Katherine

Choong

—

The

First

Woman

to

Climb

“Zahir”

(8b+,

300

m)

Zahir is one of the hardest multi‑pitch routes in the Swiss Alps — a classic whose reputation drew me in as much as it intimidated me. A 300‑meter line on the towering limestone walls of the Wendenstöcke.

In 2024, I finally felt ready. All I needed was a partner. I instantly thought of my friend Eline Le Menestrel, who agreed on one condition: we’d go in Ecopoint style — no car, only public transport, bikes, and our own muscle power. Tackling one of the toughest multi‑pitch routes in the country, deep in a remote valley, approaching it by bike even though I hadn’t pedaled since primary school, with only two panniers to carry all our gear… and camping on top of that? Why not! At least I wouldn’t be alone. Eline would be right there, sharing every struggle along the way.

Somehow, we managed to strap everything onto our bikes — camping gear, clothes, climbing gear, including climbing and static ropes, almost 50 quickdraws, carabiners, and of course Eline’s indispensable ukulele. Loaded like pack mules, we crawled our way up steep, winding mountain roads into a world that felt like the end of everything. And not a very welcoming end: thick, wet fog, no sign of life, just the two of us hammering tent stakes into the ground of our 2‑square‑meter home for the next two weeks. Our only neighbors? A gang of whistling marmots and a choir of curious cows whose bells woke us every morning.

The next day, when the sun rose and finally lit up the Wenden, we discovered an alien world of immense, overhanging limestone in shades of blue, grey, and yellow. Still sore from biking, we began the approach — a challenge in itself. The terrain was brutally steep, a slick mix of grass and slabs where a slip could send you tumbling to the valley. Rockfall from high above did nothing to ease our nerves. Under the watchful eyes of chamois, dancing across the terrain like it was a warm‑up route, we eventually reached the base of Zahir.

Strangely, no one was lining up to start climbing. The first bolt stood 15 meters above the ground on a 6c slab. Eline won the draw and dispatched it brilliantly. Pitch 2 (8a) was a beautiful slightly overhanging wall of small crimps linking together in a sustained sequence.

Then came Pitch 3 — the infamous 8b+ crux. A dead‑vertical, nearly featureless wall with razor‑thin blades for holds. No chalk marks, widely spaced bolts, and no chance of pulling up on quickdraws. You simply had to climb. For hours we were stuck in the same spot, several meters above the second bolt, searching blindly for holds that didn’t seem to exist, taking fall after fall with my hand reaching for the next bolt but never quite touching it. Mentally completely exhausted, our goal of climbing Zahir suddenly seems unattainable.

Two days in, in freezing fog, we’d barely gained two bolts of progress. The razor holds shredded our skin. We still hadn’t reached the anchor. Doubt crept in. Had I dragged Eline here for nothing? Julien was investing so much energy filming — and I couldn’t even make it to the anchor of the crux pitch. And the phrases I kept hearing — “you’ll see, it’ll be easy for you,” “tiny holds are your style” — only amplified the feeling that I had to live up to other people’s expectations.

Determined to climb “in good style,” ground‑up and without aid, we eventually caved on day five. We improvised a kind of stick‑clip to reach the next bolt, which finally allowed us to scout the pitch from the anchor.

The movements on this pitch were stunning. Slowly, hold by hold, we unlocked the sequences. Every day we pushed to our limit; every little breakthrough felt like a victory bringing us closer to our dream. But only on day six — with Eline spotting intermediate holds for me — did I finally succeed on the crux sequence that had felt impossible because of my height.

On our ninth day on the wall, we were ready. 3:50 am — the alarm. With no space for a coffee maker in our bike bags, we sipped warm water to wake up. 6:15 am — I slipped on my shoes and started climbing in the cool morning air, linking the first two pitches. Eline gave everything on the 8a, but fell near the belay. After a hard fight, she fell just a few meters before the anchor. Realizing that this wouldn’t be her day, she decided to channel all her energy into supporting me instead.

Conditions were perfect. I felt strong. Time to go. But the pressure overwhelmed me. I fell on the first crux. Second attempt: even lower. Those two attempts had already cost me an enormous amount of energy and skin, and the sun had been baking the wall for hours. I checked the weather and realized that the next few days would be very unstable — and our trip was coming to an end. Basically, it was now or never.

With the pressure of this last chance still weighing on me, I go in again, determined, and this time it feels as if I’m flying. I get through the first crux, then the second, and slowly I’m closing in on the anchor. On the very last move, I feel my right hand start to slip. Completely spent, I have a choice: risk everything and dyno for the final good hold or take the time to reposition my foot before committing. I choose to risk it, go all in… and miss the hold. I fall into the rope right in front of the anchor and find myself swinging there, flooded with disappointment and anger at having blown my chance and fallen so painfully close to the goal. To make matters worse, the skin on my ring finger has torn open and is bleeding heavily. The situation feels hopeless. Exhausted, but more determined than ever — convinced that sending is inseparably tied to truly believing it’s possible — I lower back to the start to try again. Now I knew I could do it, no matter the circumstances.

In multi‑pitch climbing, the bond with your partner becomes unbreakable. The fear, doubt, joy, and shared battles shape memories that last a lifetime. Eline was fully present, radiating calm and strength that grounded me.

And then, the magic of climbing happens. Around 12:30, I set off for a fourth attempt. The tip of my finger bleeds every time I place it on a hold, not a cloud in the sky, the sun beating down and making the holds even less grippy. But I feel confident. Squeeze, move, stay calm, breathe. My focus is at its peak, fixed on every grip, every foot placement, moving from hold to hold toward the top of the pitch. I’m in my bubble; all I hear are Eline’s encouragements and her energy carrying me upward. I no longer feel the pain in my skin, nor fear, nor fatigue. I shake out my pumped arms whenever I can, taking deep breaths to steady my racing heartbeat while visualizing the moves ahead. I make it through both cruxes. My arms are screaming, my fingers are splitting open under the strain, and I feel my hand slipping again on the same second‑to‑last hold. But my mind takes over. A small voice deep inside urges me to hang on a few moments longer, to stay clear‑headed, and this time to replace my foot properly. My heart is pounding, but my body keeps executing the movements driven by sheer will, balancing on an ever more fragile edge. I edge closer to the impossible. And then I reach the top. I clip the anchor of the 8b+.

The euphoria faded quickly, replaced by total exhaustion. It was 1 pm, and we still had 5 demanding pitches to go. Each one serious, runout, and far from trivial. Every pitch was a fight.

Every pitch is a fierce battle, the goal inching closer only meter by meter. And finally, around 6 p.m., I reach the summit and share a moment of pure happiness with Eline. All that’s left is the long descent… At 9:50 p.m., back at the parking lot, we are exhausted — but so incredibly happy about this unforgettable day we’ve lived through together.

Finding strength and solutions when everything feels impossible — that’s the victory I cherish most. The real success was taking on a huge challenge and building a powerful partnership along the way. Seeing Eline fall short of her own goal hurt, because I know that frustration well. But she never once stopped supporting me. She showed immense physical and mental strength every moment. The climbing world often celebrates only the final send — but Eline deserves just as much recognition. Nothing is black‑and‑white in this sport. Without her, none of this would have been possible.