Emergence

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,

Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,

Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between

Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration

Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze

Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,

Faces of people streaming across my gaze.

And I, what fountain of fire am I among

This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed

About like a shadow buffeted in the throng

Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost.

The Enkindled Spring, by D.H. Lawrence

Yawning and stretching we blink into the bright light of a new season. As the glens slowly transform from winter’s brown to summer’s green and the icy whiteness recedes to the highest hill-tops, our thoughts start to turn. Eyes begin to look away from the snow, big boots and down jackets are put away, crampons and axes hung up. Winter is over, and with it the cold, the suffering, the early mornings. The spindrift and wetness, the heavy packs and hot-aches. The constant, endless, non-stop weather and conditions checking. Spring is here, and with it the excitement and expectation born of months spent pulling on plastic holds at the indoor wall. The rock-climbing season begins.

Steev beneath cotton-wool clouds on Handrail, Bowden Doors (All photos: S. Crawford)

In celebration I traveled south to old haunts. Fife’s Limekilns was the scene of the first routes of 2009, and they didn’t disappoint. Joining my old housemate and long-time climbing partner in crime Steev on Friday evening, we played on the sun-dappled limestone cubes beneath the closing canopy. Steev’s hardest onsight (all be it very soft-touch by his own admission) was a good start on Kiln Dance with Me (E1 5a*). I then flexed my muscles on Elgin's Crack (E2 5c***), one of the classics of the crag, and a pleasing first route of the year since it's as hard as anything I did last year. As the evening drew in Steev waltzed up DTs (VS 4c**) and I gave up before commiting to the bold (but supposedly soft) Grasp the Nettle (E3 5b*). Maybe when there's more light....

Seduced by Saturday's blue sky we hopped into the beast (my Skoda, which is still holding on) and made the pilgrimage to Bowden Doors in Northumberland. I was pretty chuffed to climb Stretcher Wall (E1 5c*), as it's not exactly my forte, and decided to carry my positive momentum forward and have a go at the classic sandbag The Overhanging Crack (E2 5c***). My lack of jamming expertise meant my attempt was short lived, but as Steve put it, I've made the first steps on the journey, so can take it from there.

Me on the easier top section of Stretcher Wall, Bowden Doors

Steve climbed the good little Handrail (VS 4c*) and had a good look at Canada Crack (HVS 5a***) before deciding to come back later in the season. Good mountaineering, as Mr 'Crazy' Chris Edwards might have it. In a similar theme to many previous Bowden trips, the 'next step' for me, i.e. the routes in the grades I'm approaching, are mainly soloes, and I'm still not going well enough to commit to them. I had a good look at both Klondyke Wall (E2 5c) and The Trial (E3 5c), but couldn't bring myself to make the long moves high above pads. But hey, it is only April...

Enjoying Childs Play in the evening sunshine.

The day wound down with a cheeky bit of bouldering. I managed Cave Left Hand (Font 6a+), which I've tried sporadically for about five years, so was pretty pleased, and then got all highball and fluttery on the superb Childs Play (Font 6b+/E1). So, lets hope the rock season builds from this positive start.

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.