A winter trip to the Alps was first mooted at the Gerry Gore presentation last November. After his talk Gerry asked if an IMC group would be interested in visiting his ‘activity base’ in the Southern French Alps and well situated for mountaineering, ice climbing and skiing. Several present expressed interest and Martin (Hore) and Steve (Culverhouse) took on the task of organising a trip. The February half term week was chosen and by Xmas five people were able to commit to the trip: John (Pereira) and his son Jeremy skiing, Martin and myself ice climbing, and Steve doing a bit of each. Departure date is rapidly  approaching when we get the bombshell (or should I say bomb crater).  Steve loses an argument with some tree roots when descending a bomb hole on his MTB in Thetford forest and suffers a whiplash injury to his neck needing manipulative physio and has no choice but to pull out of the trip (with intense frustration). This forces a quick replan of transport, as I was to have been Steve’s co-driver, and we all pile into Martin’s (deceptively roomy) Focus for the c.700 mile trip to Vallouise.

We leave Ipswich about 6pm on Friday (13/2), catch the 9.30pm ferry to Dunkirk and drive through the night to reach Vallouise early Saturday afternoon. The weather is beautiful: blue sky, cold and crisp (and that’s how it stayed for most of the week). The rest of Saturday is taken up with meeting Gerry and poring over maps and guide books, getting ski passes and buying provisions for the chalet (which is comfortable, quiet, and well equipped). What follows is an ‘ice
climbing’ view of the week, I couldn’t possibly do justice to the 60-70km/day black run fun had by John and Jeremy.

Ice grading is in two parts: overall grade I to VII (taking account of length, ice quality, how sustained, distance from road, etc.) and technical grade 1 to 7 (move complexity, steepness, belays, ice formations (e.g., mushrooms, columns, etc.) Our intention is to climb at III/3-4.

Up very early on Sunday, drop off the skiers in Briancon and then to Ceillac, a fairly remote village where the ice falls are opposite a ski slope and easily accessed from the road. We’re early, but the ice climbers are already out in force; clearly a popular place. As we gear up a van with ’24/7 Medecin’ in bold lettering draws up beside us.  (Wot, we haven’t even started climbing yet!) It turns out to be a team of ice climbing doctors (who we met several times during the week). We quickly arrive at the base of our route for today: Holiday on Ice (aka Y branche de gauche), 250m, grade II+/3+, a series of 10 to 20m steps not exceeding 85(. Now, a word on our respective ice climbing backgrounds. Martin has led grade 5 (albeit 20 years ago), whereas I have only done a few snow gullies and the odd (short) frozen waterfall in the Lakes. Martin appears instantly ‘at home’ whereas I am somewhat awestruck by the sheer scale, and beauty, of the ice rising above us. We are also struck, quite literally, by the endless cascade of ice fragments dislodged by the climbers up ahead as the ice is shattered when their axe fails to plant firmly. This is quite scary because some very big pieces get to the bottom without breaking up (we have the dents in our helmets to prove it). We begin climbing and Martin soon
gets into a relaxed, seemingly effortless, rhythm; he leads the steep parts and I take over the lead on the easier sections. We both want to get confidence in placing ice screws so our progress is much slower than the other teams on the route. Nevertheless we top out mid
afternoon and follow the conveniently situated GR5 back to the car park. A good first day! Time even to stop off at Mont Dauphin on the way back, to check out a conglomerate crag that was highly recommended by Gerry; but no time to climb.

Monday, and back to Ceillac again. This time to climb the sister route of yesterday: Le Y (Branche de droite), 250m, II+/3+, very similar in character but with more interest we think. It also gave me my first taste of leading 3+ and gave Martin a first taste of getting seriously
cold hanging about at a belay. We top out and then follow GR5 to the start of another route: Easy Rider, 70m, II/3, a popular two pitch route easily reached from the finish of most other routes without descending far. This is a narrow gully (of average incline 70( and some sections at 80() and is rather busy when we arrive. Two guided parties, the doctors (again) and us, all climbing up and abseiling down at the same time; so lots of ice flying about!

Tuesday, and a change of location. Today we are out with Gerry and his climbing partner Chris (a mountaineering instructor visiting from the UK). They have decided to climb the awesome Cascade des Viollins (150m, III/6) at Freissineires and thankfully have not asked us to join them. Our route is Fracastorus, 200m, III/3+. A five pitch classic according to the guide book and so it proves. Nothing steeper than 75( except an optional vertical cigar at the end. We pass on this because (a) the belayer will have to stand underneath a massive icicle, (2) we agreed to be at the pick-up by 3pm and we’re already late and (c) it looks bloody hard! We get to the pick-up at least an hour late, but no sign of Gerry. He’s either got fed up with waiting and gone home, or they’re still on the fiddle. So we stroll to the quaint hamlet of Les Viollins and there they are just abseiling down. What a route: two long sections of 85( linked together by a vertical 30m cigar with an overhang at its top. Understandably, they’re well pleased with themselves.

Wednesday and we’re back at Ceillac again. This time to climb Les formes du chaos, 300m, III/4. When Martin was eyeing up this route on Sunday I’m thinking to myself “You must be joking”. But, here we are 3 days later! It’s a truly stunning route of steep ice, caves, translucent sheets of blue ice with cascading water behind and icicles of every shape and size imaginable. Easy to see why the guide book rates it as the best route in the Ceillac region. Superb climbing but the increase in technical grade is noticeable. We complete the route but don’t have enough time to tackle the interesting tributary ice falls at the very top.

Thursday and the weather is beginning to change. The location today is the Vallee du Fournel and a route called La vision de Marco, 100m, II/3. Two long pitches, the first of 70( (after a steeper start) and a more demanding second with sections of 85(, joined in the middle by a
belay stance that got very crowded with 4 teams climbing up and abseiling down at the same time. In fact this caused Martin an anxious moment. He was leading on the steepest part of the route when an abseiler passed him on the left and immediately swung to the right on reaching the belay stance, oblivious to the fact that the abseil rope was forcing Martin off the ice. The valley shook to Martin’s desperate cry of “Attention, a gauche” and the errant abseiler immediately moved his rope. On the way back to the car we check out the impressive
Hiroshima (III/5) as a possible for Friday, but neither of us feel confident enough to lead the unavoidable 15m vertical crux pitch. Today we even manage to pick up John and Jeremy at the prearranged time, much to their surprise.

Friday and the weather has changed to grey skies threatening snow, and a much stronger wind; just the day for our longest climb. We drop off John and Jeremy en route to La Grave and agree to pick them up from a hotel bar at about 6.30pm. The road over the Col du Lautret is getting
tricky as the wind whips the snow on to the road, so Martin has to take great care. Our target today is the village of les Freaux and a route called Colere du Ciel (Anger of the Sky), III/3+, 300m, 8 pitches. Arriving, behind schedule, in the village we’re undecided what to do. Then two other teams arrive, heading for different routes as it happens, but it lifts our spirits so we decide to go for it. A hard walk in: steep slope, deep snow, heavy bag. We gear up at the base of the route. According to the guide book there are 3 steep ice pitches, 3 snow slopes, and two easy ice pitches, and there is supposed to be a path down (where to though?). By now we’re both climbing pretty well, much quicker than at the start of the week and placing gear more sparingly. The climbing is enjoyable, we’re sheltered from the wind, the snow is holding off. The so-called snow slopes have some significant ice steps so progress on these is not as fast as we expected. By 5pm we’ve reached the top of the third steep ice pitch and have the two easier ice pitches to do. We can either go for the top and hopefully find a path to take us back to our bags at bottom of the route, or try to bypass the top two pitches, or exit from the ice fall and go down the steep wooded slope parallel to the route. We decide on the latter, at least it will get us back to our bags eventually. It’s far too steep to walk so we abseil using trees. After our second abseil its dark, and we’re going to be very late picking up J&J. We can’t contact them because the mobile is in the bag at the bottom of the route. After seven abseils, including one where
the rope stuck and Martin gamely prussiked up to free it, we reach less steep ground where it was possible to rope together and weave our way through the trees so that there is always a tree between us in case we fall. The snow is falling quite heavily by the time we reach our bags and call J&J to explain what happened and let them know we’re on our way to pick them up. We get back to the car at about 11pm and head towards the Col du Lautret. The road to the col looks ominously quiet and soon we come to a sign that explains why: col closed due to snow. Martin, quite unfazed, says “We’ll have to take the detour via Gap”. “And how far is that?” I enquire. “Oh, about 130 miles” comes the reply. Another call to J&J advising them not to wait, and get a taxi. And then the long tiring journey from La Grave to Vallouise via Gap. I hadn’t thought it necessary to get insured to drive Martin’s car, thinking three drivers should be ample, so poor ole Martin had to drive all the way…which he did admirably, getting us back to the chalet at 3am on Saturday morning.

Saturday morning, and at least a foot of snow has fallen overnight, so no more play. We pack, clean the chalet, put on the snow chains, say cheerio to Gerry, and start the long slow journey back home.

What a brilliant week. Superb climbing, magnificent scenery, convivial company, and a first rate climbing partner.

Finally, thanks to Mike Hams for allowing me to break in his almost new boots, ice axes and crampons, and to Keith Lodge for the loan of his ice axes to Martin.

Mervyn Lamacraft

By Lou B, John B, Mike H, Adrian F, Pete K & Kearton, aided by Phil C, Steve C & John H – March 2004

Early March saw an IMC trip to Scotland, with nine of us looking
forward to some serious winter mountaineering activity. Mike H did a
wonderful job of organising things, and re-organising at the last
minute for a late-comer. We stayed in Newtonmore. Being less than 30
minutes drive from the south-east Cairngorms and an hour from Ben
Nevis, this is a very convenient location. Apparently we were due to
stay in a bunk-house, but there must have been some problem with the
accommodation and we were actually put up in two rather luxurious (by
IMC standards) bungalows. Central heating – need I say more! It was so
good, we actually stayed in a couple of nights. Lou says “Thanks to
John Boy and Mike H for cooking up a couple of yummy dinners, and to
Steve for cooking my breakfasts, and to everyone else who did the
washing up. It is strange to see how well the lads can cope when they
have to fend for themselves!”

We flew to Glasgow Prestwick airport on the Wednesday night, which, as
usual for such cheap airports is the wrong side of Glasgow, so it was
2am before we managed to roll into bed on the first night. Needless to
say, it was not an early start the next day. We bimbled into Aviemore
to collect supplies, and bumped into Nigel Walker! Then on up to the
Cairngorm ski car-park and a trip to visit the ranger for weather and
avalanche forecast. The later was not good, so we pumped the ranger
for information. Funnily enough they are not keen on telling you what
to do!

Climbing Report

Day 1

The climbers found out that there was a short grade I/II ridge between
Coire an t-Sneachda and Coire an Lochain on Cairngorm. The climbing
party set up that, whilst the walkers went up the ridge on the east of
Coire an Lochain. Despite being little more than a scramble, Lou and
Mike still needed a rope for one section – Lou to get up it and Mike
to try out some more exciting grade II/III which he rather enjoyed.
Once we topped out, the cloud came in and Mike and Lou then discover
they are considered as the navigators of the party! Luckily the
visibility was never bad all weekend! The descent was mostly easy
apart from a rather ratty looking plywood ski-tow bridge, over which
Lou did a “bum glissade”, whilst Mike, rather more painfully twisted
his left (good) knee.

Day 2

Day 2 dawned bright and dry again. For those of us used to Scotland
this was a little un-nerving of course! The avalanche forecast however
was still high (3 out of 5). The climbing team set off back to Coire
an Lochain – this time to tackle a grade I route called “The Couloir”.
As we entered the coire a magnificent vista faced us, and a few of us
got somewhat scared by the options. It looked as steep as hell! It
also looked unstable. Lou said there and then that she was not going
as she had responsibilities, so she bimbled up to wait at the top. The
rest went to examine the problem more closely, with the understanding
that they could always chicken out and go up the snow slope to a col
at the right hand side of the coire.

Somehow, there was an IMC onslaught on The Couloir. After all it was
given a grade one in the guidebook so “What could go wrong?” And it
was possible to avoid the Great Slab and the Vent, the two avalanche
black-spots in that coire. After a hasty lunch we geared up and then
it was onwards and upwards. We all looked to Steve as the experienced
one in the group for advice, agreed that we were all concerned about
the risk of avalanche, and basically decided to skirt up the right
hand side of the gully seeking a bit of shelter from the snow chutes.
We studiously avoided the clear line of tracks heading straight up the
middle of the gulley! We – errrrr – thought that was asking for
trouble!

Anyway off we went making our merry way, nursing burning calves up the
slope. We were drawn as said to the extreme right hand side, and soon
we were well high in the gulley and already starting to feel more than
a little “exposed” as we looked down the gulley. After a little while
Steve (“our gallant leader”) came to a halt as he was sinking in the
snow almost to hip level and he could not make any headway because
every time he tried to step up, the snow just crumbled. I think he
turned pale at this moment. His colour didn’t return until after half
a bottle of wine that night. He stepped across and hastily dug a snow
pit [to test for avalanche risk]. It was OK at first, but when he got
through the top he got to some bad stuff which offered no support at
all, i.e., the axe just went though – and then Steve really started to
shit himself!

We looked at our options, decided to go down a bit after traversing
across the slope to the more avalanche prone-come-exposed area, and go
up that. Steve bravely committed himself to start the traverse, and
commented once he was a few metres across that he felt “Very alone!”
Anyway, our gallant leader made it across the worst bit and I followed
with the rest of the team in hot pursuit. We carried on upwards until
Steve, in trying to follow a rocky line (so that we could gain shelter
off a rocky buttress and then traverse into the couloir – we hadn’t
even reached the effin’ route yet!), was rebuffed. He could not go any
further, i.e., could not get his leg over.

Then Phil decided to lead traverse number two. After a few minutes
gingerly crossing the snow he said it was getting a “bit soft” but
nevertheless carried on. We followed (shitting ourselves) and
eventually joined the track of footprints which we had hitherto
studiously avoided because it was “dangerous.”

Now at long last we were at the base of the route! The approach was
bad enough but we were committed, and it was a long, long, long way
down. John Boy set off first and I quickly overtook him as I was off
and running in my haste to get out of there. There were four of us in
that gully running on 100% adrenaline – mighty strong stuff is that!
The couloir’s snow/neve was OK, but boy was it steep! It was now a
very long way down. The ice-axes were not going to stop a fall, and
that tends to get one’s minds extremely focussed!

I was first out the couloir. Phil joined me and we took the time to
take in the views and look at some mad bastards doing some serious
stuff in the “Savage Slit” area. Lou saw from our harrowed features
that we’d had an adventure and she had made the correct call, although
it perhaps took a few minutes for relief to set in! I looked at my
watch and saw it was only 2.15. To my surprise we had only spent about
an hour and three quarters of on the route, so it was not really an
epic but it was very spicy!!!

A quick post mortem (I use the term advisedly) confirmed as a result
of our caution we had made things difficult for ourselves – but we had
enjoyed ourselves…………… I think. It was then time to bag a
couple of Munroes as we headed back to the cars. The group split into
two with Steve, Lou and I choosing to extend our walk over Cairngorm
whilst John and Phil took a quicker route down. We got down to the ski
centre and found that our taxi was not there! (Mike was having the day
off as his knee was giving him gyp). He turned up half an hour later
and drove us to Glenmore Lodge for some medicine to soothe the frayed
nerve-ends – a grand day out!

Two days later, that corrie avalanched.

Day 3

We all decided to head west for a change of scenery. In order to
maximise the chances of finishing before her bedtime, Lou suggested
that we all be ready to start by 8am. Rather scarily, we were all
ready to start by 8am. So despite a map stop in Fort William, we drove
to Beinn a Bheithir just before the start of Glencoe and started
walking by 10am. Being the milder west coast, it was not totally
surprising that there was not much snow.

The climbing party set off for the Dragon’s Tooth, and easily made our
way out of the forest. It poured down as we reached decision point –
attempt to scrabble up the horribly steep hill to the start of the
climb or just go for a walk. We walked. We tested out the IMC bothy
tent at the col as there was a bit of a snow storm over lunch. That
was really good, so lunch was a leisurely affair! One word of advice
however, if you ever have to go into one, face the wind. I sat with me
head on my knees every time the wind blew strongly. The walk had some
good exposure towards the summit of the mountain, quite exciting in
descent I should think. And then the weather lifted and we had some
glorious views – including some of our line of descent, and I for one
was glad of that! Steep, but safe.

Day 4

Well, Steve’s feet are knackered, Mike’s and John’s knees are worse.
Lou’s wallet was burning. Guess what we did. And we were joined by the
rest of the walkers.

In the pub the night before, Phil and John Boy had been discussing
plans for a quick climb before coming home – the plans were well
lubricated. Luckily Phil and John kept missing each other in the
morning, so we were able to persuade each of them that the other was
still up for it, so off they went and did a good blitz up a slightly
“boney” Jacob’s Ladder in Coire an t-Sneachda. John had borrowed
Mike’s axes, and gave them a good workout until he decided he couldn’t
carry the extra weight (and I don’t blame him) ….what were they up
to….? John Boy takes up the story.

Sunday dawned grey, grotty and with just a hint of hangover. Despite
insisting that it would be a tight call to get out, up and back (even
if we didn’t get lost…) in time to leave for the airport, Phil and
myself were positively encouraged by the rest of the ‘team’. I could
swear that I kept half catching a sly grin quickly hidden by a bacon
buttie or a mug of steaming tea. Hmm… And the cottage/bunkhouse was
warm and cosy… but our big plans made in the pub the night before
were not to be thwarted (though we did try a couple of quick thwarts)
and off we set.

Mike dropped us off at the Cairngorm car park, and off we set for
Coire an t-Sneachda with the weather improving to just plain manky. We
didn’t care, the fresh snow underfoot and icy winds conspired to drive
out the remnants of last nights hangovers, and we were pleased we had
got out for the last day. We reached Aladdin’s Buttress and watched a
party retreat from our chosen climb which had a nasty looking ice
bulge blocking the route about 150 feet up, so it was decided to
traverse across to The Mess of Pottage and take a look at Jacobs
Ladder. Alternating the trail breaking in calf/knee deep snow we
panted up to the snow slope below the climb. By this time both Phil
and myself were well knackered. The visibility was still very poor and
we were getting pushed for time, so we agreed the sensible option was
to abandon the climb and head back. We had enjoyed just getting out
for the day, and with just the two of us, there was no time for an
epic. A sound piece of mountaineering judgement; I felt quite proud
to be so sensible.

Unfortunately right then the sun broke through the cloud and lit up
the most stunning ice and snow covered vista of the weekend. It would
have been very rude not to! So with grins as wide as the coire we
geared up in a flash and were off on the route. The going was steep,
the snow slightly more consolidated than on Saturday’s climb so shaft
plunging was the order of the day until a very ‘boney’ rock outcrop
about 200 feet up was reached. VERY careful pick placements were
required as we were soloing for speed and it was a flippin’ long way
down! This just about exhausted us, but with the snow being too loose
to cut a rest ledge there was no choice but to keep on climbing and
curse our pumped arms and burning calves. Anyway, only another hundred
feet to go… what could possibly go wrong? I mean we were even
catching another party up… that might be ‘cos they had reached the
crux… oh shit.

The last 20 or so feet were slightly overhanging rock with a very thin
plastering of ice. No way without protection and that 300 foot drop!
The alternate exit from the gully was a very steep mix of snow and
rock, and being horrendously exposed was no place for imprecise pick
or crampon placement. As we had no gear this was soloed as well, the
exposure certainly helped me focus at this point…A stunning climb
with a real sting in the tail!

Now all that was left was to get off the top, exhausted and with no
visibility. What could possibly go wrong? Phil giving me the map and
compass, that’s what. Luckily the sun reappeared briefly before I took
us too far out of the way and Phil performed a very fast, well
controlled glissade down the headwall of the Coire Cas. I followed,
gaining speed rapidly until my heels suddenly dug into the snow
throwing me into a series of dramatic feeling somersaults and cart
wheels, eventually managing to get my weight onto the axe and arrest
the fall. The rest of the walk out was uneventful until we reached the
bar and realised I’d lost the (borrowed) ice hammer. I was so upset I
had to drink beer. An absolutely excellent day in the mountains but
not quite as cheap as I had foreseen.

The Walkers bit

Day 1

John, Adrian & Kearton set of for an ‘easy’ loop around the climbing
area, but after only 20 minutes the mountain made its move by grabbing
Kearton’s boot and not wanting to let go. John & Adrian were all for
using penknives to cut the leg off, until they realised that they
would have to carry it back to the cottage for it to be sewn back on.
Then it was a case of removing gaiter & foot before extracting the
boot with as much force as possible.

The walk to the top of the plateau above the climbs started in
sunshine but ended in a blizzard. At the top of the ridge Adrian was
insistent on reaching the actual peak (Cairn Lochan) marked by a
cairn, despite it being on the edge of the cliff, both of which were
now invisible. “Just walk until you hear someone screaming.” he
insisted. “OK. You can lead.” was the response.

Luckily the mist lifted several times en route allowing us to get to
the cairn safely and then track around to the top of the ridge to meet
the others. As we neared the ridge we spotted the colourful image of
Phil’s home made jacket, and were just about to say hello when we
realised that the hooded figures weren’t our party. Someone has
obviously been copying Phil’s handy work (Time to sue?).

We then headed – indirectly at times – to and up Cairngorm and stopped
for a snack at the top whilst admiring the weather station. Adrian
said he fancied having a weather station at home. It must have heard
this as it quickly withdrew into its shell. The route down followed
the now empty ski runs and we got to the cars just in time to meet the
others.

Day 2

Lou decided that the walkers needed toughening up ready for the trip
to the west coast the next day and set us a long, but not so high,
walk to and up Bynack More & Beag. After dropping off Phil at Glenmore
lodge we headed off along what proved to be the most dangerous part of
route – the first kilometre along the track. It was covered in lots of
ice, so we considered putting on crampons there and then. After we
reached the end of the ice Adrian and John picked up the pace to make
up lost time and we reached a stable before the start of the hill.

From there it was a long steady slog over a snow covered track
(although the snow didn’t really start until we got up to ~800m).
After lunching at the base of Bynack More the sun came out and we
warmed up quickly kicking steps up the steep, firm snow. At the top
the sun highlighted the beautiful snow and ice formations on the rocks
and many photos were taken of these and the excellent views.

The route back was less interesting, especially the boggy track back
to the stable. From this point we made numerous partially successful
attempts to contact the others, but it was only when we got back to
the car that we got the only clear communication – a note under the
wiper saying that everyone else was in the bar at Glenmore Lodge,
where else?

Day 3

After actually getting away by 0800 we met up at a car park at North
Ballachulish. Louise had identified an easy but long walk for the
walkers.

“Just go over this bridge, up through the forest and onto the ridge.
We’ll meet you on the main ridge at lunchtime if we can get up the
climb in time.” These words were to echo in our heads for the rest of
the day.

We found the bridge but thereafter the troubles started. The path led
straight into someone’s garden. After much discussion we sneaked
though it, through a gate and into the base of the woods. The initial
steps were slow but steady, trying to find a route to the base of the
ridge. There the real fun started. What had looked like a fairly clear
area consisted of chopped down trees, stumps and holes with no clear
route through. After an age we reached the forestry track only to
encounter much the same conditions on the other side. Even when we
eventually reached the edge of this horrible terrain, we found
ourselves on a steep bushy heather covered slope struggling to make
progress.

Eventually John found a track which we struggled up to get our first
real glimpse of the ridge. The first 150m of height gained had taken
us over two hours and we only managed 450m by the time we needed
lunch. The sun had come out by now and we looked forward to exploring
the wonderful vista whilst consuming our hard earned sarnies. However,
it wasn’t to be. No sooner has we sat down than we were hit by strong
winds, rain and sleet.

After lunch we headed on up, into the sun, over numerous false tops
and eventually got our first view of Sgorr Dearg at the end of its
North ridge. From this distance it looked like a knife edge, and John
and Kearton started having reservations. Adrian was in a more
confident mood, despite his cold, saying that things often looked much
worse from a distance. At this point we also got excellent views of
the central peak of Sgurr Dhonuill (actually 23m lower than the first
peak, but possibly scarier) on the west side of the col, and could
make out six figures setting of up the ridge towards it.

By the time we reached the snow line we had realised that we wouldn’t
be able to make the whole ridge in a day. This was reinforced when we
met a guide and his party coming down from the peak, who advised us to
hurry up as the weather was closing in. He told us that there as a
safe path down from the col (the climbers ascent route in fact!),
which we decided to take. The snowy section at the top was, as Adrian
had suspected, not as bad as it had looked from below.

After a brief stop on the peak for photos and a snack we headed down
to the col just as the snow started. The path was slow in parts but
got us to the forest safely. There the fun started. With no clear path
to follow, we headed into the forest hoping to pick up the forestry
tracks. After several aborted routes we reached some picturesque
waterfalls and, despite several attempts, failed to find a safe route
past them. Eventually we headed back up to the forest boundary only to
find a well worn path lying just outside the fence. This led us
eventually to the forestry track. Much debate followed as to which
part of the track we were on, but a decision was made that led us to a
junction as expected.

Now according to the map an extra road should have been present, and
another debate followed resulting in a decision to head of towards the
mouth of the valley. This track took us much further out of our way
than expected, and yet another junction did not appear. (This adds
fuel to the argument for taking 1:25,000 maps as well as 1:50,000).
Eventually we rounded the hairpin we had expected to see twenty
minutes earlier and spotted the bridge across the stream. Just as we
reached the bridge, who should appear but the climbing group. They had
in fact found the path we had been seeking (it had been hiding).

After reaching the cars we decided to hit the local hotel bar for a
drink before heading back to the pub in Newtonmore for a meal. Plans
were thwarted once again as the bar wasn’t opening for some time. It
wasn’t even a Sunday (who says Scottish opening hours are better?), so
back to Newtonmore it was.

After a quick wash we headed off to the pub. The quickest out of the
door mentioned an easy path across the fields from the cottage and
promptly rushed off. The others, including Adrian in his Sunday best
shoes – but not his Sunday best mood, were left to pick their way
across the blackened landscape whilst trying to spot torches ahead.
After several meanderings we found a path around the edge of a field.
This however led us into thick brush and thorn strewn trees, then
diverting into a stream before eventually leading us into the village.
We did eventually meet up at the only pub serving food and liberal
quantities of Isle of Skye beer.

One other point worth mentioning is the wildlife. During our walks we
saw grouse, mountain hares, a ptarmigan, and in the cottage’s garden
we even had a buzzard and a stoat or ermine.

So, despite the fact that the snow conditions were not brilliant,
<Scottish accent> “boney” </Scottish accent>, and also very unstable –
we had a really good time – helped by the fact that the weather was
good so we could get out and about and enjoy the mountains. All in
all, an excellent trip. Thanks to Mike for organisation and both Mike
and John Boy for the catering.

And the worst thing about the trip? A climber says “We carried ropes
up the hill, we carried the gear up the hill; We carried ropes down
the hill, we carried the gear down the hill; We carried ropes up the
hill, we carried the gear up the hill; We carried ropes down the hill,
we carried the gear down the hill; We carried ropes up the hill, we
carried the gear up the hill; Why?” And do the walkers have a problem
with the tricky nature of Scottish paths?!

The End

By Darren Lambert – June 2003

I had been waiting for a chance to attempt this classic
mountaineering outing for years. May/June seemed to be the
ideal time for an attempt, so when our old mate Tim came
looking for potential partners, he needed to look no further.
The combination of school & public holidays in France &
UK, and the amount of annual leave left only a narrow window of
opportunity. The plan was to travel to Skye on the Wednesday,
walk to the start of the route on Thursday evening, bivvi,
complete the route on Friday, travel home on Saturday, attend
Mark Smith’s xth birthday party in Suffolk on the Sunday
(where for the mathematicians, 30ish<x<50ish).
Best the weather be good on Friday then.

The forecast looked reasonable, but by no means conclusive,
however we took a chance. Clare & I set out for Skye as
planned, picking up Tim at Glasgow airport, and arriving in
Glenn Brittle around 2am Thursday morning. As we emerged from
our tents at 8am, we took stock of our surroundings – plenty of
campers, the sea, the beach, and the low cloud. No visible
ridge. A call to the Culverhouse Weather Centre however
revealed a good forecast for Friday, and the instruction “Go
For It!”. So go for it we did. After a couple of hours
agonizing over how much gear (weight) to take, and a couple of
hours driving the car 15 miles to Sligachan then cycling back,
we set out for Gars-bheinn at around 6pm. Between three we took
two 50m half ropes, a basic rack (nuts 3, 5-10; Friends 1.5,
2.5, 3.5; two mid-range hexes; 4 quickdraws; and two 8 foot
slings each). Personal gear – Bivvi Bag, waterproofs,
Thermarest (wimps), Lightweight Sleeping Bag (wimp), food, 4
litres water, harness & helmet.

One of the guides describes the ascent of Gars-bheinn’s
scree slopes as “an early test of character”. Another mentions
“purgatorial”. I couldn’t describe it any better. We arrived on
the summit at 9.30pm, in the cloud, and it was cold – the bivvi
spots are right on the summit. Straight to bed then.

We had set our alarms for 5am although I didn’t need it. I
had been counting down the seconds since about 3am when I woke
up feeling quite cold. Clare seemed in the best humour as she
claimed to have been just warm enough in fleece, full Gore-Tex
and sleeping bag. I couldn’t wait to get moving.

We met a couple of disheartened souls travelling in the
opposite direction, just before the ascent to Sgurr nan Eag. It
turns out they had bivvied in Coir’ a’ Ghrunnda and were off to
bag Gars-bheinn, however they had already got lost in the cloud
on Sgurr nan Eag. They never did catch us. We were using Andy
Hyslop’s miniguide which we found excellent – very few wrong
turns over often complex ground. The guide saw us safely to
Sgurr Dubh Mor, and our second Munro. The cloud was kind of
clearing, and we were on guide-book time – just. Traversing
over Sgurr Dubh na Da Bheinn and down to Bealach Coir’ an
Lochain we overtook two more souls who had also bivvied in
Coir’ a’ Ghrunnda. They had bagged Gars-bheinn and Sgurr nan
Eag the previous evening – sneaky, and obviously not quite as
stylish as our own attempt of the whole ridge in one day. While
the sneaks scoffed cake, we scrambled up to the lip of the TD
Gap – reported to be the most technical bit of the traverse.
Abseiling into the gap we made a full assessment of the route
out on the north side – a steep green crack, absolutely running
with water. From the guide, we were to expect a grade of V-Diff
or Severe. Frankly, the theoretical grade was irrelevant. Rock
boots wouldn’t have helped, even if we had them with us. It was
treacherous, to say the least. Tim lead it and made it look
hard. By the time Clare had seconded, the cake-eating sneaks
had already decided they had no chance of leading it
themselves. They asked if we would take their rope up. We did,
and we would be glad later.

After I had also made the climb look desperate, we packed
the ropes and continued to the summit of Sgurr Thearlaich,
making the obligatory detour to bag the third Munro – Sgurr
Alasdair, the highest point on the island. By this time the sun
was out and we could see most of the ridge ahead. We had lost
time on the TD Gap, and we seemed to have an awful lot still to
do. Descending into Bealach Mhic Choinnich we had a brief
debate about the line of King’s Chimney, the second part of the
ridge that called for ropes. We agreed that it was the
streaming, dripping corner crack (what else?) with the move out
right under the overhang. Again, Tim stepped onto the front of
the rope and made it look interesting. Easier than the TD Gap,
but rock boots would have been welcome this time – for the
traverse under the overhang. Three safely up and onto the
summit of our fourth Munro – Sgurr Mhic Choinnich.

A brief stop to pack the ropes, have a bite to eat, a glug
of water and survey the route ahead. We were now well behind
time, so we decided to miss out the direct ascent of An Stac,
which looked enormous. Instead we scrambled up an easier line
on the west side – to the base of the Inaccessible Pinnacle. A
stroke of luck – no queue. A team had just completed the route
and told us they had waited an hour and a half, due to a slow
team ahead. We decided to move together for speed, which gave
Tim the chance to tie his first Alpine Butterfly in anger. It
was a joy to climb on dry rock, and in such a fantastic
position. Within the half hour, we were striding off the summit
of Sgurr Dearg towards Midget Ridge and Sgurr na Banachdich,
Munro number six. This was a significant summit. It was as far
as Tim had reached on a previous attempt. This was also where
the ridge took a turn toward the north-east – making an escape
back to Glen Brittle ever further. It was 3pm and decision
time. We were three hours behind schedule, with an estimated
arrival time on the summit of Sgurr Nan Gillean of Midnight, if
the guide-book was to be believed. I felt quite disheartened at
this point however we made a decision to push on – the weather
was still good, and we had our bivvi gear.

Having made a slight wrong turn on the descent of Sgurr na
Banachdich, we re-gained the correct line over the pleasant top
of Sgurr Thormaid. The south ridge of Sgurr a’ Ghreadaidh
loomed ahead. The scramble up the ridge was very pleasant, as
was the traverse between false and real summits. At the summit
of our seventh Munro we met some very charitable chaps who
donated some vital energy in the form of chocolate and bananas.
Our water was low and Tim had run out of food. We were actually
going very well at this point, and I was perking up. We
scrambled down some tricky terrain to An Dorus then straight on
towards Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh, Munro number eight, followed by its
three tops, which provided the steepest and most technical
scrambling so far. Arriving at the grassy Bealach na Glaic
Moire, we re-assessed our position. 5.30pm and we completed the
last section in guide book time (just). Still on for a midnight
finish. The next section over Bidein Druim nan Ramh was billed
by some as the crux from the route finding and technical
scrambling perspectives. At this point we convinced ourselves
that we only had the resources to make Bruach na Frithe – still
four hours away. The Bhasteir tooth would have to wait for
another day. At least we had the chance to traverse Bidein in
good conditions, which would be valuable if we came back
another time.

Cracking on, and as the summit of Bruach na Frithe
disappeared into cloud, we set about the south summit of
Bidein. Good scrambling and very enjoyable, save for the
awkward descent into the gap between summits. Crossing the rock
that bridged the gap, the ascent to the main summit wasn’t half
as difficult as it had looked, however the descent on the other
side proved a little troublesome. We had been advised to spend
time looking for the correct route here – so we did. Eventually
we descended into the gap below the north peak via an unlikely
looking line – the first bit was quite tricky. The last bit
into the gap looked desperate to tired eyes, so we made a short
abseil. The north peak reared up ahead of us and our hearts
sank. The scree gully down into Coir a Tairneilear looked more
inviting, which is saying something. 7.30pm and we had been on
the move for fourteen hours. If we descend now, we might even
make the pub.

As it turned out the descent was quite challenging – loads
of scree to sap whatever energy we had left, followed by
unexpected cliffs where it had looked like a grassy downhill
jog. We drank from a very refreshing waterfall, which was
heaven after spending so long rationing water to small glugs.
With the main challenges over we had a choice to make. A four
mile walk over the moor to Sligachan, and the car – e.t.a. past
closing time. Or, a mile and a half walk to the Glen Brittle
road and the hope of hitching a lift to the campsite. The
latter sounded like the best bet, and we arrived at the road
just before 10pm. Clare virtually laid down in the road to stop
the first car – going in the wrong direction, and not even to
Sligachan. The second car was going in the right direction,
however it had five up so we didn’t even bother sticking out
our thumbs. Nevertheless, the car screeched to a halt, window
down. It was the sneaky cake eaters, with family. It turned out
they had baled out at the TD gap, but felt they owed us one for
taking their rope up. Without arguing, we spent the four miles
back to the campsite with our feet trailing out of their
hatchback – our rucksacks on their laps. Heaven. Beers at the
tent. Heaven.

So, a failed attempt but a fantastic day out. We’ll try
again one day. A world away but also thoroughly enjoyable was a
pint of Mauldons in Mark Smith’s back garden on the Sunday
afternoon.

Preamble:

Anyone reading what follows who was present at Millstone recently, or
heard about certain exploits through the club grapevine, will realise
that it was written earlier in the summer. However, I’ve decided to
leave it basically unchanged, and add a short postscript. (I should
also add that the first paragraph is not a reference to Martin S’s
fine efforts on Agony Crack – it too was written beforehand and wasn’t
a reference to any particular events).

Do you recognise the following scenario? You’ve anchored yourself at
the top of a pitch and are bringing up your (often, in my case,
slightly heavier) second. The top section is vertical, your partner
tires, and (expletive deleted) he or she is off. It’s at this point
you realise that (i) a dead weight on the end of the rope is a heavy
weight, (ii) you weren’t tied quite as tightly to the anchors as you
thought, (iii) belaying with the rope over your thigh wasn’t such a
bright idea, (iv) perhaps you should have backed up the belay with
another anchor point or three, and (v) “Just hold me there while I
take a rest” are not the words you most want to hear at that moment.

Somebody suggested recently that I might be persuaded to write a
newsletter article or two on safety points in climbing. My main
qualification, I guess, apart from professional interest, is that I’ve
built up rather more climbing experience than most, though it could be
that I’ve just been making the same mistakes as everybody else for
rather longer. This offering is entitled “Energy absorption in nylon
fibres, stress fractures in sedimentary and igneous rock formations,
and Gaussian probability theory”. No, just kidding. As you can see
above, it’s actually called “Falling off less often”.

If you’ve been in the situation I described above you’ll know how it
feels, particularly the nagging thought in the back of your mind:
“Just how good are those anchors?”. If you’ve not been there, you may
wonder what the fuss is about. The fact is that most of the time we’re
insulated from the full forces generated if our partner falls. When
belaying a leader, or a climber top-roping on the climbing wall, for
example, there’s normally a lot of friction in the system, through
karabiners, over rock edges etc, and there’s also our own weight to
act as a counterbalance should the climber fall. Unlike in the
situation above, the belayer doesn’t experience anything like the full
force of a fall, but the anchor or protection point which actually
arrests the fall certainly does. In fact, the force exerted on the
anchors when holding a second from above is just about the minimum
that the anchors can experience in a fall. It’s twice as great if
you’re belaying from the bottom, and potentially many times as great
in a leader fall.

Of course the gear we use these days is always strong enough for the
job (as long as we’re not relying on micro wires, rusty in-situ pegs
or 20 year old ropes). But is the rock itself strong enough? Have we
placed that Friend correctly (and is it still where we put it)? Have
we tied on properly? Is the rope running clear of sharp edges? Most of
the time it is, and we have. Occasionally it isn’t or we haven’t.

Not that this will necessarily result in disaster. Normally two things
have to happen together to cause an accident. There has to be a
serious fault in the system (anchor points or equipment) and the
climber has to fall. If the system is sound and the climber falls
then, distance above gear and/or deck permitting, the team should
emerge unscathed. If the system is poor but the climber doesn’t fall,
then the team will live happily on, probably none the wiser.

This is where the probability theory bit comes in, with apologies to
any science and computer buffs, racing tipsters and insurance types
who know more than I do about this already. If the chance of the
system failing is, say, once in a thousand climbs and the chance of a
climber falling is, say, once in a hundred climbs, then the chance of
both happening together is only once in a hundred-thousand climbs.
These figures are just hypothetical, of course, but I still reckon
this makes climbing safer than driving to the crag.

The problem with the above, however, is the assumption about the
chance of the climber falling. If we practice sound belaying
techniques, place lots of protection, always back up our anchors and
look after our gear, the odds are quite strongly against setting up a
system which will fail catastrophically on any given climb. Falling
off, however, is a different matter. Any weighting of the gear
(including abseiling, lowering off or ‘resting’, as leader or second)
technically counts as ‘falling off’ in this context, though obviously
full frontal ‘lobbing’ loads the system more heavily. The IMC has a
rather romantic attachment to lobbing (Lob of the Year Awards etc),
and the frequency of ‘falling off’ on an average club weekend is
certainly higher than the once per hundred climbs assumed above.

The message is becoming clear, I suspect. The more often we fall, the
greater the risks. If we fall off every time we climb, the chance of a
serious mishap is equal to the chance that the system will fail to
hold us. Once in a thousand climbs is probably not a bad estimate for
this but I, for one, was hoping to do rather more than a thousand
climbs in my climbing career. (I’m sure I’ve already done so by some
margin). I accept this is a little simplistic. Some types of anchor
(the lower-offs on the climbing wall for example) are a lot more
reliable than others. We normally give some thought to how good our
anchors are before deciding whether it’s ‘safe’ to risk falling off.
However, there’s little doubt that the easiest way stack the odds in
our favour and make our climbing safer (discounting giving up
completely of course) is to fall off less often. I’m not suggesting we
abandon ‘falling off’ completely. Pushing our standard occasionally,
whether as leader or second, is fairly essential if we wish to improve
our grade. A little practice in holding falls is also good for all of
us, particularly beginners, as is learning to trust the equipment. The
odd ‘lob’ is certainly part of the game (I can vouch for the fact that
one decent lob is sufficient to win the LOTY Award). It’s all a
question of degree, and in particular, perhaps, not spending too great
a proportion of our climbing time attempting routes that are likely to
prove too difficult and result in higher than average rates of
‘falling off’.

Well, now I’ve put pen to paper, I ought to hold up the mirror and see
how I measure up myself. Have I ever pushed my standards by attempting
a lead that’s likely to prove too hard??? Have I ever persuaded
someone else to follow (or lead) a route that’s probably a little
beyond them??? Perish the thought !. Perhaps, on reflection, I
might do it a little less often in future.

In fact, if I can avoid lobbing for the next few months, I might just
consider putting myself up for the 2003 inaugural IMC ‘Falling of Less
Often’ or ‘FOLO’ Award.

Postscript:

As hinted at in the preamble above, since writing this I’ve been
forced to admit, not for the first time, that I hit my climbing
ceiling at around E2. Unfortunately, on this occasion, I nearly
managed to hit the floor as well. I now seem to have become (rather
undeservedly perhaps) a candidate for my second ‘Lob of The Year’
award – any hopes of a ‘FOLO’ award have definitely evaporated.
Phrases such as “Humble pie” and “Hostage to fortune” spring readily
to mind…

Great Western

Eee, that Brunel chappie can certainly build a good route!

It has to be said that there were some rather brave words spoken the
night before in the pub (and not just by myself!) – ‘It’s got four
stars you know’ I remember saying, ‘A must-do’. The phrase ‘Chickens
coming home to roost’ sprang to mind as I looked over at it, but as I
traipsed to the bottom of the route with a disturbingly large number
of IMC ‘spectators’ (didn’t they have anything better to do for
heaven’s sake?) I was rather glad to see the route taken. It looked
steep.

Phew!

Sadly, however the team in front consisted of someone who was clearly
an E11 climber taking his (mere E1 leader) mate up a quick warm-up VS
sharing the same start. To say he made the initial common steep
layback section look easy would be to understate things – the term
‘saunter’ seems more appropriate. If he’d been a proper ‘ard
Yorkshireman he’d no doubt have rolled a quick fag whilst doing it
too.

I’m never quite sure what to think when I see a team on a route that
is probably near my limit. Is it worse to see the leader lobbing
repeatedly from the crux or cruising effortlessly, obviously well
within his/her limits? I mean, if the bloke’s that good what’s he
doing on a VS? Surely it’s got to be a complete sandbag?

Pushing these thoughts to the back of my head – it’s a bloody VS
layback for heaven’s sake – you can see the jugs – and he laced it
with gear. I stand at the bottom and contemplate the initial steep
move. The presence of a large band of spectators magically pushed out
of my mind by the thought that this looks rather steep for rather a
long way. Right then, gear in, grab the edge, pull hard and I’m going.
Not that bad really, some bridging footholds reduce the stress on the
arms and quickly I’m near the hand traverse level. I’m sure there’s a
nice jug about 5ft up (that E11 leader had a quick cuppa there) and
these footholds aren’t that good so it’s a quick sprint upwards to the
safety of the jug and, hallelujah, jug it is. More gear in and I
contemplate the hand traverse, now about 4ft below, realising that
this position isn’t quite a rest – oh dear.

The traverse had looked scary from the ground and it didn’t improve
much close up. Yeah sure, I could now see that the handholds were
mostly OK but how about that bit there, or over there? The footholds
don’t bear thinking about at all. I lean down and stuff a Friend in
near the start of the traverse line and retreat back to the jug. I can
easily imagine quite an extended stay attached to the jug at this
point, shame I haven’t brought the portaledge I think. Eventually, I
decide I can delay things a bit further by adding a second Friend a
bit further along the traverse line. So it’s down the crack a little,
slam the Friend in and clip. At this point, my conscious brain is
about to tell my muscles to send me scampering back to the jug except
I find I have both hands on the traverse line and I’m moving leftwards
– how the hell did that happen? In the confusion the autopilot
continues to run and I absently admire it at work on the traverse –
damn! Why can’t I climb like this all the time?

Autopilot abruptly kicks out at the end of the traverse and I’m
hanging there on a single sloping foothold, a mediocre jam and a
decent lip on the traverse line. Its overhanging about 20 degrees and
the last gear is now 8 feet away – time for a quick decision. I’m off
autopilot so it’s into full coward mode and out with the gear. I mean
this lip is pretty good, I reckon I can hang off it for ages no
problem and anyway I can just about hang on this jam. Friends are on
the wrong side of the harness but I reckon the crack will take a hex
OK. A bit of wiggling and the hex is in. Don’t want it lifting out, so
it’s out with an extender and the growing realisation that the clock
is running in my forearms.

Some abortive fiddling around ensues; I’m sure that good edge has
shrunk and if this was at Cape Canaveral some American with a deep
voice would be clearing his throat in front of a microphone. Right
then, time for a last go at clipping that extender in. A bit of
fumbling and the extender is heading earthwards – bugger! The gasp
from below to reminds me that I’m not alone in the Universe – er Hi
Guys. The chap at NASA has now turned his mike on and there’s no time
now for another extender. Thankfully the rope clips in quickly to the
hex and, oh goody, I can look up and contemplate the crux. At NASA the
countdown has now well and truly started although main engines are now
feeling distinctly below par. Still, no time to worry about that, foot
up into the vertical crack, jam in as good as it’s ever going to be
then it’s up with the right hand, that jam’s not as good as I’d like
but pull anyway, left hand up for a pinch, feet up and – Allah be
praised – jugs and a rest. A few minutes later and some perspective on
the world returns and I can think of things like adopting a more
elegant position than arse in the air, head in a hole (it’s not for
nothing that this point is known as ‘The Gargoyle’) and the fact that
some more gear would be a good idea. I’m peculiarly loath to leave the
depths of the resting niche so fiddle in a sideways nut in the depths
before squirming outwards to contemplate the final crack.

Mmmm, looks interesting – it may be only 10ft to the top but the route
is clearly not over yet – a gently overhanging jamming crack looms
above and I suspect that the spectators haven’t had their full value
for money yet. So it’s jam up, reach over the top and – not a bloody
sausage. So it’s a retreat back down to the niche for a whimper. Right
then, this time it’s got to go – up on the jams, foot on a tiny edge,
reaaaach over the top and yep it’s another rubbish jam but I’m going
up anyway, leg over the top and, flop, I’m there!

By ‘eck Petal, it’s a good route.

PS – Thanks to Pete for removing the gear and making all the
appropriate grimaces and grunting noises and to my faithful band of
spectators for avoiding the ‘Oooh, he’s a long way from the gear’
comments!

By John Penny – September 2003

Last Munro

The Last Munro. Ben Lomond – 25th May 2003

Sunday 25th May 2003 signalled the end to an eleven year journey (Ben
Vorlich in the Arrochar Alps being the first Munro I recorded on 26th
May 1992) to climb all 284 of the Scottish Munros. Initially I had
no real desire or intention to climb all of the Munros but being a
very keen hill-walker and a great lover of Scotland the idea to try to
do them all gradually evolved. My first experiences of Scotland were
20 or more years ago through expedition society trips to Glencoe as a
teacher, but after that I had about ten years when I didn’t visit
north of the border. The trip to the Arrochar Alps in 1992 was in my
half-term break and I was blessed with absolutely superb weather – the
seed was sown.

I have climbed the Munros in all weathers (as anyone who knows
Scotland will realise), sometimes all of them in the same day. Good
memories include sunbathing on Spidean Mialach (Loch Quoich) and a
truly wonderful day on Sgurr na Ciche with stunning views to Knoydart
and Skye. I was also blessed with excellent weather on my second
trip to Skye when I climbed nearly all the Skye Cuillin Munros (I
later went back with a climbing guide to do the Inaccessible Pinnacle
– I have never had pretensions as a rock-climber!). Climbing the west
ridge of Sgurr nan Gillean and standing on the top, picking out and
naming the mountains on the mainland, in perfect visibility will be a
memory that will never fade!

Less good memories include a truly horrible day on Stob Coire
Sgriodain and Chno Dearg when the weather forecasters (not for the
first time) lied. It would clear up later in the day (they said), so
I started late (after midday). Well it did clear up (for about 20
minutes) but nearing the top of the first Munro, the heavens opened
and didn’t stop until I returned to the car. It was a good job
no-one else was around as I performed a very damp striptease in the
car park. Others I have no wish to repeat are Gulvain (steep and
boring – blowing a hoolie on top and I was in the process of going
down with a cold). A’Ghlas-bheinn next to Beinn Fhada in Kintail –
which has more false summits than you can shake a stick at, especially
when there are no views, it’s raining and you are knackered after a
long day. It didn’t help getting the compass bearing off- beam on
the descent either!

Favourite hills – well there so many! The aforementioned Skye
Cuillins and Sgurr na Ciche certainly are right up there, plus the
obvious ones like An Teallach, Liathach and Ben Alligin, but there
were others too. The remote ones in Fisherfield for instance. I
remember a memorable day to reach A’Mhaighdean and Ruadh stac Mor from
Poolewe – a round trip of 25 miles, which took eleven hours. I was
rewarded, however, with perfect solitude and a clear day. From the
top, no sign of human habitation or roads are visible – a special
moment. I was also fortunate with the other four Munros of the
Fisherfield ‘six’. A nine hour walk from north to south from Corrie
Hallie to Kinlochewe, thanks to my brother-in-law Peter, who took me
to the start, having left my car at the southern end on the previous
evening! I saw no one, until the walk out, all day and was blessed
by the clouds staying high until I was descending from the last top.
There are a few remote lochans up there that are magical. Ben More
on Mull is a cracking hill too, with a fine airy ridge. From the top
all the islands are spread out before you, from Jura to Rhum, even
including Staffa of Mendelssohn’s Hebrides Overture fame. I was
fortunate to share the summit with four other people who were there to
scatter the ashes of a relative and to toast him with 25 year old
whisky! The hills of Knoydart are special as well. I was fortunate
to have good views on Ladhar Bheinn, as the clouds obligingly parted
for the length of the time we were on the summit ridge. Luinne
Bheinn and Meall Buidhe were also done in splendid weather (Luinne
Bheinn on the second visit as the first had not been a good day).

Many Munros I have climbed solo and it is a wonderful feeling to have
that space, solitude and silence, so alien to much of modern life.
It has come to mean more and more to me as a means of escape and of
putting everyday cares and work into a much needed perspective.
Nothing seems as bad or as important from a fabulous viewpoint on the
top of a mountain. I would hate people though to think I am totally
anti-social. Over 70 Munros have been climbed with my good friend
Ian and his two dogs Cuillin and Aonach and much ribald and surreal
banter has been heard on the way. One of the most worrying events
also happened with Ian, when, on Ladhar Bheinn the first time I
attempted it, Cuillin fell several hundred feet and Ian had to carry
him off the hill. A truly impressive feat by Ian as Cuillin is a
large Labrador! In the early days I also used to walk with Andy
Bluefield’s North-West Frontiers and it was through them that I
engaged Winky O’Neil to coax me up the Inaccessible Pinnacle and other
Skye Munros. Pete Krug also experienced the JP hill-walking style on a
trip based around Crianlarich. I hope I haven’t put Pete off
Scotland (or me!). We haven’t been able to repeat the trip since!

So to the final Munro – Ben Lomond – a nice straightforward hill that
even my non-regular hill walking friends wouldn’t mind tackling. We
were 16 – Ian, Brian, Morag, Julie, Jenny, Sal, Janet, David, Sundera,
Robin, Celia, Leonie, Christine (my sister), Peter, Sally (my niece)
and me (plus four dogs!). We were lucky with the weather (the
previous day had been littered with heavy storms) and we even had some
good views from the top. What made the day truly memorable, however,
were the two other groups on top. Firstly there was a Scottish lady
completing her Munros with the same hill on the same day as me.
Secondly we witnessed a marriage ceremony take place at the trig
point. The bride didn’t wear white, needless to say, but the priest
took the service in the normal way and we all sang Amazing Grace to
the pipes. Amazingly the groom was from Colchester and other guests
were from Ipswich and Hadleigh! As they say – you couldn’t make it
up!

What has this odyssey taught me? Well I could talk about things like
self-reliance, determination, planning ahead, all of which are
relevant of course, but the thing that keeps coming back is what a
wonderful place Scotland is (even on the grim weather days). How lucky
we are to have it so relatively accessible and how lucky I am to have
been fit enough to do all this. Where and what now, I have been
frequently asked since completing? Well that is not really a problem.
I’d like to go back and re-climb many hills from which I saw nothing
(I’m an expert on the insides of clouds!) and also many hills which I
thoroughly enjoyed. I’d like to visit many of the islands (Harris,
Jura and particularly Rhum) which do not have Munros on them. Hill
walking and mountaineering has never been only about Scotland and
Munros and during the eleven year period I have also visited and
climbed in the Alps, Russia, Romania, Nepal, Ecuador, Bolivia, Morocco
and Corsica. This summer I’m off to Mongolia. As long as there are
hills, I expect I’ll want to walk in and climb them!

By Peter Krug – June 2006

Those of you who read my normal scrawls will read of tales of
derring-do, or not as the case may be, in the wild and remote parts of our
country but for once I will tell a story of escapades in a much more urbane
setting. Actually I meant urban because people tell me that urbane is
something I am not but I only put that in for a cheap joke and please note
that was clean so it probably wasn’t a good joke.

I digress somewhat completely as I don’t do things half-heartedly but I
thought I would share the experience of the London Marathon (and that is a
Full and not a Half Marathon just to carry the dodgy puns further that they
really ought to go) with anyone that would care to read.

Anyway, Sunday 23 April or St George’s Day dawned shockingly early for
some of us as we were due to catch the bus, dubbed the “Magic Marathon Bus”
by one of me, organised by the Felixstowe Road Runners, at 5.45 a.m. and
head off to Blackheath and join 36,000-odd other punters on the festival of
masochism otherwise known as “The (Flora) London Marathon.”

IMCers were well represented on the bus as I enjoyed the company of
Louise and El Sec Mervyn Lamacraft and his breadknife. That Mervyn and I
were competing obviously worried some of the elite athletes like Paul
Tergat and somebody called Paula Ratcliffe (who had shamed herself the
previous year by using the streets of London as a public convenience and
did not even get an ASBO for her troubles) who withdrew from the event.

The trip went uneventfully and we were dumped at Blackheath at about
8.00 a.m. when most normal people were only just starting to think about
consciousness and just as it was starting to precipitate ever so slightly.
Nerves and butterflies were rising now as the enormity of what I was about
to undertake and the atmosphere of the event itself started to take effect.
You could not only smell but also almost taste the air of expectancy as
runners and supporters gathered at the starts and most of us were not
thinking of winning the event but simply surviving it.

Doubts started to creep in (yet again). Will I finish? If so how fast,
or more likely slow, will I be. How are my injuries (I had some hip
problems after my final big training run and had hardly trained since and
this was compounded by possibly cracked ribs attained by falling off my
mountain bike in the Brecon Beacons two weeks previously)? Will I beat the
“Run for Glory” runners? And most importantly will I beat Jade?

After about an hour mincing around on Blackheath doing little except
surreptitiously smuggling out some warm refreshments from the “athletes
enclosure” for our supporters before the race was due to begin. At “T-minus
25 minutes” or 9.20 a.m. it was time say goodbye to our entourage and make
final arrangements – change, deposit our stuff on the baggage lorries,
loosen up and make a final call of nature (I made for the urinals as the
announcer advised that the queues “were flowing freely” (and they were)) –
before heading for the start line.

It was now that my careful race tactics and planning started to go
awry, or to ratshit, as I prefer to put it. I was concerned about
route-finding (and I suppose Mervyn was too) and then I thought “that won’t
be a problem as all I would need to do would be to follow the lead car” who
I assumed would know the way. However, somewhat mysteriously I was herded
toward starting pen number six which was miles away from the start.

The start was “well and truly nigh” and suddenly we started edging
forward. I never heard the starting gun. We broke into a trot and I could
see a truly awe-inspiring sight of thousands upon thousands of bobbing
heads ahead of me. I crossed the starting line, started my stopwatch and
was immediately stopped in my tracks as everybody in front of me slowed
down due to some kind of blockage ahead of us.

Within about two hundred metres of the start were the first of a lot of
toilets along the marathon route but even more impressive was the number of
people heading towards the walls and fences on the other side of the road
choosing to save a few vital seconds by watering the walls and fences of
London. Why should a call of nature prevent a potential PB? After all there
was still another 26 miles 185 metres to go and every seconds counts!

I was taking care to avoid all the porta-loos having been warned by my
physio who had heard of a competitor being pole-axed after about 5 miles
when he ran into a door that had been opened by an exiting competitor! The
lengths that some people go to in order to prevent being overtaken! In
spite of this some things just can’t be avoided as the pre-race hydration
started making itself felt in my bladder and, just before the two mile
marker, off I toddled to a free segment of wall or fence (the details are
somewhat unclear) to relieve the pressure.

Meanwhile in the race itself the pace was hotting up after an
incredibly slow eleven minute first mile and by mile three I was steaming
away on 9-minute mile pace! I might add that the steam was not caused by
the pace of the race but rather frustration at the lack of pace. There were
just too many people so you just had to grin and bear it and enjoy the
occasion and hope things might open up a bit later on in the race.

There was some banter when the competitors of the Red and Blue starts
converged after about three miles. There were a lot of fancy dressers – I
passed a rhino at the start (testament to my fearsome pace) and fairies
(men and women dressed as such rather than any effeminate gentlemen) were
two a’ penny – there were a few uggy-uggy-uggies……………. But most of all I
remember the crowds. They were phenomenal in their support and appreciation
of the endeavours of the runners. It was apparent that many had an early
start in the pubs and as a consequence they cheered all the more heartily
and the noise was incredible no more so than in “The Docklands” where the
pavements were lined five or six people deep. It was similarly noisy in the
Mall.

I am no fan of big cities and wasn’t paying too much attention to all
the “sights” but I do remember passing the Cutty Sark after six miles and
the most memorable sight for me was turning around a corner and seeing
Tower Bridge in front of me with the spectacular sight of thousands of
runners stretched before me. The view was somewhat marred by seeing the HQ
of my former employers in the background but let’s not get bitter and
twisted Pete!

And how was the race going for me? Not too well but I was trying to
enjoy the occasion. I have whinged about the pace, which is my excuse
(together with high sugars), as I was not running at my natural pace. The
injuries seemed ok. I remember that having studiously ignored the advice to
try drinking that lucozade sports stuff during training runs I then tried
it after ten miles on the real thing and as a consequence, after about
thirteen miles, got mild stomach cramps. Things deteriorated after about
sixteen miles when the cramps moved downwards into my calves. After about
twenty-two miles things went into a bit of a decline because I was
completely chin-strapped!

After twenty-three and a half miles I stopped running and joined the
multitudes that were walking – at least I wasn’t throwing up so things
weren’t all bad. I was looking for inspiration and suddenly there she was
…………… she passed me and then I could see the magical words of inspiration
that I was seeking. There, emblazoned across her back ……… Norwich Road
Runners. No way was I going to let someone from Budgie City beat me so I
broke into a stagger and then raised my pace to a trot and finally surged
to nearly running pace and I was now on the Embankment.

I reached the Houses of Parliament and as we turned into Birdcage Walk
there was less than a mile of torment left. My spirits were lifting as I
knew that I was going to finish; indeed I was starting to overtake people,
and the crowds cranked up the volume another notch. I waved to Her Majesty
who I believe was celebrating one of her birthdays. I turned the final
corner, and there before me was the sight I had been dreaming of during all
those months of training and the countless miles of pounding the streets:
THE FINISH LINE!!!!

As I closed in on the finish I mistimed my “arms in the air
celebration” and as David Coleman would say went too soon. I was so tired I
could not keep my arms up. I could hear the announcer muttering something
about Matthew Pinsent just entering the finishing straight and I didn’t
want to let that lardy so-and-so beat me and this would mean I would beat
an Olympian! And then it was all over – the job as Mike Hams would say was
a “good’un!” I could now be proud and happy. I had finished and it was now
a case of getting the formalities over and picking up my baggage and
finding my entourage. I found that my legs were so stiff and I couldn’t get
down – I mean sit down.

Fun and games ensued to the bitter end as we Felixstowe Road Runners
(and accomplices blagging a lift to London) fought off various errant
Jaffa’s who invaded our coach in the mistaken belief that our coach was
going to Ipswich of all places! Actually we left the fighting to the driver
as we were too shagged to care.

Just for the record, I completed the race in four hours three minutes
and twenty-two seconds finishing in 12,469th place! My achievement was
nothing compared to Mervyn’s who finished in a good time, raised over three
thousand pounds for charity and made a TV appearance by being seen
staggering in the background as Sally Gunnell was interviewing JJ Luck from
the “Run for Glory” team. And yes, I did beat Jade! And yes, I would do it
again! Now where are those training shoes………………?