Re-aquaintance

Lochan Meall an t'-Suidhe, known to most as the Halfway Lochan on Ben Nevis. (Phot: Mike Marshall)

In the summer of 2002, in the adolescent twilight between A-Levels ending and university beginning, four friends and I travelled north from the West Country and walked the West Highland and Great Glen Ways from Glasgow to Inverness. We stayed in Fort William for a halfway break and on my 18th birthday made the pilgimage to the top of Ben Nevis. Those three weeks were the first time that I was really unleashed on the Scottish hills and a spell was cast over me that's still working it's magic today. Before long I took up residence as a student in Edinburgh and started making attempts to break out and walk in the hills on weekends: train journeys to Bridge of Orchy, drives to the Cairngorms. As my confidence grew, the thrill of rocky scrambling and winter walking began to appeal as ways to reach bigger and better personal peaks. Then, one day I had a go at the next logical step, rock climbing, and everything changed. I joined Edinburgh Uni Mountaineering Club, blew my loan on mountains of shiny hardware, and spent evenings falling off lumps of plastic at the indoor wall. All of a sudden weekends were taken up charging round the Highlands looking for dry crags and walking was demoted to a simple means of access, rather than an activity in it's own right. The poor walking boots never stood a chance and but for the odd foray have been gathering dust for the last five years.

So it was a really refreshing change to put the boots back on and to enjoy a day's walking this weekend. I had invited my Dad and brother up from Somerset and Glasgow respectively to take them up Ben Nevis. Neither of them are really outdoorsy types and havn't spent much time in the hills, so this was a chance to show off Scotlands jewels. Wanting to give a good impression we went up via Carn Mor Dearg and CMD Arete, only having to jostle with the crowds on the tourist path on the first half of the descent. It's a really nice route up the Ben, with stunning views of the mighty north face, a bit of air beneath you on the exposed CMD Arete, two Munros for the price of one, a decent amount honest slogging to earn the evening's beers and hardly anyone else around. All went to plan, and Mike and Dad bagged the Ben with ease and were all smiles, despite the clouds hiding the view for much of the day. Maybe the mighty Ben will have cast it's spell on two more unsuspecting people....

Mike, me and Dad, happy trekkers on the Ben (Photo: Jon Marshall)
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Firestone Sessions: #3

Managed a quick run on Sunday evening to see how things were shaping up on the slab. Personal best of 50 minutes from car to crag, but think this could be trimmed down substantially.

Run-in tunes: Son of Red Mixtape by Stevious.

Good news: The top snow patch and almost all of the bottom one has disappeared. Bad news: The route is dry; no more excuses. Except, this one: as soon as I got on the route it started to rain. Using my GCSE physics I deduced:

holdless granite slab + water = low friction

Abbed the line to check the cam slot: it takes a Wild Country Zero 4. Going to have to weigh up the psycological advantage of knowing I've got some gear to go for, even if I've done all the hard climbing by then, against the faff of trailing a redundant rope for the very thin first 12 metres. However, there's a long way to go before I need to worry about that.....

Run-out tunes: None, my ipod battery is crap.

Not Amused

Saturday was free and I was looking forward to some more lone slab warrior action on Firestone and another blue-sky day like this:


However, when I looked out of the window on Saturday morning I saw this:


Now, I don’t know much about the intricacies of global weather systems, but it’s June and this is just bloody rude. I spend weeks shoveling snow, crossing fingers, doing ritual dances and sticking pins in voodoo snow flakes to get rid of it from the project, and it starts falling out of the bloody sky again. Rude. Plain rude. What the hell am I supposed to blog about now?

Well, I’m afraid you don’t get to miss the dubious pleasure of the weekly Soft Rock sermon that easily, so instead I’ll find something else to witter on about.

Here are ten random thoughts rattling around my hollow skull:

1. The BBC have been bigging up poetry of late in their Poetry Season. Big thumbs up. Don’t worry boys, there are some manly poems in there too. Grrrr.

2. Just finished Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time. It’s very good, but I fear that books that take a few days to finish will be forgotten in roughly the same time. Just started Crime and Punishment to alleviate said fear.

3. Managed to keep the positive momentum up from the start of the rock climbing season and have managed a few routes I’ve wanted to do for ages: The Magic Crack, The Needle, Dracula, The Bug, Pete’s Wall, to name but a few. Smug.

Starting up the mammoth pitch of The Bug at Creag Mor Tollaidh

4. Have noticed that words in songs/poems/films etc. bear more relevance when you’re feeling a bit down in the dumps. Every cloud has a silver lining.

5. My Dad just got called up to play for the England Over 55’s men’s hockey team. Now that is one cool cat.

6. Still rinsing out Mumford and Son’s tunes at high volume, but they’ve been joined by Lisa Hannigan as well. Folkey dokey. At the other end of the spectrum, looking forward to Kissy Sell Out’s forthcoming album.

7. My indoor bouldering abilities seem inversely proportional to my success at on-sight trad climbing. A small price to pay.

8. Just back from a day’s climbing near Gairloch. Slowly coming round to Jones’ view that Slioch is the finest Scottish hill. Looked particularly doom-laden and menacing under swirling purple clouds as we drove past.

9. Starting a load of fieldwork for some black grouse habitat research at work tomorrow. Are my bryophyte ID skills up to the task? That's mosses for those not in the know.

10. Not fallen off a route yet this year. The clock is ticking.

The pilgrimage to Loch Avon and granite heaven

That snow better melt soon otherwise I’ll have to think of ten more things for next week.

Spitting Distance

My car is crap.

Maybe that's not fair.

Maybe what I mean is that my confidence in my car is crap.

I can just about cope with the daily routine of the commute to work, but much further than this and I'm convinced that something is going to blow up. It's had enough trips on the back of recovery lorries for me to think that every bump in the road, every whirr of the engine, every twitch of the steering wheel is a crucial part of the under-carriage dropping off or snapping or burning or breaking. Often I'm sure I can hear a hideous noise emenating from beneath the bonnet, only to find that it's the music on the radio. I reach my destination a nervous wreck, terrified I'll never make it home again.

Obviously, this is mildly irritating. However, looking on the bright side it does mean that I have to look for fun on my doorstep (or rely on other people with cars that work). If I lived in a city centre or in the flatlands of South East England I think I'd have shot myself long, long ago, but luckily I don't. Fortunately for me, within spitting distance of my front door (if you can spit about 15 miles) is one of the finest playgrounds known to man. I may have mentioned it once or twice. It's called the Cairngorms.

Wearing my tree-hugging hat (it's hand-knitted with a bobble), the Cairngorms are a unique area of high sub-arctic mountain tops and remnant Caledonian pine forests. Rare plants and bugs and birds and mammals abound in some of the only wilderness that we have left in these isles. Just being here is a privelage. Wearing my climbers hat (it's a beanie with the word 'gnarl' emblazened across the front), it's a haven of granite peaks and cliffs, slabs and cracks, turfy corners and icy gullies. A higher concentration and diversity of world class routes is hard to come by in the rest of Britain. Wearing my runners hat (it's probably made of lycra and makes me look like a dick) it's a vast array of forest paths and rocky singletrack, high mountain passes and endless rolling hills.

If you combine these factors, sprinkle in a smattering of blue skies and rub in a big serving of energy and effort, you might just find paradise.

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Firestone Sessions

#2

Friday: A run over the back confirmed that the snow is still steadily creeping away from the bottom and top of the slab. The melt-water from the upper snow patch is dribbling down the initial 12m section (the crux), but this should stop once the snow has all gone (not too long now). The top 12m is dry.

Saturday: Returned to the Loch Avon Basin and climbed a route on Hell's Lum with Colorado David. The 25 degree heat was doing wanders for the snow melt on the Lower Slab. More crag-swag: a sling and wiregate Krab on pitch 1 of The Devils Alternative and a nice new wire from the top pitch of The Magic Crack in Coire an t'Schneachda.

Sunday: Back to Firestone on my lonesome. Walk- in tunes on the ipod: Mumford and Sons - Love Your Ground EP and The Cave and the Open Sea EP; The Octopus Project - Hello, Avalanche; Lisa Hannigan - I Don't Know.

More digging from the top and bottom snow patches. I found a better anchor than previous and set up a top rope. Abbed the route and found a small cam slot protecting the top section, trouble is, you've done the hardest climbing by then. Worked the dry top section on the shunt. Pretty easy. Worked the dry line next to the wet lower section (it's not the route, but looks like a section of similar climbing: delicate, balancy friction). Delecatable. Took a while to learn how to trust non-holds but eventually managed to link the whole thing into the top of Firestone. Still a few metres of snow to go from the bottom which will add quite a lot of height to the crux. Awesome. I Imagine that working the route from the safety of a top-rope is going to feel 'fairly' easy, but doing it solo will be quite a different prospect. Soloed Hell Gates before dropping the shovel down the rundkluft (gap between snow patch and slab). It's going to remain there until the snow recedes. Arse.

Walk-out tunes: Kissy Sell Out - Are People Real Mix; Doug Stanhope - Deadbeat Hero.

Bring on the melt.

Project Update #1

Over the last few weeks I’ve been over the back of Cairngorm a few times to inspect the snow-melt progress on the Lower Slab. There’s still too much snow to get to work on the route, and it’s looking like Firestone is going to be the last snow-free line on the slab, but inspired by Dave Mac on Echo Wall this time last year I had a session with a shovel after work on Thursday and managed to make a tiny impression. In the four trips I’ve had over there so far I’ve noticed that the snow is disappearing fast, with a noticeable difference between Thursday’s digging session and Sunday’s view from The Needle on the Shelterstone, so it shouldn’t be too long before I can get on it. Fingers crossed for melting weather.

As for the housekeeping of working a route in a remote spot like this, I’m hoping to stash the kit I need nearby so I don’t have to carry everything back and forth every time I’m out. I’ll just set up a top-rope and work the moves on a shunt until I’m happy. I’ve sussed the gear required for the top-rope anchor, and will leave it in-situ for the summer (unless some cheeky bastard nicks it.) As for the climbing, I abbed down the line and think that if I can do the first half, I should be able to do the second, and I’m happy to confirm that the guidebook description is correct; holdless and protectionless. The more the snow recedes to reveal the bottom half, the more I wander how the hell Jules got up it, but I’m getting stoked about working at it and piecing together the puzzle.

The Lower Slab last June after I had just climbed Pluto, another of Jules' devious slabby delights. Firestone is out of shot on the right.

Finally, it’s a good time of year to go hunting for crag-swag. As the snow disappears the shiny things that people threw off the crags over the winter are ripe for discovery, and so far in my Firestone sessions I’ve not been disappointed. At present the count is: 1 screw-gate krab, 1 HMS krab, 1 snap-link krab, one skinny extender, 4 wires, 1 ice-screw, 1 belay device, 1 big sling and 1 pair of very nice and almost new Black Diamond gloves. So if you know anyone who dropped gear off Hells Lum this winter, unlucky! No, really, if you do, get in touch.

Statement of Intent

For quite some time now I’ve had this fantasy. It lurks at the back of my mind. When I’m lying awake at night, wrestling with thoughts and memories and hopes and fears, it creeps from the shadows and pushes it’s way into my consciousness. It’s a project. A challenge. A goal. In order to keep my head above the rising tide I’m in need of something to keep me occupied. And I’ve found it.

Back in the long hot summer of 1995 a young chap called Jules Lines was working at the Landmark Centre in Carrbridge. A keen climber, Jules had spent years cutting his teeth all over the crags of Britain, and had emerged as a leading light in the devious arts of hard slab climbing. For those not in the know, in rock climbing terms, a slab is a wall that is less than vertical, so the challenge comes not from being able to hold on, but from being able to trust the friction of your shoes and to balance your way up on tiny edges.

Slab climbing heaven: trusting the subtleties of friction between coarse granite crystals and modern rubber soled rock shoes. This is me on Hammer, Etive Slabs. (Photo: Steve Crawford)

After work each night, Jules would head up to Cairngorm, cross the plateau, and drop down into the mighty cauldron of the Loch Avon Basin, home to acres of blank granite slabs. And here, like a kid in a sweet shop, Jules set about filling in the blank sections of the crags under the cloudless skies. Among the many routes Jules climbed that summer, the hardest was on the Lower Slab below Hell’s Lum. At E7 6b, Firestone was created; a direct line up the blankest part of the slab. The description in the SMC Cairngorms guide says it all:

“A slab climbing test piece at the right end of the Lower Slab. Climb the obvious pink water worn streak directly up the dark but notably smooth section of the slab. Holdless and protectionless.”

And I’m going to climb it.

So, why on Earth have I decided that this is a good idea? Well, It’s pretty simple really. First and foremost, the Loch Avon Basin is one of the most beautiful places on this planet, so I’ll use any excuse to spend time there (it’s actually part of the RSPB reserve I work on, so I could claim to be doing ‘work’). Secondly, I’ll gladly confess that I love slab climbing (this is a much misunderstood and maligned climbing style). Thirdly, at E7 it’s clearly sick hard and a tad on the dangerous side, so I have no bones about working the route to death from the safety of a top rope before deciding if I want to lead it (if you’re a staunch ground-up, on-sight climber, you’re more than welcome to come and get the first on-sight ascent, otherwise, no complaining please). Fourthly, I’m in need of a long term climbing project; something to keep me busy; something really hard that I’m going to have to fight and stress and worry to attain.

The playground

I’m hoping that as the summer begins and the snow starts to clear from the hills I’ll be able to spend the long evenings and weekends working on the route, so I’ll be updating Soft Rock with my progress and thoughts on the gargantuan challenge that I’ve set myself.

Fasten your seatbelts, it could be a bumpy ride……

A Dog's Life

King of the Castle: Harry Hammond

Life is pretty simple really. Do what you love as much as you can, struggle through the rest. Young Harry here is a pretty good role model for this way of life. Eat, sleep, exercise, repeat. He’s been a steady companion ever since moving across to Aviemore. Whether it’s been trotting at my heels when out running, protecting my lunch at the base of the crag or snoozing by the fire after a day in the hills; always the same wag of the tail, the same lolling pink tongue; he’s a happy little camper.

As I write, he’s passed out on his bed. He’s been out on two runs tonight, once with me on the Burnside circuit, once with Steve up to Coire an’t Schneachda. He’ll probably get up in a bit, have a bit of a stretch, go outside for a piss, scratch himself, have some food, then go back to sleep. I’m not sure about you, but that sounds like a bloody good evening to me. Simplicity; is it the route to contentment?

Jules Lines showing off his hidden boulder at Pityulish.

Not long after wandering if he could climb Font 6a, Stevie Hammond ticks The Dude (Font 7a) at Ruthven.

Despite the recent moisture in the Highlands, I managed to maintian my Weekend Warrior status with a couple more days on the rock. Blair, Jenny and I spent Saturday at Dunkeld in Perthshire, sheltering on and under Upper Cave Crag. I just about managed to contort myself up Coffin Corner before the precipitation set in, then spent the rest of the day getting a work out on the perma-dry sport routes. I was very inspired by Hamish Ted’s Excellent Adventure, which weighs in at an honest 7b+. Long, steep and sustained, it’s the perfect route for a trad climber to train for, and I know that if I’m one day fit enough to lead it cleanly I’ll be fit enough to get on most of the routes that inspire me in Scotland. So, I’d better get training.

Talking of training, I think the long evenings down the wall this winter are starting to pay off. A few weeks ago I was chatting to some fellow climbers in the pub and they asked what my aim for this rock climbing season was. My reply was to onsight (cleanly climb with no prior knowledge of the route) a route graded E3. Well, I’d better have a re-think, because we’re only a month or two into the Highland rock season and I’ve already achieved my aim. On Sunday I just about managed to onsight Dracula, a famous E3 at the lochside Duntelchaig crag, South of Inverness. As the wee video below testifies, it was a pretty desperate affair. Pumped, eyes on stalks, I swore and grunted as my feet skated off and I cut loose and slapped my way to the final holds. But, it was simple: I got from the bottom to the top, and for that moment, when I was sat safely at the top, as the adrenaline began to subside and my heart rate began to settle, I felt content.

Fighting on Dracula. It's steeper than it looks!

Off subject a little, but still within the realms of contentment and simplicity, I stumbled across a beautiful show on Radio 1 a few weeks back. Rob da Bank and Friends were having a campfire special, showcasing a load of contemporary British folk artists. The first band on, Mumford and Sons, really took me by surprise, and I instantly downloaded all their EPs and have had them on repeat ever since. Get your ears round them and see what you think.

(T)raining

A Rainbow at Ruthven (Pic: Chris Edwards)

"So foul and fair a day I have not seen,"

So said Shakespeare through Macbeth, and so say I through my Gore-tex.

Despite the unfurling of the new season's leaf, the ululations of the cuckoo and the first clumsy steps of the lamb, the weather-watching and rain-dodging is back in effect. Like a rainy playtime at primary school we’ve been sent back inside to make-do with books and building blocks. Big plans have been hung back on the coat hook and we’re left to stare through the windows as our dreams wash away for another weekend. We got snowed off Ardverikie Wall on Binien Shaus, and even the perma-dry Heather Hat in Glen Nevis was dripping. There’ll be four horsemen on the horizon soon.

In the mean time, while we all wait for a colossal high pressure to return and sit unmoved over the Highlands, I’ve been forced back to the little stones and the pretend stones. Ruthven, Cummingston, Duntelchaig, Extreme Dream, they trip off the tongue.

Chris flashing Outstanding at the Ruthven Boulder (Pic: Chris Edwards)

Me on Sloping Off at Ruthven (Pic: Chris Edwards)

At the wall the other night Pete Hill asked if he could take some snaps of me while I worked on numerous heinous problems. Even I'm scared of me now. (Pics: Pete Hill)

Meanwhile, only my dreams keep me sane. Dreams of long evenings and the sun setting over the sea. Dreams of sitting at the top of a rock, heart racing, hands shaking. Dreams of laughing. Dreams of crying. Dreams of the ammonia-stench of sea cliffs and the ever-present dry mouth of fear. Of beckoning waves and the promise of silence beneath them. Dreams of uncertainty. Of strength of will versus strength of fingers. Dreams of standing still and watching hills and lochs march on forever. Dreams of hopping, skipping, bounding, over bogs and burns and boulders. Dreams of yesterday and dreams of tomorrow. Of always and never.

Dreams of summer