“Fight Until Your Fingers Bleed”: Anna Hazelnutt Battles Up a Big Wall in Madagascar

IMatilda Söderlund and I didn’t come to Madagascar to climb Air Madagascar—but when do climbing trips ever go as planned?

In November 2024, in a sliding doors moment, Matilda Söderlund and I found ourselves at the very same taco shop in Vegas. She was on her way to Yosemite, and I was on my way to Mexico. Her accomplishments through the years have always inspired and motivated me. Like me, she’s very tall, and also like me, she excels at vert and slab climbing.

We couldn’t believe our chance encounter and took it as a sign from the universe to go on an adventure together. The chance to team up with one of my climbing heroes made me giddy with excitement. One thing led to another, and before long, we began dreaming up a trip to Madagascar.

Months of planning and preparation ensued; could we really make this happen? How would we support the trip, and what would we climb? Sasha Diguilian’s ascent of Mora Mora always inspired me, and after talking to Sasha and realizing she would also be in Madagascar, I felt the stars align yet again.

But it wasn’t entirely seamless: just two months before our trip, Matilda blew out her knee. While she was rehabilitating her injury, I began to build my capacity and strength on rock. At the time, I was struggling to recover from some burnout I was experiencing after an intense big wall objective in Mexico.

We would text each other updates: How is your knee? How is your training? The idea of climbing with a powerhouse like Matilda made me want to work incredibly hard in the months leading up to our adventure, kicking my burnout to the curb.

Then, it was early June, and we were driving down the bumpy dirt road in Madagascar, en route to Tsaranoro Valley. It would be days until we arrived at the remote location.

A change of plans

Seeing that the bolts on Mora Mora (5.14b; 700m), our original objective, were rusty to their core, we felt the gear was compromised. Unwilling to risk our safety, we switched to the relatively unknown multipitch, Air Madagascar (5.13d; 400m).

After hours of flipping through every guidebook at camp, trying to find any information that would help us climb this mystery route, Matilda discovered a single sketch of the line and a few notes: Air Madagascar was established by Dirk Uhlig and Jörg Andreas in 2010, and sits on the arête of Karambony wall. Rappel was possible with an 80-meter rope, and we would need 12 quickdraws. The rest was for us to discover.

Looking up at the intimidating arête of Air Madagascar, I wondered what challenges were in store for us. The initial five pitches follow an obvious seam up a massive rock feature that gently tilts away from the cliff. This pristine, slightly overhanging granite feature ends in a ledge about halfway up the wall. One giant, exposed step across a crevasse transitions the climb onto the larger cliff face, where the rock texture and style changes dramatically. The remaining pitches alternate between slab and arête climbing to the summit.

After factoring out travel days, we had just three weeks total in Tsaranoro. We reserved the last week for our push, which left only two weeks to project—and many of those days would be eaten up by rigging lines or resting. This meant we’d have to send each of the six 5.13 pitches in just a handful of tries.

What’s more, the pitches were uniquely runout. The first ascensionists had used removable bolts, leaving behind ghostly impressions in the rock—we’d climb past one, two, sometimes three empty bolt holes in a row before arriving at a clip. These vast stretches of difficult climbing became even scarier due to Tsaranoro’s inaccessible location. The nearest hospital was days away: the repercussions for even a small mistake or fall could be devastating. So we did the only thing we knew how to do: we got to work.

The mental crux

To our surprise, the pitches were nothing short of world-class. The movement was spectacular, the sequences tricky and demanding. We felt we had stumbled on an unknown gem. How had no one repeated this yet? Both Matilda and I were thrilled by the idea of tackling a line that was practically unknown.

As we projected, we discovered more about the history of Air Madagascar. In week two, we heard rumors that pitch two had an “impossible move.” Luckily, both Matilda and I were able to solve it—Matilda with her full wingspan and me with a terrible intermediate.

We also learned how Adam Ondra had tried the route as a warm-up for Tough Enough (5.14a; 400m)  in 2010 but couldn’t solve a section on pitch six, which was originally graded 5.13d. He and Arnoud Petit wished us luck, and I was simultaneously starstruck and overwhelmed by their responses; what would we do if Adam didn’t do it? Matilda and I—albeit mostly Matilda, myself coming to terms with its impossibility relatively quickly—spent several days trying to figure out a sequence, cutting into our precious projecting days for the remainder of the route. We both decided to free this pitch by straying off the original line, climbing the 5.12b arête on the neighboring route Rain Boto (5.12c; 400m) instead.

Our quiet days on the wall encouraged me to reflect quite a bit. I looked out at the most stunning view I’d ever witnessed; rolling sun-kissed hills in hues of red and gold, fading into what felt like an endless desert. Although I was 200 meters up and 11,000 miles away from my home in California, I felt oddly at ease. I imagined how small I must look from the ground, just a speck in the sea of rock.

Our climbing goals, however salient and beautiful in our own lives, were suddenly put into perspective. I found myself beyond grateful to be living this life: to seek the discomfort and intensity of a big wall objective where many people don’t get to choose their hardships. This was especially prevalent while traveling through Madagascar, where so many don’t have access to clean water, reliable food, safe roads, or education. I had chosen to be here; I had the opportunity—the privilege—to meet discomfort and uncertainty on my own terms.

And there was plenty of discomfort and uncertainty to work through. I’d find myself in tears because I couldn’t imagine being able to send any of the pitches on time, safely. Just sending a single 5.13+ in a few goes would be a huge accomplishment for me. And here I was, needing to send this grade quickly, multiple times, with big runouts, and under time pressure. I was boggled by the enormity of our goal.

One day, when doubts crept in as they so often did, Matilda gave me some grounding advice: Stay curious. 

I loved that. It captured the creativity of climbing, the way it can feel like a dance. It urged me to let go of the pressure to send or the fear of falling, and simply focus on the puzzle at hand. She also reminded me to avoid big-picture thinking. One step at a time. 

With this, I started to focus on the smaller moments— bolt by bolt, route by route, day by day—and mentally prepared to unleash my strongest self when it came time for the push.

The day before we set off, I felt a real shift. For the first time, I was excited rather than overwhelmed. I had escaped the trap of climbing’s binary definition of success, defined by a send.

I understood now that trying my absolute best would be enough. That would be a success.

Starting up

On day one of our push, I watched from the belay as Matilda moved fluidly up the first few pitches. She was trying hard, but she was in control. I was already surpassing my expectations, reaching each set of anchors with wavering legs and bleeding fingers, yet no falls.

Then came our first roadblock. On my lead of pitch three, I broke a key hold, failing to send the pitch clean. Following my attempt, Matilda heartbreakingly fell at the very last move of the climb. The sun was quickly dropping behind the mountain, so we called it a day and set up camp. After talking through our options, we decided the best strategy was to push for the summit first and return to this pitch on the way down. With many hard climbs still ahead, we needed to conserve our energy wisely.

The second day of our push was actually my birthday. To my own shock, I sent pitch four, the 5.13b I’d only tried twice before. Next was pitch five, a terribly runout and scary 5.13a that ascended the arête. On this section, the bolts were spaced four to five meters apart, weaving back and forth between the two rock faces along the spine. I had to step and grab lightly to avoid breaking holds, and fight hard to keep my body from barn-dooring off the delicate foot smears.

Reaching the chains came with a rush of emotions: pride that I sent despite my fear and exhaustion, relief at finally being safe, and excitement knowing the hardest climbing was mostly behind us. Tears rolled down my cheeks; what a wonderful birthday gift to arrive at the ledge, where we would basecamp for the upcoming days. I slept so well that night.

The final push

On day three, we reached pitch nine, the final 5.13c. It was a perfect slabby dish, with delicate, flexible movements across a streak of jet black rock. The sun was setting, scattering embers of zinnia orange and pink around us. Impressively, Matilda had just sent. Watching her power through the last hard sequence was inspiring, to say the least. I felt so much joy for my climbing partner, but the reality had settled in for me: I had fallen off the crux on my first attempt, and looking down at my trembling hands, I worried I was at the end of my limits. Physically, my fingertips were torn open, my body shaking from exhaustion. Mentally, I was close to breaking after leading a terrifying 40 meter 5.12b with a whopping 5 bolts in extreme winds.

Steadily growing throughout the push was this secret hope that just maybe, we could send this together. I suddenly felt foolish: I had tried this pitch once before in the projecting process, but couldn’t successfully link the crux moves. I didn’t even climb the second half of the pitch. But then again, I was seconding this pitch rather than leading, which made it feel far less intimidating. And I had been surprising myself send after send; who’s to say I couldn’t keep this trend up? Knowing I wouldn’t have another shot—we simply didn’t have time—I decided to stay curious and dig deep.

So I fought. I let out a scream so loud my fingers had no choice but to grip harder. Somehow I linked the crux for the very first time, mantled around the lip, and even though my legs wanted nothing more than to give up… I stood up tall.

This took so much out of me that I began to cry, in total disbelief I had done the hardest moves without falling. Teetering on two tiny little crystals, I wiped tears from my eyes.

Was it possible my fingers were still holding on? I stared at them with confusion. Sure enough, there they were, latched onto the crystals with no intention of releasing.

I took some moments to recenter myself, calming my breathing which had heightened to a roar. Then, as my heartbeat slowed, I carefully made my way through the delicate slab knobs. The climb was by no means over. I would pause after each movement, refusing to move again until I was absolutely certain I could make the next hold. I would not allow myself to fall, not here, not now. And then, as if time sped up to balance those suspended moments, the chains were in front of me.

I barely had time to process: it was now almost completely dark, so we moved quickly up the final two pitches to the summit. I was still shaking as we topped out the massive cliff, only understanding we had achieved our goal when Matilda pulled me in for a hug.

We celebrated as music from the nearby village echoed off the wall. It was a surreal moment as our favorite song from the trip, “Calm Down” serendipitously boomed across the landscape. We belted alongside Selena Gomez as we began our rappel. The horizon dimmed into a deep indigo, our silhouettes dancing down the headwall.

The darkness came quickly that evening, and sleep greeted us as we lowered to the ledge: we would spend one more night here, in the vastness of the cliffside. One more night in our own world, separate from the reality that awaited us below.

The next morning, we revisited pitch three: the climb that got away. With the missing crux holds, we speculated the pitch was substantially harder than it had once been. Although I gave it my best effort, I simply could not put it together. Nevertheless, I felt I found success in this moment, knowing I gave the route everything I had and more.

Then it was Matilda’s turn. She took a few deep breaths, exhausted from multiple days on the wall and subsequent nights of terrible sleep. A little shaky, she moved cautiously through the new crux, now an entirely new sequence that harshly darted around the bolt line, and inched her way up the climb. I held my breath. She could do this, I knew she would, she just had to dig deep.

After one final push to a blocked slot, she was there. We were delirious with excitement: her send had completed our adventure. We had achieved a continuous team free ascent, and the first known repeat, of Air Madagascar (5.12b variation).

The post “Fight Until Your Fingers Bleed”: Anna Hazelnutt Battles Up a Big Wall in Madagascar appeared first on Climbing.