"The rising fear grows exponentially as the lead rope runs out, perhaps a couple of micro’s are shoved tentatively in a crack somewhere below but the reality is that those wires are just there to prop up the fast fading self confidence.
The single red 11mm rope creeps slowly out and the space below yawns, an open mouth waiting to swallow the hapless leader into oblivion.
The curtain of nuts on slings that hang from both sides of the harness right now are currently totally useless and purely decorative.Then, scrabbling over an edge and onto a narrow balancy ledge there is the crack, smiling sweetly and beckoning.
A shaky hand reaches down and selects a runner from the harness. With a satisfying clunk and a robust snatch on the 9mm double fisherman’s knotted sling, a Moac pops snugly into the crack and the lead rope snaps into the krab.
A deep, deep series of breaths are inhaled and exhaled, the tension quickly evaporates and the gaping maw closes shut.'
This Friday;resident Aussie exile Michael Combley, waxes lyrical on the timeless qualities of the Moac nut. A simple wedge of metal still held in affection by those of a certain age.