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The familiar weight of a hefty sack swaying behind and a view over the misty, moss cloaked fairways of the Fort William course to one side. Bruce and I humpf along the delightful path, full of anticipation and also mighty glad to not be slithering up through the birch trees and muddy ruts of the old route. Yet again my luck is in and a bed awaits at the Charles Inglis Clark Memorial Hut. Read More...
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Part one : Friday (the Indian Rope trick)
The familiar weight of a hefty sack swaying behind and a view over the misty, moss cloaked fairways of the Fort William course to one side. Bruce and I humpf along the delightful path, full of anticipation and also mighty glad to not be slithering up through the birch trees and muddy ruts of the old route. Yet again my luck is in and a bed awaits at the Charles Inglis Clark Memorial Hut.
Beneath the face of Carn Dearg whitened by the light overnight snowfall, Nordwand enticingly tall and intricate (and no doubt out of condition), we arrive rather wearied at the stainless steel door and enter to reorganize, make some tea and decide on a route. It is 9.30am and we best get a crack on. Number 2 Gully Buttress it will be; not too long, Grade 3 and a Marshall line so the effort should be worthwhile. The sacks don’t feel that much lighter as we head out into a stiff breeze, accompanied by a whistle from the radio wind generator, to tackle the further slog up into the upper reaches of Coire na ciste.
Number Two gully really is a long way up the hill, especially after a 3.45am alarm call and with the steepening approach increasingly made up of powder snow. Up to our hips now, swimming upwards as the wind picks up the snow from our floundering legs and throws it straight into our faces. As each foot is weighted the snow collapses, so that the step up ends next to the previous foothole; I’m doubting whether we can even reach the foot of the buttress. The slope is around 45 degrees and normally I would be rather apprehensive of the white sweep beneath us; but now, a fall would result in a feather bed not a quickening slide.
At last, I reach some ice, sink both axes in and pull up to get my feet onto something that will bear my weight as I sink 2 screws and get Bruce and I tied to the mountain. Sorting out the snow caked ropes amidst a whirl of blowing spindrift takes some time, but then at last I get moving upwards. Progress is swift and surprisingly easy compared to recent exertions; the angle is steep for the grade, but the snow ice chunky and secure; I pause to place a quick screw and pretty soon hear the vague wookie call of ’10 metres’ as the gusts grow more violent. Well ensconced on the hanging snowfield, there is little on offer so I bang a peg into a slight crack on a small rock rib poking through the snow, plus a quarter depth warthog into a fissured turfy shelf; what the hell, I whack both axes into some reasonable neve and clip them too. Gazing outwards, a squall thunders up the couloir, shutting us in and plastering snow over us. Bruce appears with a grin; keen to get on and I don’t fancy hanging about much either.
“get something in soonish if you can, cos this ain’t fantastic”
He’s off double time, pausing for breath between surges as the snow becomes soft again and footholds tumble away beneath. Our line rises towards the top left edge of the snowfield, where a second icefall trends back towards the crest of the buttress. Bruce slows down nearing the icefall as the ground steepens, snow worsens and consequences of a slough become more serious. No doubt relieved to thwack a good placement into the toe of the steepening, a screw and bulldog swiftly follow and then the big man swarms up and disappears into the gully line above. Soon enough, another unintelligible bawl signals time to knock out my pegs and saddle up.
Arriving at the belay, chastened by the shaky snow and buffetting wind, I am met by a talking mask of ice and render assistance to clear the encrustation from Bruce’s charming visage. It really is cold, and the poor guy has another pitch to wait whilst I continue past, grabbing some slings and nuts. Easier ground now, weaving between ribs on firm snow towards the ridgeline on our right; quickly the rope is run out, with a bulldog and a nut between us, and I reach the last of the rocks. Only a sweep of snow and a small cornice left, but I am now on the crest of the ridge and the wind is fierce; with the rope probably almost out, I fear coming up short on the exposed slope above, where the wind might literally throw me off the route.
Right, belay just below the crest, on a level shelf, tied to 2 buried axes; let the bigger man take on the wind and the summit glory!
“Jesus I’m cold. It’s f***ing wild”
“I’ve left you this last bit; you’re heavier than me! Just go for it and keep walking, I’ll follow you when it comes tight”
Handshakes and smiles. Sunshine and whirling eddies of spindrift. Gully exits visible as a series of white geysers erupting onto the summit plateau. Our caked ropes carefully coiled ready for the abseil into 4; then some flapjack, water and banter. We are alone and the day is drawing late.
The marker post at 4 will help us out with an abseil; no sign of a breach in the cornice, and the buffeting wind means a closer approach is unwise. We go through the motions, checking and acknowledging the set-up, and I walk out towards the fountain of snow with a coil in my throwing hand. A good swing, tidy release, the rope uncoils outwards into space; stops, hovers and then extends vertically for 20m before powering over both of us and landing stretched down the slope towards Glen Nevis. We crease up.
Looks like we’ll be walking around the mountain. Bruce nods agreement. The sun has set. I extract a compass, set the bearing and we soon pick up myriad footsteps running down beside the Red Burn.
9.30pm and Cabey greets me with a relaxed looking smoke drooping from his gob as I pile through the door into the boot room.
“Big eyes, man”
 View From The CIC (Bruce Hay)
Part two : Saturday (“get some nuts!”)
Something a bit closer, rather lower, perhaps mebbe a shorter day?
North Trident Buttress. 200m. III*.
Back for afternoon tea, and we can make some inroads into the sackful of calories lugged up from Torlundy. That is assuming we get out the hut before too long. Accordingly, we eventually crunch out of the door at somewhere closer to noon than breakfast.
At least we are ready dressed, and aren’t carrying our harness, crampons, axes etc on our backs. Nor have we bothered with half of the rock climbing gear with which we were uselessly encumbered the previous day. The slope up to our route is firmer than the previous day, and our steep approach encourages a secure rock belay and well organized ropes. Bruce takes off around the corner on firm snow, patchy in stretches, and a shallow gully system is entered. Following up I continue into a short and narrow little gully topped by some nice looking steeper ice; a selection of old pegs and tape are clipped and then the steepness surmounted rapidly (the move is a little awkward and best taken quickly); above the gully narrows beneath a rock wall and I construct a belay from good nuts and a rounded rock bollard, although my weight is hanging outwards forcing my feet into the corners of my boots.
 Nick On Trident Buttress (Bruce Hay)
Bruce takes the next as a long run out up easy angled snow as the gully widens into a bay below an icy steepening; towards the end of the rope, on pretty poor snow and with the angle increasing, a big hex gives some relief after a frankly risible screw placement. The sun is out, our part of the mountain is peaceful, and muesli bars are summoned.
My pitch passes quickly in similar vein, ending on a luxurious snow ledge 15m beneath the icefall blocking further progress up the gully. Inspired by the horizontal ground, we break out cheesy oatcakes, dried fruit, flapjack and water.
The view from this belay ledge is constrained by rock walls, focusing on the hut far below and the rounded summit of Carn Mor Dearg opposite.
Gear exchanged, Bruce trots off up some more shoddy snow to reach the foot of the steepening; a frustrating attempt to place a screw, a desultory bulldog placement instead, and then some brisk progress upwards into thinner ice and crusted sugar snow.
Opting for speed over protection, mainly because there is none, Bruce winds out of view and the rope glides through my hands.
“Half”
After further movement the rope stops. Snow and ice begins to issue forth and I avert my eyes behind the rock, as whizzing and purring chunks head past.
“***!?%cks***ing*****!”
A tinkle approaches, I glimpse around my shielding rock just too late to respond as the team deadman flutters past only a foot beyond the end of my crampon points. I gaze after the aluminium plate until it spins over the lip of the steepening below, and after a long pause see it reappear as a tiny dot sliding down the approach slope, halt as it runs into the footsteps of the path up Coire na Ciste, and swiftly be claimed by a party who immediately hove into view from the direction of number 4. ***!?%cks***ing***** indeed!
An extender follows.
I await sight of a cartwheeling partner, and check my belay again. My harness is doing something unpleasant with one gonad, so I wriggle a bit to clear the way for any sudden loading.
Silence.
The rope sets off apace and soon I call ‘10’; after a few more minutes the call comes down, I extract the 2 nuts and set to work. The snow is not good; the ice is fat at the base, but thinning with height and requires some delicacy to exit from onto more fluffy/crusty snow. I am saved the inconvenience of extracting and racking gear. At the belay, your man Bruce is looking slightly unwell.
Encouraged by the guidebook length of 200m, I suggest that my pitch to follow will see us a good way to the finish. The angle is easier and a straightforward run out takes me out of the top of the gully onto a flat shoulder; the cloud has come down now, but it parts to reveal an impressive tower above me. Quite a lot above me. Bruce will not be pleased.
About when he rejoins me, we discover that it is rather later than we thought, and rapid progress will be required if we are to get to the top in daylight. We contemplate for a moment a traverse across to the fall line of Number 5 gully, which lays before us. However the light is now very flat and the slopes seem both steep and very heavily snow-laden, coming and going in the cloud, so we decide to stick to what we are on, aiming for some invitingly easy looking snowy grooves to the left of the tower.
I set off quickly traversing across the top of Moonlight Gully and then up the first of the snowy grooves. There is no gear, but my boots are sinking ankle deep in the snow and feel solid. The rope comes tight with a belay appearing just out of reach. I call down to Bruce, and as he starts off on the easy ground from his belay, I move up and clip to a sling over the boulder in front of me. Hollering reaches me from below, I holler back and soon Bruce is taking up the belay and I am scurrying over the last rocks, a fun icy groove and then up onto the solidly white plateau. It is snowing now. We coil the ropes as heavy flakes smother them; I dig out a summit route card, compass and headtorch, as does Bruce. It is rather dark, yet at the same time rather white; tricky.
Pay attention. Bearing, grid to mag add, bugger the bezel is loose, grid to mag add, arse it’s moved, bearing grid to mag add, in the name of.- stop moving will you . . !
“Here, I’ve a GPS, just wait for it to warm up”
Computer says nooooo.
Finally the compass sticks long enough to read the bearing and we stand up, arrange sacks, and a gust of wind flutters something from my pocket, away into whitey blackness.
“Was that the map?”
“No . . . . . er…yes”
Never mind, I have the bearing, we have a spare map, and thank goodness our route finishes on an OS approved feature. 160m on the bearing and the abseil post will be at our feet. Gulp. My torch is woefully underpowered, but Bruce has a floodlight and so we can walk confidently on bearing without diminishing to half steps leaning backwards, after-you-dear-boy shenanigans. Soon a swathe of sastrugi footprints guides us to the familiar frozen golf flag at Number 4, gratifyingly on-bearing and to great relief all round. Time to break open the remaining muesli bars, wethinks.
Abseiling through the fluffy cornice is spooky and exceptionally beautiful in the darkness, lit by the neon of an LED torch reflecting back off the curling layered wave of white and a galaxy of dancing snowflakes filling the air. The upper part of the gully is silent and comforting after the summit plateau, and we enjoy light-hearted banter as the ropes are once more coiled and the tension vanishes.
The walk down Coire na Ciste passes swiftly, especially the exit of number 4 where bottoms are deployed to good effect on the new snow. The spot of light in the hut window appears and we float down to join the bonhomie within.
“Look who it is” McCabe announces, cheroot hanging insouciantly from corner of mouth, as we clump into the boot room.
“What’s with your eye?”
“Ooh, there’s a story there . . . . big eyes, man!”
Part three : Sunday (“gettin higher baby”)
Sunday morning CIC. Oh boy, it’s a tough ask. The warm snugness of a sleeping bag or the rare chance of ice. Turmoil. Readybrek proves an inadequate reason to get up, but the glimpses of blue sky and rattle of the kettle stir us into action. Er, except Mr Hay. “Gubbed” he murmurs, “fancy a bit of time just right here, if that’s ok. Adrian and Ian are game so I’ll see you for a brew later”.
“What’s it to be?” asks Adey
“White Line looked awesome on Friday; I fancy a go”
“Chuck us the book”
Ian, looking every inch the street fighter, decides to give more eager youngsters the benefits of his hard-won wisdom, and so just the two of us set off briskly up the Ciste, zig-zagging up the steepening cone of Number 2 gully approach and then traversing over to the base of Glover’s. Meaty ice and a rimmaye form a solid belay on 2 screws; I take the ropes and Adey the jangly stuff. The ice is really good and the natural line takes him out of sight onto a sloping rake of snow leading to the base of the second icefall. It’s good to be out so high on a belay.
A party of two arrive as I am preparing, and take my ledge as I pull off onto the blue-white wall. After 10m the angle eases, leaving an airy snowfield up to the foot of a rock corner. Adrian is belayed on the ice of the top edge, where an impressive icefall meets the snow rake to left of a rocky rib forming the corner.
Immediately I am onto front points scuttling right and up from the belay into an ice scoop. Bulldog then icescrew to protect the belay, and now commit to reaching a shallow ice cave in the corner up and to the right. Leaving the scoop is steep and I struggle to attempt a flat footed rest as I put a screw in the back of the cave, itself really just another scoop but with an overhanging top which forces me backwards; I hunker on my haunches but find this reduces screwing leverage, and so start to flap a little due to the exposure into which I have traversed.
Once the screw is clipped of course I relax and find it is all fine and super after all; the line now steps left, up a nearly vertical ice pillar and then diagonally left over scoops and bulges to the top of the ice around 30m above. The ice at this point is hard and turquoise, crampon tips sinking only 10mm into the surface, and so I concentrate on keeping heels down flat and 3 good points in contact. It is really exciting stuff; I use the scoops as opportunity to sink 2 further screws and after steady progress reach the top edge of the ice. The angle abruptly eases as the icefall comes out onto another snowy rake running up rightwards; directly across this snow I see a solid icy boss where the next ice begins, and decide upon a belay. With rope stretch I manage to cross and get 2 screws and my axes firmly into the targeted bulge, before shouting down and getting comfortable on the belay. Looking around, and without guidebook to hand, I surmise the obvious line up the snow rake and around a corner seeming to lead back onto the direct line above us; I take the bulging awkward ice above my head to be a touch stiff for the grade.
Wrong. Adrian leads up the rake, placing a peg in the back wall before disappearing around the corner. The snow is again rather choppy which makes the rake feel quite airy with the 50m icefall beneath; I am thankful for the peg both as belayer and when it comes time to second, as the potential pendulum would not disappoint. Sure enough, as Adey suspected, the next belay feels too far right and seeing as it was my bright idea to head this way then I had better bloody well get us back on the correct line (to paraphrase the short discussion as gear is handed between us, whilst both trying not to look at the whimsical belay).
Glovers Chimney
Turns out that this route involves a good deal of diagonal lines above looming drops, even without the detours, and I really enjoy the easy crabbing movement back left with views across into Glovers and a complex face revealing itself in passages above. Finding a sound belay amongst all the shonky snow takes a little time, but I bring Ade up whilst hanging off 3 screws in a scoop within a wider snowy couloir of sorts. The line appears to continue left, then go up a little groove to reach a snow ramp heading straight up towards an obvious chimney cleft, as I helpfully indicate to a skeptical partner. This time it does work out. Pulling on to the ramp looks delicate
“Interesting”
“Interesting good, or interesting bad?”
No answer, but upwards progress so I guess not so bad. Although, I have seen him go all quiet before climbing some really spooky marginal crap in the past, and so do not rest entirely at ease.
Another full rope, as is traditional on winter routes, and I call upwards with the good news. A bit of yelling, followed by some silent scrabbling; chunks of snow sailing down, me thinking that perhaps the 50m call came rather too soon for Adrian and wondering what manner of imaginative belay has resulted. Nevermind; take out my own screws, clip slings around my torso, place dachsteins through my stiffly frozen leashes, and crab off to the left in the deep footsteps. The climb onto the rake is indeed interestingly poised above steep ground, and entirely free of runners; yet more simple but exhilarating stomping with axe handles sunk deep into soft snow, leading to a niche where the rake narrows and a hunched figure awaits.
Here we check the description, as the rake runs up into definitely hard rocky bulges and we need to get this bit right:
‘From the top of the snowfield, climb a short chimney, and then take a shallow gulley, that leads to open snowslopes which finish at the top of Tower Ridge. The route is open to considerable variation‘ .Right, that’s all clear then. Was that last bit the top of the snowfield, or perhaps it was the short chimney and we are now in the shallow gully? Is a rake like a gully?
Are we experiencing considerable variation? Off you go, Nick; here’s the rack.
The rake continues, steepens and becomes more icy (pause to place a solid screw) at the foot of a wide chimney dropping down from the left. This looks promising. I start up the steeper snow ice and immediately feel it in the calves and generally pretty tired all round; no time for rests or gear but the terrain is superb and the feeling of exposure magnifies as the rake shrinks beneath. 12m of this and the angle eases slightly, bringing duff snow and a wish for some protection; alas the rock crack to my right is too wide and flared, and what looked like a spike turns into a gently sloping rock on which my sling sits casually, with no intention of hanging on at all.
Anyway, it’s just my weariness calling for gear, as I am actually through the hard stuff and simply need to press on to the full rope length or a decent belay. This comes in the form of a great big thread between two well-frozen boulders on the spur defining the left side of this gulley exit. I tiein, relax and pull up the ropes on tired arms. Away to my right climbers are teetering along the crest of Tower Gap, level with me across a sweep of snow.
Leading through onto the evenly sloping snowfield above, Adrian soon runs out a whole rope and has to retreat a little onto the only belay available save for poor snow. The length of this final slope is a sting in the tail, and it is a pair of weary souls who kick up the last groove of Tower Ridge and finally tread onto the plateau.
“Berg Heil!”.
A handshake and a well-earned gulp of hot blackcurrant. Happy days. A bass-line riff from the mid 80’s in both of our heads. The white line blowin through our minds.
Nick Bowen |
