The Good, the Good and the Ugly

Back north to the grim wastes of the wintry Highlands and a few shenanigans to report. Shenanigans might not be the right word, maybe epic mega shit-storm would be more suitable. But I digress.

Friday was one of those perfect winter days, cold, crisp and still with a bright sun pulsing down on the white hills and fields, making Aviemore look like just another day in the Alps. I took myself off to the Laggan boulders to continue the exploration and hopefully succeed on a problem I'd failed on before. Lone days of bouldering like this are perfect for me - a chance to really take my time to enjoy the place, the rocks, their shapes and the humbling landscape laid out before me. I warmed up slowly, taking regular warming gulps from the flask and stuffing my shoes down my top to thaw them between tries, my tarp under my mat acting as a lubricating layer on the snow, constantly trying to surf me down hill into the fence. Finally, sufficiently warmed and stretched I spent some time on the problem I was after and saw it off. Happy and relieved I broke out the last of the Christmas chocolates to celebrate. It's great up at these boulders, it's such a beautiful spot, and nicely accessible from Aviemore. There's a bit of work to do to get them properly cleaned and spic and span but I'm psyched to put the effort in and unleash some new gems for the Highland boulderers (all 2 of us).

Steep dry rock, snow and blue sky. What more could you ask for? The Cairngorms lurk beyond the steep face of one of the Laggan boulders.

The next day I joined Richie at Brin for another cold, crisp day on the rock. Heavy snow in Aviemore gave way to beautiful sun in Strath Nairn and we played for a few hours. I had a try on The Scientist, which I can only describe as excitingly hard. I did the easiest two of the four hard moves, which is something, I guess. Could do with access to a campus board... We then went for a look at the Farr Boulder as the sun set.

Richie confronting the snow on the Farr Boulder.

Then it was Sunday and time for my first winter climbing trip of the season. Sam came up on Saturday night and we left in good time on Sunday morning, skating up the snowy Bealach na Ba in Applecross to climb Blue Pillar on Meall Gorm. Being only 15 minutes from the car you'd think it wasn't going to be an epic day, but when Sam pulled a big chockstone out of a shallow chimney high on the route and took a backwards plummet onto ledges below that all changed. Out of sight, round the corner and pulled tight against my belay I didn't know what to think. Sam was silent. "Sam, speak to me!" I yelled into the approaching gloom. Eventually he called back. He was OK but his ankle was badly hurt. It had only been a fall of a few metres, but with that chockstone involved, things could be messy. Slowly he emerged groaning back onto the ledge beside me, his headtorch swinging loose from his helmet before his ashen face and thousand-mile eyes. "We're going down", he confirmed my thoughts. And so we started our descent into the inky darkness, I lowered Sam to our previous belay and then abbed down to join him. But then, of course, the ropes jammed when we tried to pull them through. No matter which way or how hard I pulled - nothing. Then we made our error, we still had 30 or so metres of rope so we abseiled as far as we could onto the next big ledge in the hope that the ropes would pull from this different angle. I should have climbed back up the ropes to free them, but hind-sight is no use now. By now it was pitch black and we worked in the twin white cocoons of our torch beams. From this new ledge we could escape into Lobster Gully, and down-climb it as far as possible, which we did until a steep step loomed out of the blackness below. And there we were, stranded only 60 odd metres up, no ropes. Shit.

We'd now abbed too far for me to climb back up the ropes and free them so I cast about on the other side of the ridge to find a way off but just found dead ends and bottomless drops so came back to Sam, who was now in a fair bit of pain, sitting quietly, stoically in the snow. There was nothing left for it but to make the call to mountain rescue - our time had finally come to become rescue statistics. Hours passed, messages were relayed back and forth and we started to get cold, then colder and then colder still. Our conversation started to falter and it was alarming how quickly the silence grew and bore down on our pitiful position. I tried hard to make small talk with Sam but it wasn't up to much and I could tell he was starting to get cold and depressed. The quiet calm night turned dim as the clouds dropped and then the snow started to fall, heavier and heavier on the rising wind. Through the murk we could see the rescue teams vehicles on the road, up and down, stopping and going again, but nothing was happening, no processions of torches coming up the hill.

The first rule of having an epic is to take lots of photos. Here's Sam when our predicament was still fairly novel. Smiles rapidly dissapeared shortly afterwards.

After another hour or so we realised that no helicopters would be flying in these conditions and any rescue from the team would take forever as they'd have to rig about 130 metres of abseil to reach us. I decided to have another look at the step in Lobster Gully that was stopping us. Leaving Sam to bear his pain alone I went for a look, desperate to have a good go at down climbing it if it looked half do-able - it was our only way off. And thankfully, it was. Once I committed to the first few metres I found that it was OK, 10 metres of fairly steep but useful turf and snow-ice. I raced back up to Sam to tell him and he was game to try, although neither of us were sure how he'd do it with a damaged ankle. With lots of swearing and scraping he did it though, hard bastard, and we were back into the gully. Only to be stopped by another shorter but steeper step below. No surely not after all our efforts! Keeping moving, I left Sam and hunted across the other side of the ridge again, finally finding a ledge that led off into the left hand easy gully. Back up to Sam again and I told him I thought I'd found our salvation. Following on behind me, sliding on one foot and his tools, Sam braved the narrow ledge round into the gully and bum-slid down behind me into the valley floor, free at last.

The rescue team were still in their vehicles and had obviously seen our torches moving and making our way toward them as a couple of torches came out into the darkness and started to approach. By now Sam was leaning on me and hobbling badly. When we reached the rescuers - of which the first we met was local legend Martin Moran - they looked as relieved as we were that we'd made it off by ourselves; it would have been a huge epic and taken a long long time for them to reach us, by which time we would probably have been hypothermic and in a bad state. They took Sam off to check he was OK and made sure I was fine to reach my car through the blizzard.

Then it was just a case of not crashing or falling asleep at the wheel for the next three hours of heavy snow and terrible roads back to Aviemore.

I heard from Sam today and it turns out that he's chipped and fractured his talus bone and is now in plaster so that's his winter season put on hold. As for me, well I'm not sure, but that might be the end of my winter too.

Mixed Feelings in the Dark

I get mixed feelings as the cold continues to grip onto Scotland and starts to squeeze hard. Every man, woman and their dog in Aviemore seems to have donned their luminous baggy clothing and thousands of pounds worth of skiing kit (how do they all afford it?) and joined the queues on the pistes.

Part of me feels like I should too, or at least be out ticking winter climbs. I mean, why live in the Highlands and put up with it's generally crap weather if you're not really fussed about playing in the snow? I'm not sure what it is that puts me off. I guess sharing the same small bit of hill with every Tom, Dick and Chummer isn't exactly my idea of a fun time, regardless of how much you have to pay on kit and up-lift to get there. And as for winter climbing, it still holds an attraction, in the right place, at the right time, but wading through ball-deep avalanche debris to dig around in powder and stare into the same mist-obscured corrie isn't it. Give me a bit of freeze-thaw, some sunshine and a new mountain to explore and I'll probably be a bit keener.

So, I've been skiving off from winter and making use of the cold dry northerly by bouldering at Cummingston. Last weekend poor Chris was up from Edinburgh and heavy snow meant we couldn't get across to Ben Nevis. Naturally we ended up sheltering in the big cave at Cummy, as you do, and it was in good nick. This Saturday I returned with the Betts but a slight thaw meant it was a grease-fest. All except for the secret weapon: The Corridor. As luck would have it we were both armed with lamps to stave off these early December nights, so were able to light up the through-cave between Doubt Wall and the big Fingerlicker cave, and not only was the rock dry, it was beautifully wave-worn and harder than the rest of the crag. Time to make hay.

One problem I found looked fairly innocuous but kept kicking me to the floor. Slapping up an arete, spanning away to a pinch and stubbing blindly for a rounded-toe edge under a bulge. It looked so easy. Eventually Richie showed the way and just as I started to make progress the batteries waned and the shadows grew and we had to bail, blinking into the daylight. Empty-handed.

The future of raining/snowy days? Richie in The Corridor (Photo: Richie Betts)

With charged batteries, rested fingers and the return of colder air I went back on Sunday and saw off the problem. I called it The Enemy Within, and assume it will never be repeated cos it's in the dark, which is a shame really. Afterwards I put the cherry on my already pleased cake by doing Masonic Fingershake, which I've tried on and off for about 2 years so was rather chuffed.

Quick! The batteries are running out! Me trying The Enemy Within on Saturday. (Photo: Richie Betts)

The North West Tapestry

Steve decends Cadh' an Amadain, The Fools Pass, starting the long way back to the car.

Beinn Dearg near Ullapool was the stage for Steve and I to act out our little adventure on Saturday. Walking in to a crag you've never been to before is always exciting, which is probably why the fairly long approach felt quick and easy (I'll take a bike next time). The relatively rarely formed Ice Hose contrasted a couple of icy pitches to start with a couple of mixed pitches for seconds. Easy snow then led to the top of West Buttress, where we both sat, partially blinded by the bright midday sun, drinking it all in. The view from the summit cairn was unlike any I've seen before. All the north spread out below, from the undulations of Assynt and the snowy Summer Isles in the west, to Ben Loyal and Ben Hope on the north coast and all the way east to the North Sea: from the Fannaichs to Fisherfield to the Flow Country, all clad in brilliant white.

Steve on the brilliant 30m icefall starting Ice Hose

Steve starts pitch 3, the start of the mixed ridge.

The view north west: down Gleann na Sguaib to Loch Broom and the Summer Isles.



Enjoying sunshine on the top with the Fainnaichs beyond

Another team start Ice Hose below the moon.

Sunday began with a false start; almost asleep at the wheel on the way to Applecross, snoozing in a layby, then after peering into Coire na Poite through binoculars deciding to cut our losses and go sport climbing. Exchanging steel tools for steely fingers we met Ian, Tess, Andy and Rich for sociable sunshine at Am Fasgadh and Goat Crag. We narrowly missed running out of petrol due to the lax West Coast filling station hours but Rich saved the day with an emergency jerry can. Lesson learned for future Sunday trips to the north west. Despite the ambient air temperature being only a few degrees above freezing, the sun trap of Am Fasgadh provided real unseasonal heat, even allowing tops-off-for-power redpoint attempts. I got to within a few moves of the chain on my first go on The Warm Up, which turned out to be my best shot. Positive progress and a genuine surprise, so something must be going right in my not-so-rigorous training regime. Watch this space....

Richie and Ian have pics on their Flickr websites, useful sources for north west rock motivation, as if I need it.

Hot Rock at Am Fasgadh:

Andy cruises The Warm Up for the umpteenth time, although he did tell me he projected it for two years before success.

Steve on the classic long corner of Teepee, up the hill at Goat Crag.

Infatuated

Warming up for The Warm Up (F7b) at Am Fasgadh.

I've been bitten by the bug. Once again I'm in deep, to the end: a muerte, as the Spanish say. It's funny how patterns form in life. It sounds incredibly crass comparing love and life to climbing rocks, but when you spend equal amounts of time obsessing about both it starts to make sense. Miss Sarah Jones is back from the other side of the world and back in my life and I'm a very happy bunny indeed, also, I've found a climbing project and I'm super-dooper excited about the roller-coaster journey ahead. A flame has been re-kindled and I'm as psyched up as I've ever been.

So, those rocks. In an attempt to become a proper Highland climber I'm trying to infiltrate the ranks of the northerners, to learn their tricks and climb their routes. That trip to Rhue with Rich a few weeks back has made me want a bit of their remote and beautiful pie. The problem is that they're all much fitter, stronger and braver than me. So, how can I become like them?

After extensive research and undercover surveillance I think I've discovered the source of their power, the place that they come to train and pay homage to small holds and steep rock. It's called Am Fasgadh, or The Refuge as us Sassenachs might have it. A short, sharp, savage sweep of overhanging gneiss; south facing and dry in all but the worst rain. With grades from F7a+ to F7c+ this isn't a place for begginers. Static crimp-master and Am Fasgadh devotee Andy Wilby gave me the tour-de-crag last weekend and I came home inspired. Knowing that most of the locals have ticked almost the whole crag I suddenly realised why they're all so bloody good. I've got work to do. I got on the classic initiation route called The Warm Up, and though it's graded F7b this isn't an ironic name, it really is the easiest worthwhile route here. I didn't do it, but I could do all the moves almost first go and know that it's not too far off.

Now, a week later I find myself thinking about it; those moves and holds, where to clip from, where to try to shake out. I had a day off and went back in the week, bolt-to-bolting as the Atlantic fell on Wester Ross, and that's when I think it happened. I got that electric feeling in my belly. It's on. Since then I've been thinking about it before I fall asleep and as I trudge through the woods at work. Working through the moves as I go about my day. I have an obsession. Once again, I've fallen.

*********************

Winter Continues

Steev and I about to play on the Ben

Steev starting Compression Crack

Perfect steep blue ice on Compression Crack

After a sickeningly early start Murdo and I were the first on Creagh Meagaigh this Saturday, climbing Smith's Gully then nipping up Last Post. Here's Murdo high on the latter.

The end of a great day.

The Return

A return to the Aonach Eagach ridge

Sit down and make yourself comfortable, I want to tell you a tale.

In 1871, in the town of Whitburn near Sunderland, Lewis Carrol sat down, took up his pen and ink and wrote a poem. Combining old-english sounding nonsense words with ancient mythology he weaved a web of adventure most bizarre, and called it Jabberwocky.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"

He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Fast-forward 83 years to May of 1954, and we find a group of pioneering climbers exploring the cliffs of Gearr Aonach, high above The Lost Valley in Glen Coe. Over three days they climb three new routes and, evidently inspired by Carrol's wordplay, call them The Wabe, Mome Rath Route and Outgrabe Route. Before long the cliff they are on becomes known as the Mome Rath Face, and as the years pass more adventurous souls play out their own journeys across it and continue with the poem theme, with routes like Jabberwock, Slithy, Brillig and Gyre. Initial exploration was limited to the summer, climbing the sunny mountain rhyolite, but then on the 16th of February in the cold winter of 1969 two teams opened the crag as a winter venue. On one rope, Hamish MacInnes, Ian Clough and J. Hardie, on the other Allen Fyffe and J. McArtney. Freeze thaw cycles had sent fat cascades of ice dribbling down the lines of The Wabe and Mome Rath Route and the teams climbed these respectively, creating two of the all-time classic ice lines in the Glen. From then on the Mome Rath Face has been a venue for all seasons, often with the winter routes following the older summer lines.

These days it's rare that the crag comes into the winter condition of days gone by. Its south-easterly aspect catches any sun going and its relatively low altitude (650m) conspire to melt any snow and ice before it become signigicant. However, in the midst of 'The Big Freeze' that we're currently enjoying, Blair and I decided to go and see how things were shaping up. Tools were sharpened and screws wre packed in expectation of plump cascades and icy tendrils. Leaving the car the night-dark of Glen Coe slowly gave way to the first shapes of dawn in The Lost Valley and as the sun made it's way into the morning sky we spied the crag for the first time. Alas and alack! The ice we were hoping for was no-where to be seen! Obviously it takes some incredible conditions for these routes to form - there wasn't even a hint of ice climbing potential.

Not to be put off, we kept on to the foot of the crag to see what we could find and there was definately some mixed climbing to be had. In the end we decided on the summer Severe called Slithy, taking a system of grooves, cracks and shallow chimneys on snowy rock and perfectly frozen turf. A first winter ascent, we assumed, and fitting that the next generation of the Fyffe family is pioneering winter routes on the same crag as his Dad. We followed the summer line throughout, climbing four pitches with a pokey crux first pitch followed by some fairly sustained turf bashing on the second. The last two pitches were easier but still good climbing on an obvious line and Blair reckoned on a grade of about VI 7, and with his experience, who am I to argue?

Blair starts pitch 1 of Slithy

Blair following pitch 2

After being denied ice on the Thursday we decided to hunt for it again on Friday, reaching the foot of Blue Ribband on the South flank of the Aonach Eagach just as the sun was rising behind Buachaille Etive Beag and the moon was sinking behind Bidean Nam Bian. Three superb pitches of steep ice and lots of soloing later we found our selves on the pinnacles section of the ridge in the bright early afternoon sun. The last time I was on the ridge I was involved in a rescue after a chap took a big fall from the pinnacles, so it was with some trepidation that I followed along begind Blair. Before long though, we were on the way back down to the car with my demons exorcised.

The moon sinking behind Bidean

Blair starting Blue Ribband

Recently I've been feeling less and less inspired by winter climbing: the thought of going to the same old crags in the same old crappy conditions; racing the hordes of muppets and maniacs that seem to come out at winter; grovelling in powder. Compared to rock climbing it seems so graceless and, dare-I-say-it, pointlessly miserable. However, the last few days of geat weather and this long cold spell have reminded me why I used to love it. Exploration, the bluest sky above the whitest snow, getting away from other climbers to new places and quiet back-waters, and the views, views that no words could do justice to. So, while this good weather stays, I'm back in the game.

Me starting pitch 2.

Winter in Aviemore

A new day

Opening the account: Alex on Route Major

Evening entertainment: Steve thinking way outside the box

Back to work

Eerie ice on the first aid box in Scneachda

Joe's go

My happy place

The Ice was all around

And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men or beasts we ken –
The ice was all between,

The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!

From The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

The view to come. Photo: Viv Scott

With the changing of the clocks something stirs in the Highlands. There’s a discernable feeling of the new season approaching; a switching of the gears in readiness for the long dark months ahead. Headlights illumine the daily commute. A torch comes to hand when walking the dog. Jackets and hats and gloves start to make their way onto the hooks in the hallway. The coal bucket fills and empties, the embers glow in the stove.

Then the murmuring begins. Starting low but slowly, slowly gathering and lifting, building to a clamoring gaggle: the expectant buzz. Training and boulders, hilltops and hot-aches, tall tales from times past, big ideas about times to come. Plans.

Where will you be this winter?

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.