with a spectacular sunset and panoramic views
of the entire island.
Our celebration and excitement was brief. For a while,
we sat in comfortable silence to reflect upon the journey
here and the questions it brought. Why had we chosen to
do this to ourselves? Why suffer these painful endeavours
that push us to the limits of our mental and physical
boundaries? What were we hoping to gain? As I sat there
absorbing the glow from the setting sun, the answers
seemed to come to me in a epiphany, each hidden in the
questions they raised.
I realised what this expedition had been, for me, was
the search for an understanding of something intangible.
I wanted to know where the line was drawn: the place
where my personal boundary of possible and impossible
converged. Had I found my limit?
I am certain, though, that whilst not rushing onto
my next project quite so soon, this won’t be the last
time I run the big wall gauntlet, chasing that intangible
understanding.
Gaz Leah is supported by: Nite Ize | Mad Rock | Hanchor | Maxim Ropes | Voltaic Systems | DMM |
Adventure Medical Kits | Adidas Outdoor | FiveTen | Revo Sunglasses

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Nubivagant (Wandering in the clouds) 455m,
5.13d/A0 (F8b) ***
A direct line up the steepest part of the giant
roof and onto the headwall above. Though
equipped as a sport line this is anything but and
should be approached with the respect that big
wall requires. The majority of the difficulties are
located in the first 100m of the route which is
a steep overhanging roof, arguably one of the
largest in the world with 3 pitches of climbing at
grade 5.13b (F8a) or harder. Pulling through the
roof, the climbing eases considerably and you just
have to hope the tropical storms stay at bay to
reach to summit.