Slipping Away

A Rowan Riot:

According to folklore, loads of berries in the autumn herald a harsh winter to come. Here's hoping.

It seems that August has come and gone just as fast as July did. The shortening of the days, the gaggles of uniformed kids waiting for the school bus, the stark red rowan berries, the first sign of condensing breath in the morning air; they all mean one thing: Autumn approaches. A time for showers and gales and piles of dead leaves; for coming in out of the wet and the cold and lighting the fire and drinking giant mugs of tea in your biggest, warmest wooly jumper; for feeling content with a summer well spent and the rising tide of excitement and expectation as winter’s first snows creep ever nearer.

For me, autumn means that the running season begins, as I try to ready myself for the Original Mountain Marathon in late October. Having done reasonably well in the A-class event in previous years, my regular running partner Duncan and I have decided to try the Elite class this year, which could prove a mistake. It seems to me that Elite running really is the preserve of proper hill-runners and orienteers, while I consider myself a lucky amateur who does a bit of running when climbing’s off the menu. Maybe if I take my training seriously this year we’ll at least finish the race.

On that note, where’s my lycra?

Shower dodgin' and bolt clippin': Strong Ewen cruising Inverarnie Schwarzeneggar (F7a) at The Camel

Guy Stephen (l) starting Inverarnie Schwarzeneggar and me on the amazing Stone of Destiny (F6c+).

(Photo: Blair Fyffe)

The Deep South

Me wrestling with the joke protection on the popular Back Off at Fairy Cave Quarry

Normally, trips home to the West Country are all about seeing my folks, enjoying the local Butcombe Bitter in traditional hostelries, eating deep fried pork fat and catching up with neglected friendships. While a certain amount of this has been partaken of, this time round I've actually got some climbing done too. Perfection, non?

Bouldering on the mighty (i.e. humbling) Saddle Tor on Dartmoor acted as an effective exfoliant for any excess skin I happened to possess, and despite only fully completing one problem in a whole morning, I drove home from The Moor feeling like a better (more bloodied) person.

Now, these days I climb quite a lot, and while I'm no-where near as good as I should be for someone that obsesses so much about this absurd sport, it's quite nice that I'm occasionally reassured that I'm not as bad as I used to be. A few weeks back I was bouldering on the Heather Hat in Glen Nevis, and was able to make relatively light work of some of the problems I used to sweat over. Progress. Fortunately, the same thing happened t'other day at one of Somerset's more esoteric bouldering locations (and that's saying something about esoterica). When I first started climbing I used to look at the roof of the cave at Weston Super-Mare's Toll Road Crags and think how great it would be if I could climb through it. Well, after no small amount of sweat on Thursday afternoon I found myself pulling on the finishing holds with a large grin on my face. Maybe all this obsession is paying off after all....

Here's the proof:

The next day I took a trip down climbing memory lane with Luke, the fella I learnt to climb with. Happy to explore more wondrous esoterica, we went to Fairy Cave Quarry tucked away high in the Mendip Hills, and climbed some of the obscure slabby gems hidden among the fast-emerging buddleia, before retiring to the pub and drinking more of Butcombe's finest. It's been a hard few days.

Back to Hell

It didn't take long.

I'd told myself that after doing Firestone I'd give the slabs a rest for a bit and climb some steeper rock. Bad weather and bruised feet kept me away from the hills for July, silencing the call of Cairngorm granite.

Time passed, my feet got better and the amount of sun started to eclipse the amount of rain. Then I heard from Jules, the undisputed king of Cairngorm slabs. "Yeah man, nice one on the Lower Slab. You should get yourself on some of those other routes on Hell's Lum, you'll love 'em".

A quick squizz in the guidebook reveals a few more of Jules' lines scattered around the slabby pillars and buttress' beneath Hell's Lum crag proper, so I head out for a recce.

Just being back in the cauldron of the Loch Avon Basin feels good. Strolling down Coire Domhain: the epic scene of rock, water and air. It's nice to be back. Standing beneath Firestone I trace the line and wonder what the hell possessed me to climb it. I gird my loins and solo Mars further left on the Lower Slab.

Back under the main crag I spy a route of Jules' called Devils Advocate. Perfect friction padding, and it even musters some protection. I'll return soon with a belayer.

To: Mark C

Yo, there's a route on hells lum i'm pretty psyched to try to onsight, would you be able to belay me one night this week? I'll owe you lots of drinks or belays or summat. Gaz

As ever, Mark's psyched so we meet up after work and crush the walk-in. Cool and dry, it's perfect for frictional endeavors. I'm feeling relaxed and ready, though I'm not sure why: this could end in another big ride.

Committing to the crux, nothing to do but climb.

On the crux, high enough to hurt, still a way before the gear arrives, it's time to convert brain function from hope to trust. Hands sweep the grey pink rock, hunting greedily for a weakness, a fingertip ripple for balance. Flashes of yellow crustose lichen dapple the way ahead, runway lanterns. Don't think, don't hope: know. There comes a point where I realise there's nothing for it, no other way, empty the mind and climb.

Later, higher, happier, I shake Mark's hand and we start to walk home, one route closer to knowing.

Mark finishing the crux; flashing the route on my gear.

A Matter of Style

From the outside, the sport of rock climbing looks pretty straight forward: you find a bit of rock and make your way to the top. What could be simpler? Well, what the casual observer doesn’t know is that it’s far from simple. Once you get sucked into this small, incestuous world you begin to realise that climbing is actually a hotbed of infighting, one-upmanship and ego, and for one reason: style.

Climbing is all about style (and, alas, I don’t mean trendy branded jeans or luminous lycra). By style I mean the way in which a climb is executed. Climbers, being self-obsessed pedants (me included) are keen to try to be the best they can be, and this means climbing in good style. Any old loser can get to the top of something in poor style, but it takes a good climber to climb the hardest routes in good style.

Getting to the top without falling off, placing all the protection on the way up, without prior knowledge, is the Brad Pitt of climbing style. Anything else comes lower down the scale, including working out the protection, watching someone else climb the route, pre-rehearsing the moves or falling off and trying again. Some would argue if the route is at a level of difficulty that makes the Brad Pitt style impossible then you shouldn’t bother with it, that by climbing in a poorer style you’re just reducing the route down to your level – beating it into submission. For me, though, trying the occasional route that’s miles above my current level is a great way to improve my Brad Pitt style climbing, and so long as it’s a route that I won’t one-day want to climb in better style, and that I’m not damaging the route for future climbers, everyone’s a winner.

"Hey! Look! It's Brad Pitt. Oh, wait. It's not."

Over the last few weeks I’ve done all four of the above-mentioned cardinal sins on the same route; I’ve worked out protection, watched someone else climb it, pre-rehearsed the moves and fallen off and tried again. In the end though, after a few failed attempts I managed to lead The Art of Course Climbing (E5 6a/b) at Farletter Crag on Wednesday night, and it was bloody great fun. It’s a short, very gently overhanging schist crag, and being steep and fingery is not a style of climbing I’d profess to excel at, so it was all good training for something….

Mid-flow on The Art of Course Climbing

High Five!

I Know What You Did Last Month

Where the hell did July go? At this rate I’m gonna to be up to my nose in mid-winter snow in the blink of an eye.

In the meantime, here’s a few snapshots of the people, places and things that July threw my way…

Murdo Jamieson on Death is a Gift (F8a?) at The Camel. I’d never been to this crag before and was very, very impressed by it's long pebble -pulling stamina pitches.

Blair Fyffe working the moves on a Glen Nevis deep water solo project before the send.

Mark Council making a headpoint ascent of The Art of Course Climbing (E5 6a) at Farletter. I finally took the plunge and visited Aviemore’s premier outdoor climbing gym last week. After linking The Art… on toprope I went for the lead and promptly lobbed off onto the twenty year old tied-off peg. It held. To be continued…

Another pleasing tick for the summer: me starting Ground Zero on Wave Buttress in Glen Nevis.

Blair contemplating and executing the onsight of The Singing Ringing Tree on Spreadeagle Buttress, Glen Nevis.

How have I lived in Scotland for seven years and never had a macaroni pie? As I soon found out, they’re a taste sensation, best enjoyed with a chilled can of Tenants after a good day’s climbing.

The Scene...

Blair Fyffe deep water soloing in Glen Nevis

I had a brief flashback to the halcyon days of Fort William living this weekend. Tempted west with the promise of sun-kissed schist and beer, it was great to be back in the old fold.

Down the years I’ve heard many legends of the infamous Fort William doss-houses – hovels where skint climbers would cram themselves and their wet and smelly kit for the few hours of the week that they weren’t on the hill or out on the piss. Weird and wonderful stories about bronchial infections from damp buildings, starting fights with Mallaig fishermen, trying to bed local lasses and hiding behind the sofa when their mothers come round to beat them up, and, not infrequently, climbing hard.

Those days have sadly/gladly passed, and it’s now an era of relative health and respectability in the Fort, but the climbing hard continues. The mantle of ‘Crucible of Psyche’ remains at my old residence, 55 Banff Crescent, and despite Tony ‘the savior of Scottish winter climbing’ Stone having now moved out, Blair and newest recruit Kev Shields are keeping the cranking level high, not to mention Dave Macleod stationed in his new training facility just out of town and numerous other strong folk kicking about the hills.

Most of these climbers are very modest and won’t blow their trumpets, and I know climbing hard isn't the be all and end all, but I think it’s worth noting that there’s a fair amount of gnarl going down in the Highlands at the moment. Kev has soloed his first E5 and E6 and is now on the trail of his first E7 (pretty good for someone missing a hand!), Blair made the second ascent (?) of Trojan’s Pillar (E6) on Ben Nevis with Iain Small the day after doing The Clearances (E4) in Glen Coe with Guy Robertson, and among other things, Dave has climbed Profit of Purism (E6), Firestone (E7), and Chiaroscuro (E7), not to mention three new E8s and an E9. Johan headpointed Jahu (E6), and Tony onsight soloed The Steeple (E2) after climbing The Spire (E4) on The Shelterstone with Blair (an easy day because he was ‘weak’ after a month in Alaska). Amongst these routes I’m sure there are loads that I don’t know about, and I find it really heartening to know that even in the quieter areas of the UK climbing scene there’s still a lot going on. Big up Fort Bill!

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So, this weekend I managed to drag myself up the brilliant Fang on Cavalry Crack Buttress in Glen Nevis, before we all decided it was far too hot for any more serious climbing and retired to the leafy shade of the River Nevis. Here Blair showed us the local's secret crags, hanging above a beautiful deep sun-dappled pool. The climbing was superb but no-one fell in, so we had to go for a swim afterwards. Life's a bitch.

Here's a short video of Blair cleaning and climbing this fine arete:

Temperance

The smackdown from fluffing my first lead on Firestone left me with a good limp and a fair amount of bruising on my feet. Even after a week of rest, ibuprofen, ice, arnica and deep heat they're quite sore (but definately improving, although a couple of bouldering sessions didn't help). Somewhat hopefully I made it to the Lakes and started the Saunders Lakeland Mountain Marathon on Saturday, but we decided to retire halfway through day 1. No event is worth causing further damage and an even longer lay-off. Sorry Chris!

Dave sent me a load of pics from last weekend's soiree at the Lower Slab. I hate to harp on about the route, but with a buggered foot I've not been up to much lately...

Here's a selection chronicling my ups and downs:

Attempt number 1: just before gravity got involved. (All photos: Dave Macleod)

Splat

The spoils of war - you lucky bastard!

Contemplating the inevitable

Attempt number 2: Back in the saddle

The security of the crescent flake

Thank fook for that