Friends in the Frankenjura.

A lot of ideas were thrown around for where we should go on our September climbing trip but none of them felt quite right until the Frankenjura was suggested. 

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes. We instantly all agreed it was the place we wanted to go.

The pocketed limestone outcrops and towers that peek out above the trees of south east Germany really appealed to us. For me it wasn’t simply because the climbing is supposed to be so good but also the place in rock climbing history and culture the Frankenjura has.

Theresa and I had been working hard to get her van ready for the trip, however about six weeks before we left it went to the garage and didn’t have any sign of returning before our departure. Therefore we changed plans to be going in my van. I had done many a trip, even long ones in it on my own, but it would be a lot smaller and a lot more cramped with two. We had done a couple of nights here and there but two weeks had us a little worried.

Over the few days before we left I cobbled together some shelving to sit in the back where my mountain bike usually lives. Some plywood scraps from my mum’s garage and some crates I found stopped the space turning into the jumble of bags, duvets, shoes, climbing gear and stress that it had been the other times we had both been in the van.

We set off for Dover one Friday evening right at the end of August. Arriving in the early hours before getting a little sleep then rolling onto the ferry first thing in the morning. We had our first breakfast on the boat then our second in the first boulangarie we found on the other side.

Before we knew it we were rolling through Belgium then by the afternoon stopping in Luxembourg for cheap fuel. A couple of hours later we arrived with Theresa’s family in our fifth country of the day, Germany. They welcomed me in warmly and we spent the evening and following morning there before we set off again for a few more hours driving across the country.

It wasn’t just Theresa and I on this trip, our good friends Becky and Myrdd were also coming out, however were a couple of days behind us. They too were in a van, though one almost big enough to hold all of mine in the back. They’d be catching us up soon.

By that evening an hour or two before the sun went down we finally arrived in the Frankenjura. You’d never really have known you were in a world class climbing area, honestly you’d barely even notice any rock at all at times. The area looked much like the 400 or so kilometers of Germany we’d just passed through. Most of the crags were hiding amongst the summer leaves, though required just a few paces into the woods to be revealed. 

The first crag we arrived at only became visible when we turned the last corner on the road before it. It sat right there set into the side of a little hill, two small sectors, one wall and one free standing rock tower set away from the cliff that we’d soon find was common here.

With the sun fast approaching the horizon we wanted to quickly get a climb in each and quench the thirst of excitement that had built over the length of the mammoth drive. That’s exactly what we did, with Theresa finishing up after the sun was long gone and barely able to see her hands in front of her face.

We went to sleep that night with the small taster only further fuelling the intrigue in the climbing style and excitement to explore the crag and whole area over the coming two weeks.

On researching the area before leaving there was surprisingly little information on the best crags to visit, there are over 1000 so it was hard to know where to start. Further to that the guidebook was not playful, descriptive and intriguing like the ones I am used to instead just blunt and practical. The plan therefore was to pick a crag, fairly at random then see who we meet and ask for recommendations and explore from there.

After a quick breakfast the next morning, we strolled the short distance back to the crag we had sampled the night before and got fully stuck in. We explored the rock slowly, beginning to understand its ways and those of the people before us. I was worried before leaving that a sport climbing trip may lack adventure, however it quickly became apparent, the lack of mountains and wilderness and scale was made up for by the boldness, runout and oldschool adventurous style of much of the climbing here.

Adventure in a minute way, many times over. But adventure nonetheless and the same buttons in the brain being pressed.

For me at least.

After a little break for lunch we walked along the crag to the tower. I’d never climbed any rock formation like this before, a tall and skinny shaft of stone jutting into the sky. These towers however carry a simplicity that returns to the roots of climbing and ignites curiosity in anyone who stares up at them. “Could I climb to the top of that?”  

You can walk around and observe all its sides deciding which face, line or feature you want to launch your expedition up. That’s exactly what Theresa and I did, each picking which way we wanted to go before seeing what we could do. 

The satisfaction of these towers grows further once you reach their pinnacle. You stand there high above the trees and see the world you forget existed from the bottom, you can sit there and chill, bring your mates up to join you and experience the top in a way you don’t get in most climbing. More again there is usually a book and a pen tucked in a box up there for you to log your accent and comment on your journey before you return back to the ground with everyone else.

That day as planned we met others who recommended some good crags for us to visit over the coming two weeks, a pair who were on the last day of their trip handing over the baton to us. That gave us the direction needed to lead us on. Theresa made a mental plan routing us south through the region via as many great crags as possible. 

Then that evening we awaited Becky and Myrdd’s arrival before recounting tails of our first day on the rock while filling our faces with BBQ’ed sausage and kartoffelsalat, talking as if we knew everything about the place already and very excited for them to experience it for themselves in the morning.

That next day they jumped right in too. 

They discovered many of the same things we did the day before. Got used to the boldness. Adapted to the style. Timidly lowered off the single bolt anchors that are prevalent here.

Meanwhile we speculated about how different this crag was from the last one. A theme we noticed throughout the whole trip, subtle nuances to the rock at each crag that dramatically varied the climbing experience. 

Maybe one of the reasons we travel in the first place.

Maybe even one of the reasons we climb at all.

That interest in movement, varied challenge and fine details. Something the outside observer regularly doesn’t notice about climbing.

For the next two weeks the four of us followed the plan meandering south, picking out each evening which crag we fancied for the next day. Theresa and I survived quite well in the little van together, though when one wanted to make breakfast in the morning, both had to be keen, everyone in bed or no one in bed.

I enjoyed the painted arrows.

The famous painted rotpunkt 🔴.

More towers.

Occasionally trying hard.

Seeing my friends push themselves.

Many a BBQ.

Staring up at parts of climbing history.

As you wondered around the forest you stumble over more and more and more climbing. There wasn’t time to even fathom all of its existence, never mind visit or climb even a fraction of what was there. 

As we walk away from the crag and back to the van for the final time, I ponder all the further climbs, experiences and sparks of life there are still to be had here.

I ponder when I’ll be back.

Jacob.