To the hills...

After the amazing week out on the islands it feels like I've not been up to much lately, Work seems to have kicked off and I've been working some horribly long days, driving all over the place doing upland bird and habitat surveys. It's nice work and my hill-fitness is benefiting but I'm not too keen on work getting in the way of real life.

So, when not sweating up hills in search of our feathered friends I've had a few sessions up on the mighty Ruthven Boulder. I managed to climb The Dude, the twin to The Big Lebowski and although both get given the same grade it's defniately easier than it's sibling. Last time up I had a fight with The Razor's Edge and lost a large amount of skin to no avail. Hopefully soon I'll be back for another wrestle and maybe the tick.

On the other end of the scale I had a big day on Saturday on the Shelterstone with Chad. We warmed up on The Pin, although 'warm up' might not be the right term in it's current dirty state. Then we linked the first 3 pitches Steeple into the first pitch of The Spire into the last few pf The Needle. The original plan had been to climb The Spire but a combination of being very dehydrated after foolishly leaving all our water at the top of the crag, approaching drizzle, and the general hardness of the fist Spire pitch sent us scuttling up the Crack for Thin Fingers and the Needle Crack instead. By the time we emerged onto the plateau in the evening light the dehydration was in full effect. Tesco's blackcurrant and apple squash never tasted so good.

Chad starting up The Pin.

Chad on the first pitch of The Spire on our Shelterstone link-up.

I've found over the years that with the people I regularly climb with I'm often the stronger member of pair, and although this has some benefits it also means that I rarely get to follow harder pitches and to find out what to expect from them. It was good to finally climb with Chad because he's been climbing since I was a wee nipper and is fairly handy (he'll love reading this). Following that hard pitch on The Spire was pretty eye opening, and if I wasn't already, I'm pysched for the day when I can lead E4 in the mountains.

FiveTen Rubber + Granite = Joy

Pre-crux on Perestroika on the Glasnost Slab, Hell's Lum.

Finally! At long last enough snow has melted to allow the first Cairngorm route of the year. Jones and I took our kit for a walk last Sunday afternoon, in the hope that something might be do-able and came back succesful. Most of the crags are clear but there's still a fair bit of the horrible white stuff left at the bottoms of routes; Mess of Pottage still needs a bit of time before convenience evening cragging starts and most of Hell's Lum still needs a wee while.

It just goes to show how much snow we had this year because by this time last year I'd already had about 10 days up there. The amount of snow on Firestone on the lower slab is as high as it was when I first went over there in early May last year, and by this time it was clean and fall-off-able. Madness.

Anyhoo, the Glasnost Slab on Hells' Lum is in a weird-enough location to be snow-free below and seepage-free above so the balancy-friction account was opened with the esoteric Perestroika, direct up the beautiful red slab. After all the positive steepness of Pabbay and Mingulay it felt great to re-aquaint myself with the amazing marriage of Five-Ten rubber and Cairngorm granite, and the two didn't let me down. I'm back over there again tomorrow in search of classic ticks on the Shelterstone. Excited!

THAT view again.

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.

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.

___________________

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……

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….

The Rough with the Smooth

Part One: Sunday 16th November 2008

The seasons have seen sense and scoured the hills clean of any climbable snow, and with the convenient arrival of a two-day high pressure that coincided with the weekend, traditional November activities have ensued. Cold, dry weather makes for good rock friction, which is perfect for bouldering as you tend to use smaller and crapper holds than in regular climbing. They also lend themselves to bouldering over roped climbing because if it’s freezing you can just jump off and run around to keep warm – a luxury that ropes don’t afford.

This morning it was clear that the rock was going to be ‘as sticky as shit on a blanket’, (sadly not my own quote), so I packed my sandwiches and finger-tape, donned the obligatory t-shirt-over-thermal and beanie and jumped in the car. Though possibly seen as a lonely activity, I really like taking myself off for lone bouldering sessions, especially when it’s a blue sky day and the boulder is perched on a Highland hillside. Living in Fort William I was pretty spoilt to have Glen Nevis as my playground, but now, as an East Highlander, I’ve got the hotspots of Brin, Ruthven and Duntelchaig (almost) on my doorstep.

After getting a serious big-up from various guides and respected crankers I decided to navigate the lanes to Loch Ruthven RSPB Reserve (famed for its Slovenian Grebes in the spring and summer) and dragged my pad through the heather to the Ruthven Boulder. Psyche.

The hulking mass of Ruthven Boulder

Hours later, I dragged my weary body back to the car. I checked over my chalk-engrained, bloodied and calloused fingers while tearing off strips of finger-tape before turning the key in the ignition. I smiled all the way home.

Part Two: Monday 24th November 2008

It came back again, but this time colder, whiter and windier than a few weeks ago. Piled snow traces the roadsides and laden bows droop overhead. Like the slave that I am, as soon as the words “cold air” had escaped the lips of the forecaster I was thinking about snow crunching underfoot, ice tools hooking into cracks, and the ‘screaming barfies’ - that’s hot-aches to you and me. Despite two nights of heavy drinking at a conference, followed by next to no sleep, I managed to drag myself out of bed on both Saturday and Sunday and blunder through the unconsolidated powder and ankle snapping boulder fields of Coire an’t Schneachda in pursuit of more early season mixed climbing.

On Saturday Will, Alex and I climbed Pygmy Ridge, which I had done before but still found to be great fun. On Sunday Neil and I climbed The Seam, which proved to be worth the wait and, incredibly, Neil’s seventh route of the season so far. Even better, it’s his first season of winter climbing.

Alex on pitch one of Pygmy Ridge - my camera shutters weren't liking the cold

By Sunday night I was a zombie, parked firmly on the sofa with a tube of Pringles by my side, a mug of tea in one hand and the T.V. remote in the other. Gloves, hats, ropes, jackets and boots gently steamed on a drying rack in front of the fire and Harry the dog snuffled and snored in his sleep. Just before going to bed I looked out of the window. It was still snowing. I smiled all the way into my dreams.

Glory in Failure

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try and try again. Then, when all is about lost, get really drunk so that your hangover renders you incapacitated for any further attempts.

That just about sums up last weekend. On Saturday, Chris and I walked in to Coire an’t Schneachda twice, in vain attempts to climb The Magic Crack (HVS***). Both times it poured with rain just at the wrong moment, drenching any exposed millimeter of granite, and turning any climbing into a misery: queue abseil retreat from pitch 1. Sandwiched between these two attempts we went to Huntley’s Cave and climbed two routes, the first (Jam Crack, HS) in very gentle drizzle, the second (Double Overhang, HVS 5a***) in a deluge. Fortunately, the latter route was steep enough to remain dry, even in the biblical flooding that we experienced, and I’m glad I stuck with it.

Double Overhang (HVS 5a***) at Huntley's Cave. It's awesome.

On Sunday I worked at the RSPB Abernethy fun day, and proceeded to drink myself silly that night, so bank holiday Monday didn’t turn into the gnarly day of cranking that it might have done. With a forecast pointing west, Chris and I headed to Glen Nevis and climbed the Glen’s longest route, Autobahnausfahrt (VS**), thinking that something easy and long is just as respectable as something hard and short. Anyway, my 4b pitch was about as hard as my fragile state could manage.

The obvious moral message: climbing is daft, I’m off to get liquored.

In other news: my contract at Abernethy Forest is up, so once again I'll be a member of the great unwashed in Fort William. However, fingers crossed, there's something in the pipeline.

Pics to follow when I get a chance.

The Misty Mountains

Jones honing her skills on the sharp end on Afterthought Arete

Just a brief one this week. Mid-summer weather is currently in effect in the Highlands, so the caress of stone has mainly been replaced by fondling chalk-smeared plastic. I've taken to hiding from the rain at Scott Muir's Extreme Dream climbing wall in Aviemore, which is pretty cool - certainly enough to satiate my addiction to severe forearm pump.

Hallowed walls: Shelterstone Crag with Carn Etchechan beyond.

Jones super-styling the first and best pitch of Pygmy Ridge

On Mid-summer's Day it stayed dry in the Cairngorms for a full 24 hours. Jones was in town so we headed for the hills in search of some gentle mountain rock. Starting in Coire an't Schneachda we wove up to the plateau via Pygmy Ridge (Mod**), crossed down to Loch Avon by Coire Dobhain and popped back up via Afterthought Arete (Mod***) on Stag Rocks, then back to the car down the Goat Track. A good wee circuit, taking in some pretty epic scenery on excellent rock. Jones and I shared leads all day and it was great to see her confidence grow throughout - practice makes perfect.

Roaring melt-water heading to Loch Avon

Just because it's easy doesn't mean it's not awesome!

Me on Afterthought Arete. (Photo: Sarah Jones)

Alas, any plans for Sunday were curtailed by ceaseless precipitation. Nothing to do but light the fire and batten down the hatches in the wee cottage.

After work today I ventured up to the Link Road Boulder by the Coire Cas car park. It's a big lump of glacier polished granite that doesn't have a single good hold on it's considerable bulk. I set to work with icy fingers on crystal crimps and ragged slopers until a big squall stopped play, then high-tailed it home. There's the potential for a few evening's playing, but none of the problems are particularly inspiring. If only Glen Nevis was just round the corner.

I'm hoping the good weather of yester-month returns, as I have many a date with the magical mountain crags of this land. Surely another summer can't slip by without at least my doing The Needle or Minus One Direct. To all climbers reading this: get in touch via email/text if you're getting out and want to play, I have no mobile reception so it's hard to find partners up here in the wilderness! Ta.

Revelations

For the next couple of months I'm an east Highlander, living in a tiny cottage in Abernethy Forest, plying my ecological trade for the RSPB once again. I have no TV, no mobile reception, no internet, just got a pile of classic novels, an ipod and as many scots pines as you could ever want to hug.

I moved over last Monday, via a cheeky solo of Pygmy Ridge in Coire an't Schneachda, and am now well ensconced in the Cairngorms.

Week one of work went really well, lots of time 'in the field', as it's infuriatingly known, lots of new plants to learn, birds to spy on and endless vistas (copyright: V. Scott) to appreciate. Thursday took me along to the verdant, if imposing, Huntly's Cave, where I met Jones for some post work pulling down. We started on Cave Route (Hard Severe***), a splendid, airy line weaving through some steep ground, then I did Hanging Groove (E1 5c*), a bit of a two move wonder through a roof, and we finished up Right Hand Groove (VDiff*). All this was set to the babbling backdrop of the brook and the squabbling of young jackdaws, stowed in a dark crevice near the top of Double Overhang. A most pleasant evening, with barely a midge to swat at.

Cave Route at Huntly's Cave

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I'm parched. Briney sweat beads collect around my lips. Palms become clammy as the sun pumps down. In the distance I overhear the sea, back and forth, water slapping rock, splashing. It's nearby, but it's miles away. I don't care. I don't care if there's a seal out there, or a whale, or flying pigs. I'm involved elsewhere. Greasy chalk smears illuminate my blind fumblings on the rock in front of me. Blind cracks scraped free of periwinkles have provided my only semblance of security; a protruding wire glares at me. I'm on the brink of severe ledge-ivitus. Right here I'm safe, right here I'm the king of the castle. If I stay here forever, I'll be safe. Steev might get a bit wet when the tide comes in, but I'll be safe. I don't want to leave this ledge. Upwards is a blank slab. Where are the grips? Maybe I'll bail onto the VDiff next door. Another failed E2 for the year.

Steev following The Musketeer, Reiff

But, what if I try? I havn't even tried yet? What if I fail? What's more terrifying, taking the fall, or not even trying? Sweat continues to pour down me. Chalking my hands has no effect, it just creates a paste, like powder paint in school art classes.

"Okay, watch me Steev". Tiptoes, finger-locks. "Watch me, buddy". Shit. Is this what I really want? Swap feet. And then my memory switches off.

Safely belayed at the top I look out to sea, across from my perch above The Musketeer to a distant Lewis and feel contented. It's mid-sunday afternoon, and we're at Reiff, the North-West haven of sandstone by the sea. It's been the kind of weekend that makes you smug. Yesterday Steev and I climbed Original Route on the Old Man of Stoer, along with Sam and Katie. Afterwards we sat and watched as paradise unfurled before us: the Inverpolly Forest; Stac Pollaidh, Cul Mor, Cul Beag, Cannisp. Sky larks and fulmars, bog-cotton and orchids. And not another person in sight. We camped in a wooded cove and watched otters and terns, lit a fire and drank beer cooled by the stream. On a good day, is there anywhere better?

Inverpolly Forest: one of the best views in the world

Now we're at the Pinnacle area at Reiff, soaking up the sun and friendly atmosphere. I've wobbled my way up Westering Home (E1 5b***), and Steev has despatched Hy Brasil (VS 4c**) next door. After the steep jug haul of Puckered Wall (VS 4b*), I fancy something else, and find The Musketeer (E2 5b*) round at the The Point, described as thin cracks and ripples up a steep slab. It's the nearest starred E2 that doesn't involve overhanging jamming, so we step to.

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It's almost home-time, so meeting Sam and Katie, we strip down and hurl ourselves into the blue Atlantic. Pale skin, picking it's way across the barnacle clad rocks. Childish freedom unleashed as we whoop and holler at the sky, cold water erupts with bodies.

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As we drive south the clouds close above us and the drizzle begins. The tropical North-West was our little secret.

The Old Man of Stoer

9.5 for elegance, 0.5 for pants. Steev drew the short/long straw and got to do the swim across to the base of the stack to set up the Tyrollean Traverse.

Steev on the misty traverse

Two happy teams on the top

Jones Rips It Up, and Other Stories.

It’s all change for Jones just now. Not only has she moved away from the black-hole of Edinburgh (so-named because once you live there you’ll never leave), but she’s also becoming that rare beast – a female Scottish winter climber. The move should do wonders for her mountain going tendencies as she is now stationed in Munlochy on the Black Isle.

We made use of her proximity to the snow on Sunday and I met her in the Coire Cas car park. The forecast was for a bit of a breeze, blue skies and a few snow showers, however, it was totally clagged in and dumping snow when we arrived, so we paired down the rack, dumped a rope and changed our plans from a grade IV in Coire an Lochan to the classic guides day of the Twin Ribs and Fiachaill Ridge. This gave Jones a chance to continue honing her skills on the sharp end, which she did with aplomb, and to work on her confidence when soloing and moving together. I think one of the keys to winter climbing is being quick and efficient and this often means you need to move quickly over exposed but easy ground. If you pitch everything and expect to be able to stop every five metres to place gear you’re going to end up climbing in the dark. Being able to do this just comes with having confidence in your ability to move safely – the key to all climbing: trusting your footwork.

Jones throwing crazy mixed climbing shapes

Jones made short work of the tricky section on the ribs and we moved together to the top. We then soloed the ridge, pitching the short steeper section at the end, and dropped down the Goat Track into Coire an’t Schneachda. The clouds were coming in and out all day, at times affording the prized view across the plateau to the Shelterstone and Carn Etchechan in the Loch Avon basin, and at others affording the luxury of the 20 metres in front of you. Down in the Coire I felt a bit annoyed that I hadn’t packed that second rope as we could have easily nipped up a route in good time but as it was we pointed down hill to the car and Aviemore. Next stop – Cairngorm Mountain Sports café.

Yesterday I teamed up with Blair Fyffe and we headed up the Ben. The forecast was for almost no wind, blue skies and cold temperatures, and this time it seemed about right. Blair used his avalanche skills in exchange for use of the forestry key – a much coveted gem that allows vehicle access to the top car park, rather than a walk from sea level – so he texted a conditions report to the SAIS forecaster. A bargain, I’d say. We ummed and arrr’d for a bit, trying to decide which route to do. A good covering of snow made everything look white and icy, but on closer inspection conditions were’nt as good as we had hoped. We thought about some icy mixed lines on Observatory Buttress, and had a peek round the corner at a very white Indicator Wall (white with snow, not ice I’m afraid), but in the end plumped for the fattest looking bit of ice around – Hadrian’s Wall Direct. Neither of us had done this classic V,5 so after spudding for the lead, a victorious Fairy Wife set off.

Blair on pitch 1 of Hadrians Wall Direct

The ice was pretty cruddy, making the climbing easy but quite bold. As I toiled away on second I felt fairly grateful for the ropes trailing upwards. The steepest section was also the cruddiest, and with only one suspect ice screw below it was a good lead. Mind you, Blair isn’t exactly a rookie. Like many of the routes on this part of the Ben, the first few pitches are the hardest, then there’s a lot of easier ground to move over before breaking through the headwall onto the plateau.

No matter how many times I seem to do it, topping out on the Ben on a good day is always a real joy. I guess it’s partly because it normally happens after climbing a great route, but I think it’s mainly because of those endless views. As we stood and took it all in – Skye, Rum, the Mamores, the Grey Corries, Torridon, Applecross, Ardnamurchan, and on and on into the horizon, the sun reflected in Loch Lihnne, and I couldn’t help but feel smug about living up here.

Enduring the horrors of the plateau

After most of the days I’ve been out this winter – wet, windy and with no views to speak of – I felt like I had earned the good weather, the views and the shorter walk-in and out, not to mention the brew in the CIC Hut. Who said Scottish winter was about suffering?

Winter Rumbles On

So with the car still in tatters in the Edinburgh Skoda dealers I fled back North to the peace and solitude of the hills. Steev, Jo B and Chris came up too to try and make the most of a Fort William base and to get some climbing done on the Ben.

It started badly.

Sitting in the car in the north face car park at 6.30 a.m next day with the incessant rain dribbling down the wind-screen. I utter the words that put an end to any climbing plans: “any-one want a brew back at mine?” No-one really fancied the slog up to the routes in the ming, so before long we were stationed back in the crucible and supping the life-blood of the climber – tea.

Next day dawned much better so this time we actually started walking in. Chris and I had originally planned to head for some icy gully action, but since it was dumping with snow we decided that a buttress route would be a safer bet. There was a huge amount of fresh snow lieing about and blazing the tracks up to Number 3 Gully Buttress was a real ball-breaker. Never the less, we romped up the ‘three star grade III’ (I thought it was more like a 1 star grade II, but hey, what does it matter) into a festival of misery on the plateau. Part way up the second pitch Chris decided to quit winter climbing, so the lead was all mine. Poor chap. Wind-thrown graupel battered our faces as we sorted the gear, so we rapidly descended down the zig-zags and legged it back to the car. Steev and Jo B had the usual fight with a powdery Slingsby’s Chimney so decided not to continue up North-East Buttress. Good mountaineering.

The sanctuary of the plateau: Chris not long after giving up winter climbing

We sat Monday out as ‘the biggest storm ever, in all eternity, officially’ was on its way, but didn’t get further north than Yorkshire. Mind you, they did have 46mph winds in Birmingham. Imagine. 46mph. I’m surprised anything is left standing after such a wave of destruction.

Tuesday, however, was a stonker. The MWIS forecast lead us to the Cairngorms, and although Jones and I had planned to head to Hell’s Lum in the Loch Avon basin, a threatening looking plateau sent us scuttling down into Coire an’t Schneachda. We climbed Fluted Buttress Direct, a continuous groove up the centre of Fluted Buttress, obviously. It’s a good IV,4/5, and was fairly buried, but Jones did really well on it. I feared that blootered funky Cairngorm granite grooves would be a bit too much for Jones’ fledgling winter climbing repertoire, but she soon demonstrated that it’s really not that hard. Go girl!

Biggles on Fluted Buttress Direct

Jones under a pretty buried Fluted Buttress, after 'sending' it (her words).

By the time we topped out the blue-skies of earlier were long gone and the frontal system from the west was in full affect. A swift descent saw us back at the car in time for tea and tiffin. We bumped into Steev and Alex on the way down and they had backed off something hard on Carn Etchechan (not Route Major, which they had aimed for).

Today (Thursday) Jones and I fled the ming in the Fort and headed for a walk on the Ardnish peninsular, in Morar. A pleasant path weaves across the headland to the Peanameanach bothy. Despite only being twenty-odd miles from the Fort, the weather over there was much better, with sunshine and a gentle breeze for most of the way. Marvellous.

Peanameanach Bothy: it's somewhere in the middle, honest.

On the way back I heard some good news about my car: they took it for a long drive and it broke down on them. A new drive shaft is required. At long bloody last!