Editor's Note: The Migrant Pom on Rysavy Ridge was originally published in 1978 in the (now defunct) Australian magazine "Thrutch" and in the "History of Climbing in Tasmania" (2019). Common Climber has been given permission to republish the article as part of a three article series about the Ridge. These stories take us from the first ascent of the rock by Tony McKenny (The Migrant Pom on Rysavy Ridge), to two ascents this year in 2021:  A long-awaited first-time ascent by Keith Bell (Throng of Roland) and the likely final ascent of the ridge that Tony McKenny will do in his lifetime (this article - Fast Forward…Rysavy Ridge Revisited).  Read all three to gain some wonderful perspectives of this place.​

I wrote the article, The Migrant Pom on Rysavy Ridge soon after arriving in Tasmania back in 1977. I think it was originally intended for a UK climbing magazine, hence the references to The Vaynol pub and the (Llanberis) Pass, landmarks familiar to all British (and many Aussie) climbers of the day. Re-reading it all these years later reminds me just what a culture shock that first introduction to Tasmanian climbing was.

Rysavy Ridge route is the solid red line. The descent is marked in red dashes. (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny)

The difference between climbing here in Tasmania and just about anywhere else in the world is our unique environment. As a newly arrived migrant, I found it just stunning: wallabies, snakes that could kill you, eagles drifting overhead, leeches, and spiders the size of your hand, possums, jack jumper ants and spiny ant eaters….and soaring cliffs fringing the southern seas or reaching up out of the wild and apparently impenetrable forest.

Sometimes I think we Tasmanians forget just how it blows the minds of visitors to our State, no wonder it features on so many climbers’ “bucket list."
I didn’t realise when I wrote that original story that the general culture of climbing in Tasmania was in the process of fundamental change. Originally United Kingdom-centric-climbers’ attention was just starting to turn to a wider world. New ethics, new ideas and new leaders were emerging, visitors and migrants bringing in innovative ideas and equipment, locals were bringing back different attitudes and experiences from overseas, and new publications from the U.S. and Europe were now available to avidly peruse for direction and challenges. Wilderness exploration was giving way to more technical climbing on steeper and shorter cliffs, change was in the air…

Little could we have known then that this route on Mt. Roland would become something of an Australian climbing icon: by a quirk of geological history, this vast continent has no alps and remarkably few big walls or longer climbs, let alone one like Rysavy Ridge that is so readily available to the average climber. Now something of a rite of passage for many an aspiring alpinist and trad climber, it has been perennially popular since that first ascent. Steve, who first conceived the route and who now owns the farm at the base of the cliff, counted 90 ascents in the visitors’ book the summer of 2021 alone.
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In 2017, forty years after that first ascent, the local Tasmanian climbing club organised a commemoration climb of the Ridge. Steve and I, both now in our seventies, added to our impressive list of records for the climb: the first ascent, what was then the oldest age ascent, the most ascents (we can’t actually remember now how many!) and, on that anniversary climb, to our chagrin and embarrassment, at 20 hours, possibly the slowest continuous ascent, finishing in the darkness early in the morning, long after the other climbers had packed up and gone home.

​Fast forward again to Covid time, early 2021, and I was back for what is realistically my last jaunt up the old classic, sharing a rope with another ancient climbing mate, Jim Duff, veteran of many a Himalayan epic, but a neophyte Mt Roland climber.

An early start, and sunrise heralds a glorious late summer day, blue sky, warm and no wind. We are quiet, reflective even, as we climb: pitch upon pitch, swinging long leads on steep arêtes and walls of pebbly conglomerate, with views out over the plains and rolling hills to the north.

The rest of the party leaves us behind as they climb quickly up the initial walls, but we still meet up for lunch at the main halfway ledge.

Steve Brown with some hexes and crackers.

Stu Scott high up on the ridge. (Photo Credit: Neale Smith)

At first sight, it seems little has altered since that first ascent back in the last millennium. The mountain, of course, stays the same – a wall of wild rock sitting there massively on the landscape, impassive and oblivious, just being, waiting for deep time to work its inevitable changes.
 
But what about me? Surely I have changed over the years? The hair is greyer, the waist a bit thicker and we are slower: the climbing seems harder for sure, the bodies have obviously weakened, although muscle memory still makes one mistakenly feel like you can pull overhangs on skimpy crimps. We wish…
 
But there have been other changes as well, not least to the gear we now use, and in reality, to the complete sport as we now know it. Back in 1977, cams hadn’t even been invented, runners and belays were slung chockstones or those new-fangled hexes and wired nuts, both of which had only just arrived on our isolated little island at the edge of the world.

​Ropes were fatter then too, 11mm, and shorter: no grigris, dyneema or draws, helmets still a rarity. Harnesses of course came with the risk of castration in the event of a fall (remember the Whillan’s harness?) or you tied an intricate web out of seat belt webbing as a swami belt.

Jim contemplating the top third of the Ridge. (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny)

The author on top of Rysavy Ridge (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny)

Andrew Stewart (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny)

As Jim wrote, ​

For me probably the major difference is the sheer numbers of climbers now. Back in the sixties and even in the seventies I felt, perhaps mistakenly, that I knew almost everyone who climbed, if not personally, at least by reputation. There was a feeling of community, of immediate acceptance and recognition whenever and wherever one met. But now that village feel has become a city, maybe with a diminution of that instant camaraderie. The term “climber” in days of yore was instantly understood as one who partook in a rather esoteric sport that felt like it was outside the bounds of accepted civilised behaviour. Now climbers might never have touched rock but have spent their days in gyms and on competition walls. Or they may specialise in bouldering, sport climbing or competition, and have no idea about real climbing - which is of course the one and only trad….”

Rysavy Ridge is longer than I remember…one young rock jock, reported back on the Net that it was a bit “boring and repetitive,” probably as it goes up, and up, and up…and up! We only discovered very recently after using a GPS that is 420m (1400 feet) long, not 310m (1020 feet) which was our original guess all those years ago. That may explain why so many parties underestimate the time needed and end up benighted. Whoops.

We reach the final “cheval” ridge and then complete the seven - or is it eight? - abseils down the deep gully to the dark forest below. The light fades as Jim and I coil the ropes, put on our boots and slowly wend our way back down through the bush by torch light.

​It has been a long day for old lads, joints creaking and back aching, but the memory of the day is sweet, and bright and clear – the bodies may be weaker, but the passion is still there, all this time later, still intense and visceral.

Neale is there to meet us and guide us down that last steep bit to the waiting vehicle in the paddock. Steve has a cold beer ready to greet us at the farm. The fire is crackling in the hearth and the BBQ hot - time now to celebrate a great climb shared with good friends.

Rysavy Ridge is not the hardest climb for sure, not even the hardest on the mountain, but hell, it is such fun!

But, for Jim and me, it was possibly more than just fun. It was a journey tinged with sadness, a journey back down the tunnel of time as we sat there in front of the fire, memories of friends that have now left us, gone on the hills or taken by life events: nostalgia for all those times we had shared a rope and roared and shouted and laughed and drank and reveled in our fitness, our agility, in our very youth.

Drink up lads, there is always a tomorrow… isn’t there?
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 Carpe diem

The end of a perfect day (Photo Credit: Tony McKenny)