They say first impressions last longest, so you want them to be good. I can promise that Swedish granite does not disappoint: it’s bullet, frictiony, and has killer cracks. Here at Bohuslän, the stone’s been scoured by eons of hard weather coming off the nearby North Atlantic. Meanwhile, the lack of traffic (the Swedish climbing association claims some 6,000 members, but how many are solely gym rats is anyone’s guess) has kept the stone free of boot polish, chalk, and human grease.

By Swedish standards (Swedish cragging dates back to the 1930s), Bohuslän is fairly young, with the earliest recorded route going up at the popular Häller in 1975. Development has since come fast and furious, and Bohuslän now boasts 1,500 climbs, from 5.5 all the way to Kärlek, an unrepeated 5.13d, at Buråsen. Hundreds of batholiths dot the landscape, sporting anywhere from five to 25 routes each.

In Bohuslän, nearly all the crags are on private land, with access generally gained by asking permission, as we do at Hallinden. The first route we try is Prisemaster, a 200-foot Swedish 6, or easy 5.10. Rob, who routinely onsights 5.12 trad, takes 20 minutes to clamber up the first 50 feet, constantly looking down and nervously telling me to “watch” him. It’s no wonder — his last outing on granite resulted in that broken back, though my heckling and calling him “Gertrude” probably aren’t helping, either. After this brief period of acclimatization, we get down to business.

There’s a theme to Swedish trad: bold climbs, bolder climbers, and serious sandbags. The standout at Hallinden is Catch (7+, or 5.11d), a 200-foot seam up the dead-vertical northwest face. With sweet-looking fingerlocks, Catch seems like a good coda to our first day. Ten minutes and 75 feet later, Rob lowers from partway up the route.

I take a shot and soon find myself just above Rob’s high point, contemplating a thin crux of delicate crimps interspersed with laybacking on the crack’s fading lip. After fishing in four micronuts, I head up.
In keeping with our “supportive” relationship, Rob is quick to offer nuggetinos of encouragement: “Looking shaky up there . . . I’ll make sure to short-rope your next clip!” or, “Just remember that I couldn’t do it, so you don’t have a prayer.” Above me, Jonas’ camera whirs away. I dig deep to fire the first half of the crux and latch a key crimp — there’s only eight feet of delicate footwork to go before a rest. But I’m also insanely pumped, I can’t find any gear that fits, and I’m 20 feet out