An inordinate pause follows, while Chris ponders the scene. Katie and Chris are aside the stellar traverse pitch of The Bard. Rain clouds loomed that morning, Pete suggested they were crazy but Rob’s radio spoke only of cloud and Chris’ brain had whirred Bard Bard Bard since first light. Titillating up the first two pitches, Katie noted the clouds frolicking from the Grampians towards Mitre Rock; the sprawling tumblers now shimmering on the lake. Baaaah! Rain-fearing sheep huddle towards a tree as the sun’s arc bears splinters in the clouds. Rosellas preen and bob their heads in the buttresses’ alcoves. Hoppers doze in the distance. Climbers stir in the gums, far, far below. What a view. And what a week! Keyboard. The Shroud. Horn Piece. Muldoon. Tiptoe Ridge. Boomer. Trapeze. Swinging. Bouldering at night with Simey. Impromptu Yoga. Mulled wine. Fine friends, quality climbing and tasty cheese.
“No. Not a chance.”
“How could they?” said Chris.
