Great Escape. Nick Bullock.

While writing and stuck behind the screen of a laptop the minutes, hours, days, month’s race by, it could be two weeks since I returned from Scotland… Maybe it’s three?

Writing a memoire is a cathartic experience, writing and remembering makes me dissect and question, but most of all it makes me appreciate how time passes. Days, weeks, months, years – Winter-spring-summer-autumn, winter-spring-summer … The Swallows return from their time abroad – nest – rear chicks – catch fly’s, line the wires and chatter – and fly away again. Leaves sprout from skeletal branches, summer arrives and now the trees sport fine green bouffants, but before you know, the leaves wilt and wither and fall and once more the trees are alopecia with the first frost. Time goes so quick I wonder when, if ever, it will slow?

A few nights ago I sat at a table full of interesting people, two of them, I’m sure they would be embarrassed to hear, nestle near the top of my list for inspirational characters, people who influenced the way I now live. Pat Littlejon and Mick Fowler are by no means spring chickens, in fact they’re not Bombay Duck, steamed salmon or petit pois. I think you could describe them both as matured game, game that has been hung and marinated in fine wine. Sitting with Pat on my right and Mick opposite across the varnished wooden table, I peel the crispy skin from both their unassuming exteriors and beneath I find juicy accounts and rich adventure and tender memories. Think about it for a second, Caveman, Darkinbad, The Axe, Helmet Boiler, Heart of Gold, Il Duce, Linden, The Golden Pillar of Spantik, Taweche, and on and on and on…  Both have lived full lives, lives taken at times to the limit. They are both slowing a little, but neither appears to be ready to retire from a career of adventurous climbing, it’s in their blood, their flesh – slice and see the word LIFE. Pat talks of loose rock with fervour and young sparkling eyes. Mick gives his bad-boy cheeky grin and continues to talk about future projects in the Himalayas. “Oh well you know Nick, all of my objectives are too easy for you.” Yeah right!

It’s thrilling but also encouraging sitting and talking to people I thought were Gods to find they are the same as the rest of us, they get old, they ache and complain of being tired – the difference maybe is they remain keen and excited and forward looking, they extol a joy of life and vibrancy and energy. But the same physics applies to the Gods as to the rest of us; the clock does not stop ticking.

Every afternoon I train – sometimes once – a run, a climb, a circuit, a cycle, aerobics, a boulder, some pull-ups – sometimes I train twice. And at the moment when I train I see Canada – icefall, smooth scalloped limestone, wide frozen rivers, miles upon miles of weighed-down-with-snow spruce, big wide roads, fat snowflakes, slowly growing icicles, small wooden huts, steaming heater vents, condensed breath and adventure. I imagine the feel of frozen nose hair and the burn of lung skin with hours of frozen approach. I see and feel effort. I see and feel hardship and success. I see and feel life.  

On Saturday Rob Greenwood and I fly to Canada for three weeks. I have visited Canada four times and the country, its people, its space, its climbing never fails to invigorate me. And like the big climbs in Scotland it’s the longer adventurous climbs in Canada that appeal – Replicant, Rocketman, The Real Big Drip, Man Yoga, Cryophobia, Polarity, Striving for the Moon, Slipstream and many more –  the early morning drive, the long approach, the climbing, the weary walk or ski back to the car, the knackered drive back to Canmore. Life slows when living eighteen hour days, life becomes a fine wine to savour.

At times in life a junction will be reached and a choice made. The decision may be difficult. It may be wrong, it may be correct, who knows, but whatever, the decision has to be made because if it isn’t, before you realise it, time is gone, and this commodity, this most valuable resource that even someone like Richard Branson has exactly the same as you and me will be gone, squandered, run-out and all of your dreams will become just that … dreams.

At high school my English teacher called me sly. She told me that at least with the others, the other trouble makers – the disruptive, the loud, vulgar, obvious – she knew what they were – she could handle that – she could categorise, attach a label, put into a box … treat the same way.

She didn’t know if the work that I had presented was my own work or that of someone else – something I’d copied.

At first she marked me high, I passed CSE English literature with a grade high enough to gain an O-level – not that it mattered to me – and then she pondered, and she thought, ‘he must have cheated,’ so she marked me down.

I wonder what she would make of my writing today, I wonder if she still thinks I cheat?

In the course of writing a book to be published in September I have opened many memories. I have dug into my past, into England’s past. And how shocking some of it is.

So the question I’m sure you ask is …

“Did he cheat?”

And the answer is …

 “Of course.”

The drive from Roy Bridge to Lochnagar is becoming a regular occurrence. A slow twisting, mesmerising battle with fatigue and hare avoidance.

Arriving at the Glen Muick car park at seven pm, I shuffle, re-arrange, plug-in the stove, wrap my sleeping bag, settle down and wait. At some point the bundle of built up angry energy Guy Robertson will arrive.

Waking at four fifteen, breakfasting, coffee x 2, and walking, and walking. The col looking over the crag is never a disappointment, and now that the weekend is over the weather has once again turned drop dead gorgeous. Its mornings like this that make my frugal, roving existence worth more than any wage slip.

Three false starts, the clock ticks but eventually the Robbenator is cautiously creeping the technical groove of an E6 called Steep Frowning Glory on Black Spout Wall. He climbs beneath a huge roof which is passed on the left by using poor hooks and imaginary footholds and now he stands belaying on the sloping ledge at the top of the first pitch of the E3 Black Spout Wall. 40m, Technical 9. (The first two pitches of Steep Frowning Glories E6)

I start to climb, Robbo informs me that once I’m on my way it will be fine, but getting going is the second 5c pitch of Black Spout Wall and starting is bold, technical and scary. “Jesus, these sloping ledges give nothing.” Laybacking from a poor hook I reach… ‘Wonders’… a perfect pick slot and I’m away for a further twenty-five metres, burling on torques, passing roofs with imaginary feet. 30m, Technical 8. (The second pitch of Black Spout Wall. E3.)

Robbo joins me in the red of another sunset on Lochnagar and climbs the summer Link pitch three to stand on a crest beneath a wall split by several off-width cracks. After spending over six hours on the first two pitches the movement is welcomed. 30m, Technical 7. (The third pitch of Summer Link.)

Overtaken by the dark I pull into a steep off-width on the left of the wall. My headtorch beam fails to illuminate any footholds, well apart from the leg gobbling crack. Having climbed the Link Direct a few days before I can tell this crack leads to just beneath the overhanging finish of that route, I refuse to be stopped now. Stuffing a leg into the off-width my left leg scrabbles and flags, shoulders burn and up is the way, failure is not allowed. Suddenly I recognise my position; I’m halfway up the final crux pitch of the Link Direct. I consider belaying knowing how steep the final three metres of climbing is, but I know Robbo will crucify me and call me a southern pansy. 30m Technical 8. (The Inhospitable Crack of Black Spout Wall and final few moves of The Link Direct overhang crux)

“It will go to the left.” I shout but I can hear the gnashing of teeth and the cursing of my southern weakness, “The left, the left, traverse off the line, raaaa, never!” Robbo pulls onto the crest of the Pinnacle and belays on the summit.  60m.

Reaching my van at ten-twenty pm, I shake hands with the bundle of fury which now appears to be pacified and begin the hare avoidance driving across the moon lit moors. Finally, twenty-two hours since waking, I lie in my van outside the hut and wrap my sleeping bag around me. The moon shines just the same in Roy Bridge as it does on Lochnagar which is bright and full but the memories I have in my head shine even brighter. 

Winter Black Spout Wall. IX/9. 170m. 6/2/12. Robertson/Bullock. (Not enough stars in the system to start to think about attaching to this adventure.)

Riasg, the CC Hut at Roy Bridge is a modern bungalow. Sitting close to the radiator looking through the large window I watch the rain fall, it soaks the grey lichen stuck to the crisp bark of the silver birch. The rain pours darkening the straight and sturdy hazel – flattening the mole hills. Yesterday the whole of Scotland felt like an orange sucked dry, a barren frozen desert.  But for once I don’t mind the rain, it gives time for reflection.

Two days ago I dumped my van at the side of the road in the middle of Aviemore and hitched a ride to Lochnagar in Big Tim’s Transporter. On the way we passed Keith Ball who was parked-up in his van snoozing in some out of the way layby. Keith woke up and followed. It was so dry the moors were burning. Smoke filled the glens. White hares skidded into the road, twisting bendy bodies, wheel-spinning paws, large erect ears. The sun set behind the smoking moors, the sky a striped blue, red, grey and the moon began to glow. Stars flickered. Glenfiddich, Glenlivet, Arbelour, Tomintoul, The Spey River, houses that look like castles and hump backed bridges with bigger humps than camels. Driving through the stone town of Ballater we called into co-op and bought a bottle of Argentinian Shiraz.

Later, sitting in Keith’s van parked in the Lochnagar car park the rack was sorted – wires, nuts, torque nuts, cams, extenders, a few pegs and a couple of turf hooks – we drank the wine, chatted, ate a meal, chilled and eventually crashed. Outside the moon cast a shadow and ice silently grew.

Waking at 5am and walking into the Gar the following morning was magical. Chuckling grouse ran through the heather. Ptarmigan exploded in a flurry of white wings and the river with its dark peaty water flowed over rocks that had a lion’s mane of ice. Stars fade and slowly the night loses the battle with day and reveals stark beauty. The rocks on the col stood out in the razor sunlight like someone had hit the sharpen button on photoshop too many times. Scoops of snow wrapped smiling around the rocks.

Entering the wide Black Spout Gully, we are surrounded by rimed rock and towering walls. We stop beneath twin vegetated cracks, the start of our climb, The Link Direct, a four star 180 metre, seven pitch, VIII/7 first climbed by Richardson and Cartwright in 98.

Tim set off and once again I am travelling in time, living and making memories that will stay with me forever.

We successfully top-out in the daylight and rig an abseil around the summit cairn of the pinnacle. Sliding into Black Spout Gully the moon is once more in the sky and bands like a cocktail layer the horizon.

A couple of hours later we are back at the vans and heading to Aviemore and the Northern Corries. I sit in the passenger seat slipping into and out of contented sleep, house lights and the odd street light pass by in a yellow blur through the fug on the windcreen. Tim flicks the i-pod, Underworld are bumping. I wake up to “Larger, larger larger … And punch the air.

 I don’t eat chips and sitting in Aviemore, having just bought a box of chips for £2.50 and then having to buy a portion of tomato sauce for 20p, (It’s no wonder Britain is in a poor state when you have to pay extra for sauce!) to stop them being as dry as the road, I now know why I don’t eat chips any more. But later in Keith’s van the South African Chardonnay makes up for the cardboard potatoes and feeling 14 percent re-hydrated I was now ready for another day of climbing.

It’s easy to dismiss the climbing in Lochain, but all said and done it is brilliant – even if the situation and the closeness to the road don’t give that feeling of major adventure. Tim and Mark Walker climbed the Migrant Direct while Keith and I climbed Nocando Crack and I would like to say it was a breeze, but it wasn’t. Picks rounded, turf like steel, thin cracks all welded with water ice and unbelievably sustained technical climbing found me nearly falling when both picks refused to bite and popped simultaneously. A swing caught something and it never fails to amaze me how strong I can be when hanging from one shoddily thrown pick placement. Thrashing and flailing, eventually I extricated myself from the body-eating flake at the very top of the climb and Keith with much less flail than me soon joins me to stand alongside.

Walking out of the Corrie, once again stars were appearing and a full moon large enough for us to look into the craters peppering its surface was hanging high above the crag. Grouse were chuckling, hares skittered punching holes in the powder-dry-snow and the still silence hissed in my ears. We walked out of the Corrie avoiding the large wax like smears of ice and after an hour we were back at the vans.

Today the rain falls and sitting in the warm living room with eleven routes in the last two weeks I feel exceptionally fortunate to be me and to be in Scotland.

I walked through Glenmore Lodge’s double doors on Sunday evening and immediately sucked the thick with-anticipation-air. It clung to the wood and the nice chairs and the reception counter, it filled my nostrils, crawled through my body. I sensed expectation.

Having attended two summer meets but never a winter meet, I knew what to expect, but winter climbing is so much more involved than summer cragging in Wales and the thought of being strapped to a wad for a week of rain took more courage than I had possessed in the past. In the weeks running up to the meet I had found myself getting nervous, I dreaded my international partner saying the words, “Take me to the Shelterstone.” I imagined some superstar and I walking lost, souls in Dante’s inferno on the Carngorm Platue and I imagined the universal internet lynching of a supposed competent mountaineer. To top this, I was sure I would be strapped to someone who could actually climb a bit and when it all came out in the open that I was actually pretty average, I would be called a fraud and ostracised and sent to the dark lonely place that pretenders go.

“We’ve put you for the week with a New England, East Coast American Nick.” Said Becky.

“RESULT” Thought I, he will speak English, well of a kind and would no doubt know my friends Freddie Wilkinson and Kev Mahonie, two very talented but super chilled climbers from New Hampshire, who at the drop of a hat will forgo climbing for drinking and debauchery. Brilliant, I thought, one quick route each day in the Northern Corries and then the bar. No chance to get him… and myself lost. Maybe I could hold it together on one short route not to give the game away about my average climbing ability.

I shook Bayard Russell’s hand, my partner for the coming week, he had a firm grip and his stature resembled a powerful freight train, but relief, he had that New Hampshire laid back whine the same as Freddie and Kev – this could work!

Walking into the Northern Corries on day one didn’t go to plan. Floundering about in a whiteout I appeared to have lost the Lochain, the easiest place in Scotland to find, well, apart from the chip shop. Bayard was talking and laughing, and I quietly stressed as the Corrie didn’t look like a corrie. The cloud thinned for a second and I spotted a spur. “Right let’s look over there.” Relief was the sound of someone shouting and the clank of a hex just over the misty white way.

“Wow, it’s out of condition hey?”

“Erm, whatdoyoumean?”

“Well dude, it’s all white and covered in snow.”

“Yeah, that’s how it should be.”

“WHAT… Really … Man, that’s rad.

Ok, I thought, I might stand a chance.

Once we found the climbing the next thing to do was find a climb. The Lochain was swarming with bods from the meet; they looked surprised when I asked them where Pic and Mix was. Their surprise I felt was not because of the route I sought, but more because I didn’t know where it was. But once pointed in the direction of the climb, I front-pointed toward a huge finger pinnacle materialising from the mist.

All around me were folk I knew already strapped to climbs. Dave Garry was on The Hoarmaster and Si Frost was climbing Hookers Corner. Perfect, both had climbed Pic and Mix so I yawped and asked them where it went. Other climbers looked aghast that I appeared to know nothing about the climb. And they would be right, I didn’t even know the grade, but in the fog of my mind I remembered Tim Emmett thrashing away in some film with Ian Parnell looking up and laughing his demented laugh. Someone had also told me it was all on good hooks and had gear… Perfect.                

Bayard cruised the first pitch, which was good, one more pitch and we could go drink beer and be awesome.

Dave yelled across from his climb, “When you leave the belay, pull into the crack and if you want to, go straight up, it’s never been done; the original goes around to the right.”

Always looking for simple, I thanked Dave and left the belay. Yes, there was a crack and it looked ok. A few moves in and I had turned from the bumbly who couldn’t find the crag into Ueli Steck, well in my mind anyway. God I was good, it was easy. What was Tim thinking on the first ascent going around the corner and not finishing the job? He must have been having a bad day. A few more moves and the verglas increased, along with the wind, the hoar and the steepness. Its ok, I’m Ueli. A few more moves and still no gear. Perched high on the front face of the pinnacle the wind buffeted and wafted my body like a flag, I locked and fiddled with a nut, a cam, a bigger cam, a bigger nut, but eventually I dropped a hook into the hole made by my pick. And then I dropped another hook into another hole and continued up. Bayard a long way below was huddled in his jacket thinking this was normal. I flapped and swung and attempted to find a good torque, good feet, but in a few short metres my Ueli Steck bubble had burst, I felt more like Uma Thurman. The crack my left pick was in repeatedly pulled, feet sketched, I brushed big ears of hoar, I looked wistfully to a sloping ledge to my left. I had to move, but there was nothing for feet and it also meant leaving my one good hook and I didn’t want to leave it, it felt like home, a place I trusted. Bayard looked up, “Go on, send it Dude.” But the only thing I was going to send if I blew this was for a helicopter!

A head popped over the top of the crag, “Hey Nick, I’m just going to set up and film.” It was James Dunn the camera man for the meet. Great I thought, now my ineptitude at climbing, followed by my blood curdling scream ending in a messy death is going to be watched by millions and they would all sit together in the theatre saying stuff like, ‘It doesn’t look that hard to me.’

I leaned left and fished and hooked nothing. In desperation I dragged the pick down the sloping top and it caught on what I can only imaging was a slight ripple in the uniform slab. Swap feet, right pick into bad placement, flag left leg… Holy s#it, what am I doing here. James above me looked happy. No, actually he looked ecstatic, I could see the £ signs in his eyes. It was on the tip of my lips, I nearly said it, those immortal words, ‘Throw me a rope.’ But suddenly I was pulling up on the left when the right pick blew. My body barn doored, my good foothold popped. I was twisting, pivoting on a smear and a ripple. Flashing a glance, I looked at the air that I would no-doubt be tasting and it looked dirty. Holding the barn door, hyperventilating, I replaced the right pick, the right foot, leaned and matched both picks on the ripple. Inside my head there was the sound of scavengers pecking at my corpse. I pulled up, smeared a foot and threw a leg on top of the sloping ledge and my left pick blew. “ARGH!” Taking as much weight with my leg I fished above for a pick placement in the roof of a small groove. There was none. I pulled anyway. James filming turned away, even he had lost the stomach. The upside down pick held and I kneeled on the ledge, nearly dry heaving, my lungs on fire, breathing and sucking.

“Dude, that was rowdy.” 

*

The meet continued in a slightly more controlled way after that. I followed Jen Olsen and Bayard up Daddy Long Legs the following day and we took a rest the day after. Lochnagar and Trail of Tears the day after that, which as normal I knew nothing about but discovered  our ascent was possibly the fourth and in the past the climb had taken a whole load of prisoners.

We rested on Friday in anticipation of a big finale on Saturday when Bayard and I would be teaming up with the bundle of psyche known as Guy Robertson. I emailed Guy to ask the plan and the response was a tad disturbing. “Nick, I’ve been training hard and climbing easy routes and I’m getting nervous and jittery and I’m borderline ANGRY! We will go to the Buachaille” 

Walking in the dark on Saturday morning past Lagangarbh, over iced puddles, we look up and like a vision from a dream there is a white wave running down The Slime Wall. Robbo turned to me, “It’s on, it’s on, my God, ITS ON!” As Guy had not actually said what the plan was, I could only guess that whatever it was, was on.

Needless to say, I had always dreamed of climbing the mythical, Guerdon Grooves, first climbed by Dave Cuthbertson and Arthur Paul in 1986 and not having had a second ascent. Climbers whispered when they spoke of it. At the start of each winter internet forums always had a long thread guessing the grade and asking would it ever be climbed. Guerdon was a fable, a dream, it was magical. And with every step up the hill, the anticipation increased.

We started to climb at approximately 10am and with each move, the anticipation and history and myth increased. The crux of this climb was coping with the folklore that threatened to weigh us down. I could see Cubby teetering and run out, creeping snow covered slabs. I could see Di Lampard trudging up the approach slopes four times, I could see McInnis and Bonnington and Patey just across the way in Raven’s Gully.

At six pm, all three of us stood on the top, the route was climbed. Robbo’s anger was quelled, Bayard, knowing nothing about the history of the climb thought it had been ‘an awesome outing dude’, but I could tell it was a little lost on him, and for me – well, I thought I could give up winter climbing now.

But I didn’t and on Monday, I found myself sketching it out on some wild mantleshelf move, quite high above my runners with a large ledge looming and with Robbo and Pete MacPherson yelling encouragement.

The first winter ascent of Satyr had only been last year by Andy Nelson and Donald King and after a fall and splitting the climb over two days they had been criticised by the internet pundits so returned to climb the whole thing in a day. After climbing the very bold, first pitch, I can honestly say I would not have returned. At the time Andy had told me I would romp the route and down grade it. Well after completing the route, the consensus of opinion from my very well-travelled and experienced friends is the route grade should be increased to IX/10. Respect.

All in all, what a brilliant week of climbing, and how good was the BMC meet, well in the words of “Bayard, it was awesome dudes!”  The international visitors all went away beaming and chatty having experienced what it is to climb on our little cliffs that at times feel very big and very rewarding. Long may this event continue.

Two days into my round two of Scotland winter with four moderate Ben routes bagged I can’t help but think it’s a funny old game this British winter climbing lark. I love hard mixed climbing but if it doesn’t feel right it doesn’t appeal and so the high icy routes on the Ben have done the job for now. British mixed climbing is fickle. Too much of the white stuff, its pants – not enough of the white stuff – it’s also pants, get it right and it’s amazing. But venture onto something in lean or pretty dry conditions and you better watch out. Not only will you top-out with a feeling of being a baaaad ass, you will no-doubt be castigated on the internet by all and sundry who will scream that you, your family, your families family, your pets, your pets-pets, friends of the family, friends of friends and children of friends of the family and anyone in the local vicinity of the heinous deed, should be thrown into an iron maiden stuffed full of warthogs and the door firmly shut. Good riddance you dry tooling bast**#s.

And don’t even dare think of claiming a new route, oh no, don’t you dare else the new route police will be whisked in from the North West quicker than Taggart would be called in at a muuurrrrder and their punishment will be harsh, even though we all know that on occasion the police bend the rules to get a result.  

Over the last week or so I’ve been following the thread on UKC about certain climbers climbing out of condition climbs in the climbing central of the climber’s paradise. Now, never normally one to hold back, for once have shied from this one. The reasoning behind my trepidation is because I wasn’t there on the day of the dirty deed, or several dirty deeds if the reports and the pictures are to be believed and as much as I like a good rant I usually like to try and have the full facts or enough of the facts before letting rip. (Unless something really winds me up then I just go for it no matter!)

That certainly hasn’t stopped some on the thread going for it though and I particularly enjoyed the person slagging down those dirty BMC people and their foreign partners on the international meet for dry tooling even though the BMC International meet doesn’t start until this Sunday, a full week after the dastardly deed. Dig a little further and check-out said person in certain pictures doing a little bit of lean climbing of his own. Hmm, hello, kettle calling pot over! In fact there appears to be enough kettles and pots on the thread to open a Wilkinsons!

So in for a penny, and hopefully without making a personal attack on anyone, here goes.

As I mentioned in the previous post, The British Way, I think it is only the ridiculous ethics and style we generally adopt on this little island that makes our crags important, take this away and we don’t have a lot really. Having the climb covered in white stuff, or rimed or iced and frozen adds to the difficulty and it is this that makes our very contrived game fun, challenging, special and different. Take this away and we all may as well go to France, or Switzerland or Canada where the crags are a whole lot bigger and the battle is more to do with the approach, the length of the climb, the situation and the decent.

I don’t feel any animosity toward our fellow climbers from abroad who have travelled far and spent loads of cash to be here, they just want to have a good time experiencing Scottish winter climbing, in fact I quite like the stir as I believe climbing needs to be a little naughty and rule breaking and as long as a climb is frozen and the turf is not being destroyed I firmly have my cramponed foot in the camp of the folk who believe climbing a route in dry conditions actually damages it less as the placements are precise and there is less bashing and scraping.

BUT, before I get castrated by the pots and kettles I don’t commend or advise people to start climbing winter climbs in this condition as I firmly believe to gain the full experience and not ruin our heritage, or what we perceive is our heritage, and to make a short route into something really special you may have to wait and wait and wait – that’s you, me and anyone visiting our quirky winter shores and only with waiting and climbing the route in condition will you give the route a chance and then it will walk down your memory isle resplendent in white.  

Recently, after climbing a new route on Ben Nevis, I was contacted by Trey Cook who runs and writes for Chamonixinsider.com

Trey asked, “How would you rate the climb using a French grade, in fact, what’s the biggest difference between climbing in Scotland and in France?”

At first I wondered whether I could be bothered, comparing winter climbing in Britain to climbing in France or Switzerland is like comparing Fish and Chips swilled down with a pint after a day of trad cragging to fresh French bread and Camembert washed down with red wine while sat on a camp site after a day clipping bolts. Both bloody amazing in there place.

But of course having an opinion means in the end I decided to reply.   

I suppose the main difference between winter routes in Britain and routes of a similar ilk in France, Italy and Switzerland, e.g. single day crag routes, is the ethics in which the climbs are usually put-up in Britain. No bolts, ground up, on-sight or as near as damn it on-sight, no dogging, gear placed on lead and the rock of course will have a covering of white stuff and the vegetation will be frozen. Occasionally, when the limits are being pushed on a new route attempt in Britain, a fall is taken and after a rest, the climb is completed, but this is very different from sitting on gear all the way up a new climb before pulling ropes and making a clean ascent with the gear in place.  

I personally think it is this approach and these ethics that need to be held with passion and pride, this is what makes our crags in Britain special and different and interesting, take away the adventure and the unknown by abseil inspection, bolting, working on a top rope or dogging and the crags in Britain become small and insignificant and un-important, then it will be better to jump on a plane and travel to France or Switzerland where the crags and the lines are big and exciting and the style in which they are climbed is not as an important factor in the overall pleasure of the route.

I have heard it said that climbers in Britain will fall behind in the standards being climbed around the world if we don’t change our approach and ethics. My answer would be for those wanting to push their personal boundaries, but who are not prepared to attempt new hard routes in the style we in Britain have protected since the start of this pointless obsession, would be jump on an Easyjet flight and have a holiday where the expanse of rock will withstand many types of style. Really though what I want to say is, what does it matter if we do fall behind as long as we maintain what is special and have adventure? 

An M grade I suppose for the new Ben Nevis route would be around M8, but this means very little, the difference is setting off on a climb not knowing what the grade or where, if any, the protection, this is the difficult part of trying to climb a new route without any knowledge or pre-inspection and this is the mental challenge that again makes ground up winter climbing in Britain special. Long may it remain.   

When I was climbing the new routes in the Rive Gauche with Pete Benson, Neil Brodie, et al a couple of years ago we took a nearly British approach to the routes, no bolts, climbed on natural gear but on a few routes we checked first by abseil, mainly to see if we could construct belays, but of course the lines of a few of the climbs were looked at when we did this. If this had been in Britain I would have never contemplated doing this, but I was in France so it was ok and no-one questioned our ethics. At the time it felt correct to abseil to check we could at least get a belay but some of the mystique was lost by doing this and although the routes in the Rive Gauche are brilliant and seeing loads of repeats, I now regret the loss of discovery on the sharp end.

These are some of the differences between climbing in Europe and climbing in Britain. In saying this I think it’s important to point out that I like to do both and I have a lot of respect for climbers around the world and the writing above is by no means a slur on ethics/style in other countries, it’s just different because in Britain we have so little rock and because of this it has to be treated differently and carefully and the best has to be made from a limited resource.

I suppose it was the black and white picture of Yvon Chouinard, ‘Sorting Out’ on page 2 of Glen Denny’s Yosemite book that did it.

Chouinard, a man with a young man’s frame, all cut and defined and wearing a young man’s face of smooth unwrinkled hope, balanced a young man’s head full of blond-surfer-sun-bleached-hair on-top of a strong young mans shoulders. Chounard is crouched, and all laid out in-front on a dirty white tarp dappled with shadow are pitons, and oval karabiners, and bongs and chocks and RURPS. Honest innocent energy bursts from the paper of the picture. A different life for the taking. For the living.

The sun is catching Chounard’s left hand, it looks white and chalked and his fingers holding a lost arrow look strong. Dextrous. Un-nobbled. Unaffected by age and arthritis.

Time is short.

Warren Harding, on page 18 and 19 of Denny’s book – grizzled, gnarl – looks with wise creased eyes that have seen and pulled on a thousand thin leaf like flakes. Eyes that have seen and fingers that have touched a thousand – sharp, flat, in-cut, disappointing, surprising, pleasing, never-been-touched-before – granite edges. Eyes that recognised a thousand rock-overs even before the rock-over was recognised and below those eyes, is a stubbled cheek that has pressed close to warm granite a thousand times, two thousand, three thousand times.

More than a thousand sunsets, more than a thousand dawns. More than a thousand dreams. Harding’s knowing eyes have seen.

Hair is tussled, a mop of unkempt. Whiskers are long and grey. Fading energy. Pain. Life. Longing. Losing the battle. But refusing to bow-out gracefully.

My birthday is tomorrow.

Tides come-in, go-out, come-in.

And most important is to fight like Harding and not to get washed-up like life’s driftwood.

Tower Ridge, a slim snowy finger pointing toward the CIC Hut was on our left and on the right, the short and beefy Observatory Ridge, encrust in ice and snow, hemmed us. The snow, perfect powder in which to ski, lapped around my knees.  Dougal behind, separated by a distance we thought would make a difference should the slope go, followed. On occasion I stopped and turned to watch Tavener’s decent and in turn, on occasion, he stopped to watch me. The slope, fortunately behaved, and when it was safe, we joined together and revelled in how amazing it would be to have a set of skis.

Observatory Gully was loaded, but it hadn’t stopped us reaching and attempting a second new route on the east flank of Tower Ridge, but the route had not succumbed on the first, second or even the third go. I played out the moves with each plunging step – slotting a fist jam into the back of the overhanging off-width, breathing deep and allowing gravity to swing my body out into space before placing a front-point to a small edge – releasing the axe below the overhang – slotting it into a constriction in the crack above, and all done with baited breath. Shake-out, relax, de-stress, de-pump… and then go to battle. The crack was wide at the base and the steepness pushed. A very poor pick placement, a savage pull, slot a leg into the crack, another ice-hand-jam… pumped, fighting, slipping… And I’m flying. Time to run away.

The next day we drove from Roy Bridge to the Carngorms in blizzard following snow furrows. Fairy lights, wrapped around fir trees for Christmas lined the road through Newtonmore. They flickered a blurry red-blue-green through my iced up windscreen, through my sleep deprived cornea.

During the walk-in, into The Lochain, the snow pushed by the strong wind didn’t particularly make me feel at ease with our choice of route which was Daddy Longlegs, a hard and technical climb. And the slightly whiter than white conditions on reaching the crag made us opt for something less taxing, but Ventricle, the climb we chose, was still going to be challenge enough.

Dougal climbed the same steep start from our climb Ventriloquist a few days before but this time he continued to traverse to the right. “Is it above or below this block?” “I’m sure it’s below, that’s what Pete said the other day anyway.” The Pete in question was Pete Benson, knower of everything Scottish, or so I thought until Ventriloquist when I asked him where to go and he said up!

Dougal continued, moving a lot more free and confidently than he had the last time we were here, torqueing an axe pick and straddling the void before finding poor pick placements from which to pull. “Where now?”  “I’ve no idea, just keep climbing where ever it looks like you should climb.” I was obviously learning a thing or two about Scottish winter climbing from Pete. “I think it just follows the groove to the right.” The trouble was neither of us had a guidebook and all I could remember was the line the summer route took was the obvious diagonal fault.

Hanging off a pick wedged into a crack Dougal threw a leg out onto a steep slab to the right before heaving his short, stocky frame directly up. And up again he pulled, both feet were now pressed against the smooth rock. He matched hands onto the same axe and up again … his foot pressed against smooth and icy, it skidded, and with this his body swings freely into space with both hands gripping onto the one axe like a child on a rope swing. Battling, a foot is pushed back to the rock and he tries again. And again a foot shoots off the face. But again he places his foot to the cold rock and something this time gives purchase. A pull higher with the aid of a crampon point, but with the extra height the axe rips from the crack and he’s flying.

The wind is howling and laughing now and driven in on the wind the fat flakes of snow slap into rock and stick. 

After a brief rest Dougal tries again and reaches the top of the wall and leaning over the lip, hooks and scrabbles and swings an axe and catches a large block which holds him long enough to allow a pull-up.  But without warning the block rips clean from the top of the buttress and twists and turns and plummets until exploding beside me into the snow. Tavener is once again hanging but now he is totally a part of the game.

“Try going right, I’m sure that will be the way.”

And it was.

A tiny flake to the right was hooked and matched before a delicate layaway and a high step enabled the turf and ice above to be reached. A belay was found and I seconded the pitch clean. The Eurowad was beginning to come good and get to grips with the intricacies of Scottish winter climbing.

Unbeknown to both of us was we had just climbed the summer line of Ventricle, the winter line avoids this section of the climb by a corner to the left.

A vertical snow encrust corner like Cenotaph on Dinas Cromlech now soared above me, but after all of the insecurities below it was a joy. I slotted pick after pick, pressed front points on opposing walls and dropped in bomber nut after bomber nut until I pulled out of the corner a free man, let out on probation for a short while anyway until Tavener caught up. And the roaring wind applauded our persistence and in its zeal for our continued struggle it slapped our backs with a mighty white hand.

The final pitch was a narrow overhanging chimney and a steep corner that was plastered in a thick layer of rime stuck to the rock like crunchy crackling skin, oozing oil on the outside of a pork joint. Satisfaction coursed through our veins as much as eating the crackling would have and blasted by the gale and peppered by cornea melting snow pellets we crawled like blind men from the top of the crag.

Another day, and after trudging for over an hour we stand fifty metres away from the crag. The loaded slope of Observatory Gully has gone, we have walked across the top of the avalanche debris, thousands of tons of Quaker harvest crunch clusters filling the gully that make it safer, or so we hope while trying not to think that the harvest crunch may be lying in wait on top of a layer of snow similar the one which has already gone.

Short of the climb we are faced with a crown wall to our left and an unstable section of snow we need to cross to reach the climb. And so we turn…

For tomorrow is another day.

Police sirens, blue flashing lights, large white balustrades, Bentley’s and halogen lights lighting gold gilt fencing. I walked through the dark Green Park avoiding puddles from the recent rain. Buckingham Palace stood aloof and sparkly, separated from the riff raff, protected by the gold gilt railings. Separated from the police cars bullying their way through commuter traffic on their way, (in my small boy from the hills mind) to another bank stick-up.

It’s been a strange few weeks. Rock climbing for a week in Catalonia before returning to rainy Wales and driving south to London to meet the Queen and Prince Phillip and Reinhold Messner, (not sure which to a climber is the most important!) and drinking a Stella in a busy pub around the corner from Buck House with Rab Carrington generously buying a round on the way in and on the way out, in the same pub, Houseman did the usual (Good old Youth). The images lodged in my mind from that night are too many, Simon Yates’s rolling a tab in the grounds of the palace, Fowler and Scott attempting, and failing to enrol me in the Alpine Club, Jim Curran who showed concern that I will have a book published next year as will he. Dave Turnbull, dapper and engaging, not holding back with meeting some amazing people unlike me and Houseman who were not bold enough to introduce ourselves to Ellen McCarthur. “Another glass sir?” My Champaign flute was filled again, well I am a climber and free booze no matter where it is, is … well, free booze! I looked up on occasion and paintings hung on the walls, none of them were re-prints or Athena photo’s I’m sure. Maybe I could slip one under my jacket and fund the rest of my life.
 

Later at about 10.30pm after sitting on the tube and trying to fathom peoples lives I wandered around St Pancras Station lashed on posh Champaign and Stella while attempting to catch the correct train. Something made me look up. The grandeur of the building stopped me in my tracks. A Betjeman bronze looked up, much the same as me. Where do all of these people come from, where are they going and what do they want. Are they happy? “The train you want mate is over there, it leaves in five minutes.” “Cheers.” I ran a wobbly run.

And at last, I have reached Scotland and after spending the last two months writing a book and training it was paramount to become a climber once again. Yes, I was rock climbing in Spain but clipping bolts in the sun, as nice as it may be, doesn’t really hit high on my things to do for the winter.

Calling into Manchester Airport I picked up Dougal Tavener, my partner, in amongst a few others, over the next month and as we drove North the anticipation grew.

Day one was driving rain and gale. ‘Not again.’ But day two, after a delayed start until the snow gates were opened, allowing us to the Caingorm car park, saw us battling, bent low until reaching a snow lashed Sneachda and a warm up on The Stirling Bomber.

On day three, again we drove to the Northern Coires and met Pete Benson and climbed Ventriloquist. At the top belaying the other two I decided I certainly needed to warm up more to winter, because if that route was a VII/7, a grade I normally find OK, it felt anything but easy… ‘Yes, another warm up tomorrow then and after a rest day maybe try something a tad spicier.’

Not sure where it went wrong but as we walked into Ben Nevis I told Dougal of an unclimbed line near a new route I had climbed last year called The Pretender which is on the East flank of Tower Ridge.

After climbing the same entry pitch as for The Pretender, Dougal belayed beneath the overhanging cliff. I climbed a steep, but short lived first pitch finishing naturally on a large ledge with a good belay beneath the main overhanging business above. Tavener seconded and lashed himself to the belay before I set off exploring the steep and technical entry groove. After several failed attempts to start, some cunning had me in a press up position stretched across the groove with Tavener laughing at my rather strange position but at least I was on the way.

A few more moves up and the overhanging corner/groove turned slightly mental. Feeling totally under-geared. We only had a few pegs, none of which were much good and one drive in hook I set about swinging around from a spike that looked ready to rip before committing to the steep. A couple of pieces of gear placed blind from a shaking contorted body position had me throwing me leg above my head and pulling like a train before a knee bar and a hand-jam and a half nelson around a spike. Hanging out of this small pod I looked down onto Dougal, the ground I had just climbed was super steep but above it was steeper still.
At last I cut loose from my quasi-rest and torqued like crazy using a will-it-or-wont-it-rip-torque. Heel hooking and sketchy bridging and flailing found me out of the pod and pumped stupid. “What the fuck happened to warming up for winter!” A good couple of hooks above the overhang kept me on track and wondering about all of those people sat in the tube station in London, going too, coming from … what?

An icicle in the v-groove above saved the day as I hooked it with both picks not caring now whether it blew or not as I was about to vomit, and after several more steep and hard, but nothing as hard as below, moves I swung around on the exit pretty stoked to have climbed the first new route of winter which Dougal and I decided to call The Ride of the Wild Bullhorn.

Ride of the Wild Bullhorn. VIII/10 Bullock/Tavener. 16/12/11. 55m
The climb is the obvious overhanging groove/corner crack on the left side of the steep buttress to the right of Great Chimney in the Echo Wall area of Tower Ridge.

1. Follow ice smears for 30m until reaching a large ledge beneath the main face of the buttress. 30m.
2. On the left side of the ledge beneath the overhanging groove/corner is a broken right to left crack system. Follow this with one quite hard pull until on a ledge just to the left of the groove. The belay is an in-situ red hex and a large block on the far left of the ledge.
3. Climb direct into the steep groove, (interesting), then using a variety of techniques and a certain amount of strength, continue to climb the overhanging corner past a small pod with a quasi-rest if you have imagination, past another overhang (crux) and into a tight v-groove to exit steeply onto Tower Ridge.