A Thousand Words....

48 hours after saying a teary goodbye to Jones in Fort Dauphin, three flights, four Imodium, 6000 miles; I'm almost home, but not yet. I'm stopping at my folks down in Somerset for a few hours before I catch one final flight back to Scotland tonight.

Only a couple of hours off the plane and I was keen to see if my diarrhea-enforced fighting weight would pay dividends, so I hot-footed it to Cheddar for an hour of sleep-starved bouldering. Except for remembering that soloing polished limestone next to a busy road is truly terrifying, I learnt nothing.

Anyhoo, as promised, some photos from the land of Miss Sarah Jones: Ladies and Gentlemen I present Madagascar.

Letter from Madagascar

As short holidays go, a two week trip to Madagascar is pretty ambitious, especially in the midst of some of the worst political unrest for years, but these are the only two weeks that I’ll get to see Jones for at least six months, so here I am. Seeing the work that she’s involved in with ONG Azafady has been really inspiring, and the whole lifestyle and location is truly enviable.

Picture a lush narrow coastal plain bordered with white beaches and azure seas, backed by rolling verdant hills and grey granite cliffs. Top it off with a remorseless sun beating from a clear blue sky and you might be getting close. The town of Fort Dauphin is an intricate maze of narrow paths and dirt streets pushing onto a crenulated coastline of sandy bays and rocky headlands. Scraggy stilt-legged chickens strut the streets with dirty dogs and grinning children. Round every corner a different stereo pumps out a different afro-dancehall classic at high volume and you have to pinch yourself to remind you that this isn’t a festival, its everyday life. Everywhere you look there are people; people standing, people sitting, people chatting, people laughing. Selling, buying, building, cooking, dancing, playing, watching. It’s a very foreign thing for the Brit-abroad, seeing so many people just taking the time to enjoy the world going by. And everyone is so happy. That’s foreign. Back in Britain, we’re so used to seeing Africa portrayed as a war-torn, disease crippled land that I’m almost surprised not to see starving bodies littering the pavements. Sure, times are hard here, but that’s not getting anyone down. I guess it’s that age-old truth, money doesn’t buy happiness; a simple existence, lived in harmony with nature and the seasons, the ebbs and flows of harvests and the mercy of the weather brings much more fulfilment. It’s something that many in Britain have been trying to say for a long time, and a notion I’ve always subscribed to, but living it isn’t so simple.

In town there’s a big extended family of Vazahas (white folk) and Malagasy that are involved with the running of Azafady’s many impressive projects, so Jones has slotted right into the party. I have to say, I’ve been so impressed by how welcome they’ve all made me feel, and I’m nothing to do with anything. The volunteers that come out to work for ten week stints must never want to leave!

So, what is ONG Azafady? It’s a British-based charity that works in the villages and communities around Fort Dauphin in the south east of Madagascar. It’s probably easier to ask what they don’t do, rather than what the do, because they’ve got a lot going on. I guess the main thing is what we might call rural development in the UK, so that’s everything from environmental work to education to nutrition to health and hygiene, and everything in between. And of course, all this stuff is linked, and it’s about trying to get communities to work for themselves to sustain their own livelihoods, rather than constantly relying on others for help. Basic GCSE geography really, but it’s somewhat easier said than done. Jones co-ordinates the Pioneer scheme, a ten week placement where volunteers come out to work on Azafady projects, be it tree planting, teaching kids how to wash their hands or building a school. Ten very intense weeks, but clearly very rewarding.

And Jones, well, it’s just great to see her. Especially now that she’s in her element, doing something that means so much to her and somewhere that makes her so happy. Unfortunately for me it just so happens that this somewhere is a tropical paradise on the other side of the world. But hell, who ever said life was easy?

Photos to follow when bandwidth allows........

Ice is Nice

Surreal spindrift hovers above the Cairngorm plateau with a
distinctly spring-like Carn Etchecan beyond.

Mrs James, my GCSE English teacher, didn’t allow anyone in our class to use the word ‘nice’. She claimed that it was a soulless, convenient word, the ready-salted of positive adjectives, and had no place in the rich sphere of literature. That’s fair enough. Fortunately for me, this isn’t my GCSE English coursework, and I’m not analyzing Roddy Doyle’s Paddy Clark Ha Ha Ha! (incidentally, a highly recommended read). My last few forays into the world of winter climbing have been nice. There. I said it. Not amazing, not life changing, nice.

The weather has been particularly cruel to us weekend warriors the last few weeks. To start with, that rare Scottish event; too much snow, occurred. Aviemore was a good few feet under, so I decided to have my token annual attempt to learn how to ski. It wasn’t particularly exciting. I still can’t really do it, and I still can’t see the attraction of spending a small fortune to share the same hillside with hundreds of other folk. Horses for courses I guess. During the week with loads of snow (when I was working), international playboy Sam Loveday returned from a cultural tour of Italy in time to climb 5 classic routes in 7 days, starting with Eagle Ridge on Lochnagar with me and finishing with the much coveted Nuis Chimney on Arran, proving that flexibility is key to success in this peculiar game. If you ask nicely he might update his blog one day.

By the following weekend most of the snow had dribbled down the hill and it was about 3 degrees above freezing in the corries. Never the less, Chris came up from Matlock and we strolled into Coire an’t Schneachda to see what we could find. Sometimes it’s nice to go out with no expectation and to just climb the best looking line. So, while the hordes clamored and fought at the bottom of Patey’s Route, Aladdin’s Mirror Direct and Fingers Ridge, Chris and I had a thoroughly nice time on the most continuous bit of ice around, Broken Gully Direct (III 4). The lack of guidebook stars is a little cruel on this route, but it does say that with good ice it forms an excellent pitch, which it was. It’s much like a mini Comb Gully or Indicator Wall in style, with an icy groove leading to a large open snow field and the top. Most pleasant.

Chris following high on Broken Gully

Another week of almost continuous mild weather has seen even more snow lost from the hills. I decided to take my tools for a walk on Saturday morning, splashing (literally) through ankle deep melt-water and slush into Coire an’t Schneachda, under the positively summery crags (with a few teams making dubious ‘mixed’ ascents of thawing gullys), and up the Goat Track to the plateau. Remembering that Hell’s Lum holds ice well I dropped down into the Loch Avon Basin to see what was what. The icy smeer of Escalator (II*) on the right of the crag was still holding on in the warm temperatures so I picked my way up this, avoiding a few thin sections, and managing not to get drenched whenever water squirted out of my pick placements. Nice! Having left the car just after 09.00 I was back by 12.30 and drinking coffee at home by 13.00. Convenience cragging in the Loch Avon Basin, it’s just a shame that it’s all melting.

What a difference a week makes:

Looking up at the groove of Broken Gully Direct last Sunday (top) and this Saturday (bottom)

Flat Lemonade

Sundays objective: Eagle Ridge on Lochnagar (in warmer times)

A rap on my window wakes me on Sunday morning. My watch says its just gone six. A light glares into my bleary eyes and I open the car door, letting in a blast of icy air. It's Sam. He's had enough sleep luxuriously sprawled in the back of his big Volvo and has itchy fingers to get up the hill. Squished into the back of my Skoda I don't feel quite as refreshed, but hey-ho, mustn't grumble. Some hastily swigged flat lemonade and an eccles cake later and we're ready for the off and start the stomp into Lochnagar.

The low-friction path is testimony to the recent thaw and re-freeze, boding well for the climbing. As we get higher, finally reaching the col below Meikle Pap, we worry that the fickle conditions might have gone too far, with every protruding rock covered in a thin film of verglas. The mountain keeps us guessing all the way in, the majestic sweep of buttresses and gullies hidden in thick fog. We reach the traditional gearing-up spot of the first aid box and don our war paint and weapons. Last time I was here with Sam was 2006 and he had managed to freeze 'little Sam' on the walk in. He groaned, he swore and he stuffed gloves down his pants, and slowly he thawed himself out, much to the amusement of the rest of us. Now, three years on, I feel that it's my balls that are about to be exposed, and I fear they may not be big enough for the task.

We find the bottom of Eagle Ridge in the mirk of the cloud, the initial groove filled with useable consolidated snow. As soon as we see this we know it's on. No excuses. Man up. As is often the way with these things, the hardest part is deciding to go for it in the first place. Once you've made the choice half the battle is over. It's time to strap it on and get it done.

Sam about to squeeze into the Sentry Box at the top of the famous Tower pitch of Eagle Ridge, VI 6 ****

And so we did. Five hours and five pitches of tricky, exposed and thrilling climbing spat us out onto the plateau in a strengthening easterly. Relieved to have climbed my first VI 6, and for it to have been the uber-classic Eagle Ridge, I grin into the gale as Sam shakes my hand and we sort the gear. Wind thrown snow stings our cheeks as we stagger off into the swirling cloud. Back to the valley, back to warm dry clothes and soft trainers, back to my flat lemonade and eccles cakes.

The bleak monoculture moors of highland Aberdeenshire - aesthetic and ecological deserts.

Concentrate

I've just about managed to survive another weather beaten weekend here in the shadow of the Cairngorms.

Last Saturday Neil and I tried in vane to reach the top car park on Cairn Gorm but were repelled by roads closed due to wind damaged buildings. Go architects! Resistance training in 100mph gusts rapidly convinced us that getting into the corries, let alone climbing, was not on. Turns out the climbing wall was much warmer and friendlier anyway, so we went there.

This saturday I met the ever optomistic psyche machine Steve Fortune, a.k.a. Kiwi Steve, at the above mentioned car park (the roads were open, well done team). It was mild, blustery, and worst of all, raining. Given half a chance I would have sacked it and gone back to bed, but Steve being Steve, I dried my eyes, pulled up my hood and walked in to Coire an't Schneachda. As we gained height the rain became sleet and the sleet became snow, and before we knew it we were gearing up beneath a white Alladin's Buttress. On days when you're not sure if you're going to get a route in it's so easy to lose psyche on the walk in; the idea of doing battle starts to gets pushed to the back of your mind. It's a bit of a shock to the system when you eventually start up the first few metres of a route and realise "shit, this is actually happening, I'd better concentrate".

Kiwi Steve seconding round the big flake on pitch 1 of The Genie

And this is how I found myself, running the first two pitches of The Genie (V,7***) together, as wind-driven snow swirled across the crag and the clouds repeatedly opened and closed, teasing us with views of Loch Morlich and Aviemore beyond. All was going well, I'd managed to keep things together on the first tricky section and had somehow clawed my way up the cracked slab and round the big flake. Just a thin slabby left-facing corner barred my way to the belay above. After a bit of snow-clearance I found good hooks and torques up the crack in the corner, clipped the in-situ runners and teetered up the slab, mono-points balancing on small dishes, moving my tools up one by one. Eventually the crack widened, giving up rattly hooks and tenuous torques and my left crampon started to skitter and skate off the rounded lump I was trying to paste it to. Then, my foot was off, I was off balance and pop, out came the tool and down I went. Balls. Next go I got above my previous high point and was just trying to mantle the slab above the corner, one knee on, one foot trying to smear on not a lot, one tool trying to torque and one tool hooking a flat edge. 'Oh, for some neve' I thaught as once again, pop, I was hurtling down the slab again. Abashed, I decided to belay where I was and let Steve dispatch the crux. Which he did, with expected aplomb.

Steve on the thin crux section

Steve then got busy with the top corner pitch, and in no time I was following up and leading through the easy ground to the top of the buttress. Job done, and a bloody good one too.

Steve enjoying the top corner

Welcome Back

New year, new fun and games. The post Hogmanay hangover depression has been banished and energy levels are high after two weeks of festive exuberance.

Steve finishing the crux corner of a very burried The Message

So, what has been happening in the world of Soft Rock? I hear you cry. Well, since last bloggage I’ve enjoyed traditional Scottish powder on The Message (IV 6***) in Coire an’t Schneachda with my landlord Steve, several short trips to very cold crags in Englandshire over the festive season, namely The Roaches, Baldstones, and Somerset’s jewel (ahem) Uphill Quarry, a fair bit of running, including a 6 mile circuit with my bro on Christmas Day (the beginnings of a fine tradition perchance?) and eventually saluted my return to the Highlands with a full day on Braeriach yesterday. The gaps between all this were filled with copious bouts of food and liquor consumption, dog petting, familial camaraderie, and oh, did I mention spending time with Jones?

Temperature inversion at the Roaches Skyline (Photo: S. Jones)

That’s right, Jones returned for three weeks from her saintly work in Madagascar (you can follow her adventures HERE) and we spent most of my two weeks off work together. When she was in Madagascar she kept saying how she missed the sensation of feeling cold, and couldn’t wait to come up to Aviemore and experience the Highland winter once again. Well, as we all know, the grass is always greener, and within minutes of stepping off the train she had had her fill of the cold. Sadly, it has remained pretty parky all over the country for quite a while, so the poor lass has been be-scarfed, be-hatted, be-gloved and be-everything elsed for weeks. Not long now until she ships off to top up the tan though. The plan is for me to go out to Madagascar to visit her in March, so I’m starting to make plans. Muchos excitement.

Anyway, you didn’t come here to read about domestic bliss. You want fear and loathing and gibbering miles above the last dodgy ice-screw. And so, back to yesterday on Braeriach. Sam, Konnie and I made the long (12 or so kilometers) trudge into the truly remote and beautiful Garbh Coire Mor via the Lairig Ghru at dark-o’clock yesterday morning under a clear sky and frosty ground, eventually getting to our chosen route, Vulcan (V 4***), a long, long time later. From below we beheld thinly iced grooves and stellar neve so decided to have a pop. Somehow, luckily for me, it was my lead, so I promptly began battling upwards, spurred on by a couple of rather poor tied off ice-screws and small wires teased into the side walls. Anyway, fortunately my lead went pretty smoothly, despite having to gird my loins a time or two.

Konnie entering Garbh Coire Mor, Braeriach.
Vulcan takes the central line in the buttress right of the obvious gully

From above my rather uncomfortable, and potentially psychological, belay I could see the sidewalls shy away to leave a steep groove capped by a cornice that appeared Patagonian in style. Oh, what larks. On his arrival at the belay Konnie slumped under the power some utterly heinous sounding hot-aches, coughing, wimpering and groaning into the snow, and all the time being ‘papped’ by Sam and his new video camera. So after several sessions of swearing by Konnie and laughing by Sam and I, Sam started up the final pitch. He made pretty steady work until the final five or so metres of the route, at which point the day took a decidedly dark tone. The sticky ice and neve that we had been enjoying seemed to run out and morph into almost vertical sugar powder. Axe placements no longer existed and the last joke runner was over five metres below Sam’s feet. He started to make noises. And not, happy, happy, joy, joy noises. More OH FUCK THIS IS SERIOUS I MIGHT BE ABOUT TO DIE noises, and at this point I started to look at the one (hopefully) solid anchor of my three anchor belay, and started to think OH FUCK THIS IS SERIOUS I MIGHT BE ABOUT TO DIE. The sickly grin I shared with Konnie told me he was in on the impending peril theme too. Even the weather seemed to join in, and a clear blue sky and glistening coire was replaced by swirling grey cloud as far as we could see.

Sam heading towards the cornice on pitch 2 of Vulcan

A wee bit later: Sam in Patagonian mode

Eventually Sam started caving, digging into the sugar-snow, burrowing into the cornice and slowly, slowly making upwards and inwards progress. The more he dug, the more the situation seemed to diffuse, until, with the inventive solution of burying sections of his walking poles as runners, he flopped over the top and disappeared from view onto the plateau. Thank fuck for that. Before long Konnie and I followed him into the mirk, shared the ‘we’re still here’ moment, and made the long, long way back down to the car.

Hello 2009, I’m alive.

Deep and Crisp and Even

I’m sure that this must have been written on internet forums, said in the pub and shouted throughout corries all over Scotland, but this has to be the best start to a winter season for a goodly while. I’ve only been climbing for five years, but this has been my most productive pre-xmas period so far, and I work 9-5, and I’ve still got at least one weekend to play with. In the run-up to previous Christmas’ the best I’ve managed is a single route, but this year I’ve already done 4.33. Let’s hope it remains this good.

Konnie and I in Narnia (Photo: S. Loveday)

Last Saturday was a real peach. The sun rose over a white West Highlands, with the dismal lodge-pole pine plantations of Leanachan Forest beneath Ben Nevis transformed into a wintry wonderland. I joined Edinburgh raiders Sam Loveday, Konnie, Kiwi Steve and Sam Hawkins in the Torlundy car park and we crunched and slithered our way through the deep fresh powder to beneath a very white Carn Dearg buttress under a cloudless sky. Sadly the freeze had arrived just after the snow, so soggy turf was insulated under the powder and the initial plan, Route 1 (VI, 6), was off the cards for Sam L, Konnie and me. So, after girding our loins for some serious wading we headed up to South Trident Buttress in Coire na Ciste and geared up beneath The Slab Climb (VI, 7). I have to admit, I’m still lacking experience in the world of mixed climbing at grade V and above, so I was glad that Sam and Konnie were around as shoulders to cry on if I needed them, despite Sam’s previous comment that “Konnie is about as handy as Abu Hamza”.

So, I lead the initial entry pitch to beneath the delectable 40m slab pitch, set up the best belay I could muster (a bulldog, a cam in an icy slot and a hammered axe, hmmm), and brought up the boys. Of course, after all the faff below Route 1, the wade up Coire na Ciste, and taking a while to make such a bombproof belay it was well after midday by the time Sam was starting the crux pitch. After a bit of very justified gibbering he eventually got some good runners into the verglassed cracks and started to make steady progress, all the time telling Konnie and I that he wasn’t going to do it and would come down in a minute.

Me on pitch 1 of The Slab Climb. I can assure you, this makes it look harder than it was, despite my best efforts otherwise. (Photo: S. Loveday)

A few hours later Sam was at the belay after a sterling lead and the sky was beginning to darken. Another pitch remained above this one, and there was no question that we would be climbing in the dark for some time, especially given the faff of climbing as a three. I’m not a huge fan of seconding, and the idea of seconding two pitches in the dark really didn’t appeal, so I decided to cut my losses and run away while I still could. There was enough rope left to abseil back onto the snow-slopes below the route, so I made my excuses and left Konnie and Sam to it.

Sam looking lean and mean on the main pitch of The Slab Climb. You can see Ian Parnell on the skyline on the first winter ascent of Devastation, a summer E1.

As I wandered back down the Ben to the car I was in quite a quandary. What was it that had made me want to run-away when the others had been happy to stick it out and get committed? Why had I turned-tail and bailed? It’s a funny one. Sometimes I’m up for the fight and the fun, and, after all, I was going to be seconding so nothing was going to happen to me. But at other times I’m not fussed. I guess I had had my lead (all 10 metres) and wasn’t really bothered by seconding in the darkness if I didn’t really need to. If we were five pitches up with two to go it would have been a different story, I guess. These thoughts chased themselves round and round in my head all the way to the car and all the way home. Still, I wasn’t that fussed; any blue sky day on Ben Nevis is a pleasure, summit or no, and the route looks brilliant, so I’ve got good reason to go back and seal the deal.

So, a week of shivering, cautious driving on icy roads, and weather watching passed and along came this weekend. Steve came up from Edinburgh on Friday night and we made plans for a trek into the Loch Avon basin in the Cairngorms to see what we could climb on Carn Etchecan or Shelterstone Crag on Saturday.

Shelterstone Crag at dawn, with Carn Etchecan beyond

Leaving the car at 6.00 meant there was still an hour and a half before the sun made its presence felt, and recent heavy snow dumps meant any signs of the path were buried. We ended up making a graceful arc into Coire an’t Schneachda, when a straight line would have done fine, but since we were breaking trail we were able to enjoy watching those following our footsteps going the wrong way too. The sun came up on another cloudless Saturday morning, creating that eerie light peculiar to mountains in winter when it seems that the hill itself is glowing. Sweating and puffing up the Goat Track, it was a delight to stop to draw breath and gaze at the thickly rimed crags under the fiery skies. After three hours of heavy going we made it to below the rearing tower of Shelterstone Crag, and decided that we had come far enough. Our initial plan of climbing a route on Carn Etchecan dissolved at the thought of even more trail breaking. It was Steve’s first route of the year, so perhaps not the best time to hop on something hard and long, so instead we hopped on something steady and long. Western Grooves (IV 5) provided the days sport, so after a quick game of Scissors, Paper, Stone, Steve led off up the initial snowy gully. Luckily, the roll of the dice meant that I got the two best pitches, both with nice moves into and out of deep chimneys on great hooks and bomber turf. The route meets with Clach Dhian Chimney towards the top of the crag, wondering up and right, and eventually we broke through a notch in the headwall after an atmospheric traverse in the dark.

Steve starting up pitch 1 of Western Grooves, which eventually climbs the chimney formed by the obvious v-notch on the skyline

Luckily, we were able to follow another team’s footsteps back across the plateau and down to the car, which saved much energy and time. Never the less, we were both pretty well done, and our initial plans to head out again on Sunday evaporated.

Steve finishing pitch 4 as it starts to get mirky

Western Grooves was my first route on Shelterstone, and despite being neither the hardest or best bit of climbing I’ve done, it was one of the best winter days I’ve had. The combination of a long day, a long route, perfect weather and the incredible beauty of the crags of the Loch Avon basin meant that whatever the climbing was like, it was merely a bonus.

Roll on next weekend….