Ben A’an

January 15th, 2012 • Hill walking

Had a nice wee stroll up the diminutive Ben A’an today. Was nice; broke some new boots in, scrambled back through the woods and had a spot of lunch by Loch Katrine. A little pedestrian perhaps but a fine day out with good company. First of the season, you have to ease yersel’ in, Ken? Aye to the Hills…

Chad & Rory’s West Highland Way on Bikes in 24 Hours… An epic blog for an epic journey.

October 4th, 2011 • 1 comment Hill walking, Mountainbiking

Finally an adventure worthy of a blog.  And a bank holiday Monday of rest meant I spent far too much time writing it.  If you get to the end I’ll be impressed!

The preparation

Sunday 18th September – Chad texts Rory: fancy the West Highland Way next wknd? – i’ve got the fri/mon off.

Rory: Yes, I’ll call you tomorrow.

We speak the next day and Rory emphasizes that he wants to make it an endurance exercise, self sufficient and only sleeping when absolutely necessary.  I am reluctant, but agree because he sounds so excited.

Wed 21st Sept – Rory texts Chad: Want to come round tonight to sort kit and food for the wknd? I agree.  I speak to colleagues at work who have done the walk and they stress that 4 days is not a long time to do it in, and may not be much fun.  I look at the route for the first time, and agree. I work on my argument to convince Rory to bike the first section to Crianlarich overnight, then walk the rest over the Saturday/Sunday.

Pre-adventure meeting – I arrive that night at Rory’s, where his kit is neatly organised on his bed, each bit of kit individually wrapped, pre-made portions of tea/coffee, tablets, and a kit list written to ensure not one gram is taken unless absolutely necessary.  I catch glimpse of his toothbrush – he has chopped off the bristle head and disgarded the handle.  I piss myself laughing, but agree it’s a good idea.  I wait for my moment, and attack with my suggestion to bike the first section.  He doesn’t like it.  The anticipated excuse is first, he’s only got a hybrid bike – it’s a fair point.  I suggest driving my van up friday day time, getting the train back down to Glasgow to set off, then when we get to Crianlarich we can shove the bikes in the car and crack on, on foot.  The pre-meditated plan seems to be working, he’s thinking.  The faff/ sync / transition is appealing to his military side.  He reluctantly agrees.  He suggests taking minimal kit – no tents etc, I don’t like it, but agree to think about it as a compromise.

Thurs 22nd Sept, Rory Texts Chad: I think we should bike the whole route, will phone you later.

Chad: Furry muff, doesn’t bother me fella.

Fri 23rd September. Chad: I’m also thinking about just not taking sleeping bags etc, what u think?

Rory: That would cut 3kg off the bags – makes it all easier. Minimum kit.

7pm, Rory: Ready?  Chad: No ( I had been off work all day – yet still I was faffing)

The journey

19:00: After an all day faff session, and fall out with girlfriend, Chad finally mounts his steed, in a dire mental state.  Even cycling along great western road to meet Rory at Gartnaval, is taxing on the legs.  True to form, Rory is waiting for my late arrival, as has come to be expected whenever faff is involved.  The two of us share heavier items between us, in what should have been the last pre-adventure faff.  I try to tell Rory of my woes, but he’s so excited about the journey ahead he tells me to man up.

19:30:  We reach Anniesland Cross, and decide to put our head torches on with the rapidly dimming grey sky.  Mine had been intermittently cutting out for the last few uses but I neglected this.  Sure enough, it chose this moment to pack in completely.  Turbo blag at the time, but a blessing in disguise now knowing the conditions we would face later on.  We tried Morrisons, and phoned Tesco Milngavie, but neither had a head torch.  A wise decision was made to return to the big tesco in Maryhill, where I had seen a headtorch earlier whilst buying a state of the art, £18 front light for my bike.  My £10 Tesco head torch would join forces with the LED lamp to light the path like a candle in the wind. We passed two 15 year old girls down the canal drinking 20/20,  Rory ducked as she swung for him, and we set off towards the start in Milngavie.

20:40: Already panting, we finally come to the West Highland Archway in Milngavie, and without stopping for a photo, crack on down the familiar paths leading to Mugdock.  It’s too dark to see now so I strap on the headtorch, hit the ‘on button’,  and it ignites like a lightsabre… one of those £5 toy replicas.  To be fair the two lights combined gave me enough light to see most rocks, not much different to Rory’s £50 Petzl Myo XP.  So far I’ve been miserable all journey, but I get a reassuring text from the mrs and it cheers me up tenfold.  We boost down the glorious dirt path, narrowly avoiding suicidal bats, a hedgehog and a baby deer. The flies were less fortunate.

(Lost track of time): Somewhere just beyond mugdock the path is full of puddles, I go through them until I decide that my feet are suitably wet enough to consider covering them up.  Looking down to Rory’s feet with carrier bags strapped in insulation tape, then slowly up to his smug grinning face I take off my back pack and start routing for plastic.  My goody bag of sweets was the first victim, double bagged as the inner bag was torn. Second – plastic bag holding my bashed up Robinsons water bottle – It only leaked a bit.  The bags were round the feet, and after unsuccessfully applying wet insulation tape / long reeds of grass, i tied the handles together to give a nice loose fit.  Two minutes later the bag on my right foot is ripped open by the cogs. I sigh and carry on.  Only to come across a gate every minute for the next half hour.

Aprrox. 11pm. Queen Elizabeths forest Park, nr. Drymen:  We stop for the first food break, I already regret not bringing enough supplies – Rory insisted that the trip be self sufficient in true military style.  Fortunately, Rory knowing how much of a spaz I am, had brought epic amounts of junk food. We gorged on cold pizza and donuts, as Rory confessed, ” I’m sick of eating healthy shit”.  We remounted and made our way up through the forest and started climbing conic hill.  Some of this was ridable – for 2 fairly incompetent mountain bikers – of one whom (Rory) was on a hybrid bike (AKA ‘the Chad Bike’).  Most of it however, was not ridable.  The bikes were flung up onto our backs, shuffled about until they felt almost comfortable, and we stomped up the hill.  Stopping only to moan and sigh, and be freaked out by the reflection of the sheep’s eyes (sheep’s eyes – grammatically correct??).  Rory turbo’d this section and waited for me at the top. I was starting to feel the tiredness. The ridable sections saw the first fall of the journey, myself falling sideways, pedals still clipped, into a bush.

12:30ish: We had reached the top of Conic hill where a hearty ‘ Yess’ was roared, likely to be audible from the other side of Loch Lomond. And the journey had barely begun.  This is where the MTB came up trumps, I tackled the first section of downhill – sparking the adrenalin and reawakening my senses.  A couple of ejects, and I was back to pushing my bike down the muddy rocky slope.  The views from this hill are always impressive, but especially so in moonlit darkness.

1am:  Stopped at Balmaha Car Park for our first coffee break, boiled with Rory’s Jetboil (Must have for any adventure), more donuts and chocolate.  Doggers were rife, so we set our headtorches to flashing mode to see what would happen. Nobody came close, and the neddy dance music drowned out the doggers cries.

Balmaha to Rowardennan – We used the road where we could get away with it, and the section was fast and enjoyable – albeit a few gnarly hill climbs.  At Rowardeannan, Rory said that he’d nearly fallen asleep on the downhill section of road – a worrying thought, but I felt amazing so i didn’t mind too much.  This was the point where I realised the Rory/Chad body sync had kicked in. We discovered this sync at the Green belter rat race in July (in which we won!) – which also happened to be the last time either of us had ridden our bikes.  Every race / adventure sees one of us peak whilst the other one troughs, enabling each other to push the other one through to the other side.  We try to support each other, but more often than not, slagging is our favourite means of motivation. ie. “come on you big fucking girl “. Our chat revolves around women, sex, life and love. Cocks, tits, farts and food.  We’ve made fairly impressive time so far and our goal of reaching Fort William in 24 hours seems at this point, to be almost too easy.  Clearly neither of us had done the full west highland way before.  And it’s just started raining.. getting gradually heavier.

Rowandennan to Inversnaid – We started off in a jolly mood, and were happily on and off our bikes to get over the unridable sections.  It seemed exciting at first.  Over time the path became more treacherous, the constant stop starting and heaving bikes onto our backs was starting to take it’s toll.  Stopping only to fill up our water from the hill streams (adding water purification tabs), and to let out the occasional burst of tourretts as my bike pedals smashed into my legs.. Never has my mouth been so filthy.  I imagined I was in a computer game trudging through the jungle, with the scores of swear words being tallied up along the top.  The big two, Fu*k, and c*nt were in the lead, most commonly used in combination. Fu*king c*unt, or c*nty F*ck F*ck.  The less harsh words, sh*t, d*ck and b*tch were not nearly strong enough in isolation for the torturous conditions, but they occasionally creeped into to get a bonus score combo, F*cking C*nt Sh*t D*ck B*itch F***CCKKK, AAHHHH!  The only relief was as we walked along the bank of the loch, the water lapped up the shore and triggered a deep breath, then exhale to remain calm.  The rain was lashing down.

Inversnaid hotel – In preparation for the journey, I had briefly read a terrain report of each section, and seemed to remember that the last section was the worst.  Then when we stopped at Inversnaid hotel I looked at Rory’s OS map and saw the name Inverarnan.  Oh C*nty F*ck f*ck, that was the stretch that they had warned about.  Feeling as though we were two steps into a marathon, we sloped into a dismal state, sheltering from the heavy rain in the hotel porch.  Warm gear on, I brewed up whilst Rory replaced his brake pads – a fairly demanding task in our state of mind.  We stayed for 20 mins until we got cold and then went looking for the way markers.

Inversnaid to Inverarnan – I’m fairly sure I have blanked most of this from my mind.  There were sections of rock that were ridiculous to carry bikes over.  Shuffling around trees like Lara Croft without the boob tube. Several instances where a fall would have resulted in certain air ambulance (or water I guess).  Those bloody pedals kept smashing into my leg and each time it felt like a medieval whip.  It wasn’t until the end of this stretch when I realised that the screw had come loose, and the sharp metal was cutting chunks out of my leg – this is an indication of state of mind, where I didn’t even stop to question the pain.  We took turns to throw a wobbler.

saturday 7:00 – Arriving at Inverarnan campsite, we felt like ravaged beasts crawling out of the wilderness.  We found some pallets just outside the campsite and took a seat to cook breakfast – boil in the bag survival meals that were fairly shite.  We ate, as happy campers walked merrily into the breakfast house, serving full english (sorry Scottish) breakfast – strangely the thought of buying one didn’t enter our heads, although I told Rory of the wonderful cafe situated in Crianlarich Train station where we could be warm and eat bacon.  That would be the thought that got us moving again.

8:00 -  Inverarnan to Crianlarich – The path eased up and we used the road when we lost the path, stopping in at the falls of Falloch to admire the views.  Shortly after, I descended into a sorry state and convinced Rory that we needed to sleep.  He suggested 10 minutes.  I said 2 hours. We settled on one hour.  We looked for shelter under a bridge, but then we passed a cottage with no sign of life – some kind of old railway house.  Rory wasn’t convinced, but as far as I was concerned, it may aswell have had a sign saying “Rory and Chad, welcome home”. We opened the shed door, to the usual family type gear – unfinished DIY projects and burst kids inflatables.  There was some foil insulation on the ground about the size of a double mattress, and pipe insulation for a pillow. Bob’s your uncle. Rory sets his alarm for precisely one hour.. 9:59am.  Contact lenses out, warm gear on and passed out – twitching violently as I drifted off.  Jolting upright I scream and put my hands in the air. Rory says : ” It’s ok, it’s just a train”.  When the alarm went off I was not a happy chappy.  Rory only snoozed for 20 mins so wasn’t too zonked, but I was out cold.  He watched painfully as I slowly and reluctantly packed my things, put my spare contacts in and put on my wet gear.  He must have realised this was not an appropriate time to tell me to “man up”, as he didn’t utter a word.  If he had, he’d have gotten a full blown tantrum.  15 minutes later we set off – ” We are getting a cooked breakfast”.

10:30 – Crianlarich to Tyndrum – With the thought of warmth and hot food our spirits lifted, and the tracks were great.  Got to the cafe at 12pm – opening time! first in the queue.  We made great time over to the real food cafe, and after rolls, tea and orange juice, we freshened up in the toilets (and defreshened the toilets).  I pulled out my toothbrush – an exact copy of Rory’s bristle head with no handle.  It was the most depressing brushing I have done in years, being used to my electric baby.  Next trip a full handled brush will be taken and the extra 5 grams carried with pleasure.  We got a few funny looks in the cafe, as the punters eyes followed a visible trail of mud traipsed through the place to the table where two cavemen sat pushing sausages into their mouths.

Tyndrum to Bridge of Orchy – A breeze. Great tracks compared to at Loch Lomond, feeling great and past the half way point.

Bridge of Orchy to Kingshouse hotel – A couple of steep climbs worth every bit of effort as the downhill was pretty sweet here.  The exhaustion had eroded my fear and was going over things that I wouldn’t normally attempt.  Rory was enjoying it too even though the hybrid suspension was taking a beasting, and his newly replaced brake pads had almost worn down already.  The rain was on and off over Rannoch moor, and the views were fairly awesome as to be expected around Glencoe.  At the hotel we boiled up some water and had our last proper meal – another boil in the bag, but this time they tasted great.. a trick of the mind? Or perhaps just different flavour meals.  We had resisted the temptation to give up and get pissed in the notorious pub, and booked a B&B in fort william so we couldn’t back out.  It was around 6pm, and we gave an ambitious ETA of 10pm.  She seemed dubious, but said as long as we were there by 10:30pm at reception closing time it would be ok.  All hope of achieving the route in 24 hours had been lost at this point, but the thought of sleeping now and getting back on the bikes was just too much to bare. We had to finish.

Kingshouse to Kinlochleven – Started off pretty good, but we couldn’t quite get the words “devils staircase” out of our minds, as we watched ourselves approach slowly on our Marauders OS map.  When we arrived at the stairs it was absolutely pissing down.  Bikes hauled up on to shoulders – feeling at least 5 times heavier than they did at the start, we began stomping up again.  We passed some MTBikers on their way down.  You could just tell they were thinking – ‘absolute fannies’, as they tried to stop themselves laughing when we told them we were riding till we reached Fort William.  We had been going for about 20 mins, when I asked Rory how far we had to go – he replied “keep going”.  I gritted my teeth and carried on.  Another ten minutes, I asked again, to which he said the same.  The toys came out the pram and I shouted – “You’ve got the map you c*nt just tell me!”  “about 8 hours”.  I had meant to the top of the devils staircase but he though I meant till Fort William. I let him off.  Soon enough we arrived at the top, where we could see Kinlochleven in the distance. The town was lit by streetlight,  revealing a beautiful harbour on the edge of the loch.  The sight of the town was deceiving, as it was at least an hour until we arrived in Kinlochleven alongside the giant water pipes. The town was pretty stunning in darkness, with the silhouette of the surrounding hills making the place seem remote and settled.  The kind of place I would want to live if I was a pirate.

Kinlochleven to Fort William – The saddle sores at this point were fairly brutal, and fun was definitely not being had by either of us.  The path out of Kinlochleven was giant slippy steps and the rain was so hard it felt like we were basically walking upstream a river.  Being the last stretch we were trying to beast the uphill sections, stopping at nothing with no holding back.  If this were not the last leg I think we may have crumbled.  Worse still, my Achilles heels felt like they were going to snap.  I asked Rory ” Do you know anyone who’s have snapped?” – hoping for a “no don’t be silly”.. He replied “yeah my dad, and this girl I know, it’s fairly common”.  I dropped down a few gears.  The path had opened up into a landrover track which was fairly easy riding.  Our morale got a boost, and combined with the neurofen allowed us to keep going.  10 o clock came around and we thought we better phone the B&B. ” We miscalculated our timing, and we think it’s going to be more like 12am when we arrive..”  she asks where we are.  “We’re about 2 thirds of the way from kinlochleven to fort william (more like half), we’re on bikes”.  She laughs and says we’re mad, we say we’re making good ground and she seems to think we’l be in by 11pm and that it would be fine.  With a little of Chad charm we had got her onto our side, and feeling less worried about the thought of having to sleep at the train station we carried on up the track.

11pm came, she had asked us to phone her if we had not made it by now.  But we couldn’t get a signal for the life of us, and we were both hallucinating, thinking every rock was some sort of beast.  More sheep eyes were glowing in every direction.  We were on the final slog climbing through Nevis Forest.  Our bodies broken, but no choice but to carry on. With every stop, we risked the chance our landlady might abandon us to sleep on the streets.  At last, we reach the top of the hill.  Glen Nevis Campsite looked like a reflection of the starry sky, it looked how an American tourist might picture the town of Fort William, a thousand chinese lanterns floating to the sky. Wooden taverns and men with beards drinking grog. again, still and calm – sailor town.  The path down is long and winding, beautifully soft forestry tracks with no bloody rocks.. good job as my head torch was now so dim i could see about a metre a head.  We head in to the town, along the wonderful flat road, to embrace the finishing sign like a true friend.

B&B – After much faff, and me forgetting the name of the place, we finally turn up at 12:30am.  I ring the doorbell and hear nothing. We stand still for 30 seconds, and then hear footsteps coming down the stairs… “YESS!”.  She opens the door in her dressing gown, and were it not two drowned muddy rats at the door with desperately hopeful faces, I think she’d have turned us away.  We apologised profusely as she walked us to our rooms in the building next door.  Two big luxurious double rooms with white carpets and a dressing gowns on the beds.  We tried to keep the mud of the carpets, and just about succeeded, had a 20 minute shower each – waking up all the other residents with the groaning of hot water pipes.  Set the alarm for breakfast turned out the lights and before we knew it it was morning.  A hearty breakfast, Rory chatting to over enthusiastic American tourists who had just done the walk, and onto the 11:40am train home, with a bag full of beer, meat and chocolate from Morrisons. Yes!

Sgurr na Lapaich

May 9th, 2011 • 1 comment Hill walking, Mountains

Ben Narnain / Ime / Arthur

October 25th, 2010 • Hill walking

I’ve had my eye on Ben Ime for a while. Having cycled round the sloy route a few times now and looking up at it’s craggy ramparts it’s fixed a spot in my memory.

From Arrochar I headed onto the tourist path up to the Cobbler and turned right almost immediately to head up Ben Narnain. The path is steep taking a direct route up the slope, following the foundations of some old pylons (some relic of the hydro) it’s more or less completely straight and rugged with water running it’s whole length. At about 350m the steepness relents as you meet a traversing path, at this point I looked at the map and decided that the path was not on the same side as the view and set about the crags. A touch reckless at points, the scramble was fun; the view down Loch long was worth the extra effort, with such clear weather I could see as far as Ailsa Craig. Now on the south western side of Ben Narnain the Cobbler came into view and it looked resplendent, like an evil villains lair, it’s shape is iconic and intimidating giving a deceptive sense of scale and severity. Through patches of snow I found my way back to the path and soon came upon ‘The Spearhead’ – a series of boulder fields and steep narrow crags this turned out to be the best walking of the whole trip. From exposed terraced faces to confined gashes, the clamber to the summit is brilliant and one of the coolest places I’ve been in a long time. On the top there was a good deal of snow and I scrabbled out on a few pillars to take in the view. Over the flat top and onto the descent to Ime the wind was biting and it was clear you were exposed to the North. The descent was icy but pretty easy, looking across at Ben Ime I was pretty disappointed it looked squat and ugly compared to my elevated expectations, still a hill is a hill and i’m aware of the infinite perspectives that are at play. The walk up was pretty mundane, wet and un-eventfull although the views at the summit were fantastic, it seemed that you could see most of south western Scotland, an enormous vista that turned the cities and towns into insignificant patches of spotted reflective grey – i imagined that at night their presence would be more intrusive. After a bit of summit identification with some other walkers at the top, I fueled up and set off across the bog for the Cobbler.

Heading up the shawdowy north side, the well crated steps made it light work, before I knew it I was at the north summit. This mountain certainly looks bigger than it feels, the spikes and chasms play with your sense of scale which in no way takes away from the visual impact of this place, it is magical like a scene from the lord of the rings. I leave the summit quickly, it is thronging with course weegies and make off round Arthurs seat. This bit was great, strewn with boulders it is rugged and requires a wee bit of attention in places. With the sun sinking the shadows were tall and deep the clarity of the light was exceptional and this provided the best view of the day down Loch Long. The meander beyond the summit is a bit of a boggy trudge and seemed to take ages, I was in the pain zone now, I still haven’t found a descent technique for getting down without my legs tightening and knotting in to useless haunches. Crossing the river at a wee dam I laboriously stumbled on to and down the main path longing for my bike not only to take away the pain of each step but also because the track looks ideal for a bit of gnarly shredding. Sick to the power of RAD I thought. An aristocratic elderly gentleman stopped to let me past and we had a good chat about the area, he was quite a character and had some good yarns about the hydro years.

I will definetly back here, maybe to walk again – perhaps Ben Vane, up the rocky crags on the east of Ben Ime and back via Ben Narnain and A’ Chroiss – Other than that i have a fix on getting up and down the tourist path on the bike, it looks spot on for it.

Bressay wandering

September 7th, 2010 • Around the World, Hill walking
Tags: bleak, Bressay, Shetland

The MacDonald clan ventured north for a family wedding that lasted for 3 days and spanned 4 separate locales, it was wild and great craic but not so conducive for keeping my fitness up in readiness for Tour de Ben Nevis and Relentless endurance races. I took the opportunity of a lull in the festivities to walk the bits of Bressay I had not ventured into before.

The south east coast of the island comprises the largest area of un-settled wilderness, littered with old villages, sheelings and military outposts it’s clear that this area was not always as empty and bleak as it is now. The coast is intricate with imposing, ragged cliffs rising up over 100m and although the island is small it takes quite a time to thread your way around the cliff edges. Although this area is pretty much devoid of any human activity now it remains a thronging and bustling place, sea birds dominate, screaching, swooping and playing on the thermals, thankfully the bonxies weren’t in dive bombing mode this time of year so walking near the cliff edge wasn’t as dangerous as it could be. How folk survived out here through the winter being openly exposed to the north sea is beyond me. Even in the fine weather i experienced the salinated wind is persistent and wearing. I still have to make it up Ronas hill which is the highest peak of 450m so it’s a definite must for the next visit. Shetland is very different from mainland Scotland, the people and the land have and unwavering, distinct individuality that is rich and engaging. I can honestly say that there is nowhere on Earth like it.

A Week on Mull – SGC 2010

July 21st, 2010 • 3 comments Cycling, Gorge Walking, Hill walking, Mountainbiking
Tags: 2010, Ben, Gorge Walking, JD, john, misha, Mountainbiking, mull, scotland, SGC, spad

Well its that time of year again when the Scotstoun Gentlemen’s Club (SGC) head out to the hills for a week of outdoor pursuits – This year we went to Mull. Unfortunately we spent the week trying to predict the unpredictable weather! Nonetheless we made the best of it and got out on the bikes to Tobermory via Loch Frisa, Coastal walking on the Ross of Mull and gorge walking up in Glen Forsa and also by Loch na Keal. So much to do on this Island – definitely heading back there soon.

Spad

Out on the Cuillin

June 25th, 2010 • Hill walking, Mountains

One moment I was in Glasgow, the next I was standing on the Cuillin Ridge.  It seemed that all I did was blink and there I was, 8pm on Saturday night.  Quite why it took me so long to come to these mountains I don’t know, but my reaction was not one that I expected.  Up on the ridge I felt constricted, like I couldn’t move backwards, forwards or any which way without going over some kind of drop to a seemingly certain death.  This landscape is intimidating, it took me almost an hour to make any kind of move along the ridge, fighting an overwhelming urge to go straight back down.   I had no guide book, no advice on which way to go, no rope, and no partner to belay me even if I did have a rope.

Three who were bedding in for a Bivi on one of the tops  found it amusing that I had a fishing rod ‘Fishing trip gone out of control’ I said.   I edged my way along the ridge but got spooked at an airy gap.   I couldn’t see any sensible way round without climbing a short section of rock with a large drop beneath it, which I wasn’t confident enough to commit to.  In an attempt to find a way round it I ended up going further and further down, almost unintentionally finding an escape route off the ridge, but also quite glad to be on safer ground.

Down in the Coire, and held hostage by a cloud of midgies I slept in.  Back at Sea Level I was a spare part hanging about at the Glen Brittle campsite on my own, and so I went for  run, out to the point, on by the island of Soay, where I shouted down to a sea Kayaker, and round the back of the Cuillin towards Coruisk following a deer.  After a few hours of running through the bogs my legs tired.

At Sligachan, having a pint with a new friend Terry, we planned a trip up Am Basteir the next day.    The cloud would spoil our plan, and I watched the old and new chief clash later that night, when Billy got knocked off his feet.

Jen gave me a lift back and we stopped by the Cluanie Damn, where I caught no fish, but she did take some photos.  Another Highland adventure.

Amateur night on the Buachaille

June 4th, 2010 • 3 comments Camping, Hill walking, Rock Climbing
Tags: bivi, broad buttress, buchaille, lochaber scrambles, lorraine ishak

Last night  decided to solo the broad buttress and bivi on the top, I left Glasgow at 5pm into the rubbish hour traffic. It was a beautiful evening with a warm sunset dropping fast behind me, threatening to leave me in the dark  if i didn’t move my arse.  The climb was pretty exciting, i lost the route a couple of times and ended up giving over my life to a few clumps of heather and some grass. When i finally topped out it felt amazing to be alive. I walked the last few hundered feet to the summit and ate my sandwich and set up my bivi for the night.

Its the first time i have solo’d a hill never mind a scramble it felt pretty amateur to be honest, but i have learned a lot about my limitations, and where i need to work on stuff. Mostly navigation and route finding.

Would I do it again.. certainly but the bivi was pretty dull without company.

‘nice sunset i said to myself’ ..’aye’ i said back.

A grand day out on the Buachaille

May 27th, 2010 • 3 comments Hill walking, Rock Climbing
Tags: agag's groove, Buachaille, Buachaille Etive Mor, climbing, curved ridge, Glen Coe, glen etive, scrambling, solo, Stob Dearg, walking

I’ve spent the best part of the last two years living down in the Lake District, so it felt like a return to the motherland as we cruised up the A82 past Loch Lomond and onwards towards Glen Coe. The sun was splitting the skies and the hills through Bridge of Orchy and the Black Mount were looking magnificent, putting on a fine show for a long overdue reunion. As we came round the corner and sighted the Buachaille looming in the distance, I finally told Keith where we were going and what we were going to do.

Keith’s a good friend, an old friend. James and I nearly killed him on a walk up the Cobbler about four years ago (“just two more minutes!”), though he loved it afterwards and talked about it for months. Since then we’ve only ever managed gentle wanders together, normally with a group of his work colleagues who all appear to be scared of mud. Keith is moving to Sydney in a couple of weeks, and I wanted to take him up one of Scotland’s classics, show him what it was really all about. The idea was to give him a day to remember and hopefully not scare the crap out of him along the way, just give him some quality memories of the hills he would normally drive past. I thought that Curved Ridge would fit the bill.

I admit that I’ve also had a wee hankering to try to solo Agag’s Groove since trying to lead it a few years back and having to ab off to help a friend who was hit in the head by a falling rock. I chucked my rock shoes in my bag, telling myself I was just going to go and have a wee look at it – much too early in the season to be trying that sort of thing.

The car park was full to bursting, though we didn’t meet anyone on the walk in until we were directly below curved ridge. Keith has been putting in some serious fitness training in the years since our day out on the cobbler and was cruising on up there with a complete absence of swearing, complaining or whining. We stopped to say hello to a film crew making a movie called “a lonely place to die,” and moved on again quickly as they seemed busy (mostly snoozing).

Keith totally cruised up the initial steep start to the ridge, and any lingering concerns quickly evaporated. I’d brought a rope and enough gear to rig a belay just in case I was asking too much of him, but it was clear that it wasn’t going to be necessary. Far from being terrified he seemed to be loving every minute of it: excited, exhilarated, but moving confidently and I began to wish I’d dragged him up here years ago rather than accepting his excuses. We stopped for lunch on one of the large ledges across from the Rannoch wall and I pointed out some of the classic routes, embellished with tales from past days out. Then I got to Agag’s and damn, it looked perfect. Clear, dry, not a soul on the whole wall. I walked down the ledge to better pick out the route – inspecting it for another day when I’d try the solo.

Then I went down to the large block it starts from to check out the opening moves. I took my rock boots with me, just in case I fancied bouldering the start to see how it felt.

It felt good.

All of a sudden I was sitting on the large ledge at what would normally be the second belay, watching Keith watching me. The third pitch looked kind of steep looking up from the ledge, but looking fown from it the first two pitches also looked pretty steep. I’d heard that there was a bit of a hairy step out into a very exposed situation somewhere up there, and I hoped it was around what appeared to be a slightly overhanging bulge. I certainly didn’t want to have to climb over the bulge anyway. Nothing for it really, just got to suck it up and give it a go. It was faint in the distance, but I swear I could hear “you’re nuts,” being muttered in soft weegie tones somewhere nearby. I topped out the route below Crowberry Tower with a curious lack or relief but considerable satisfaction. It had felt good; controlled and comfortable rather than reckless and terrifying.

I think Keith got something very similar from his day when we topped out on Curved Ridge. He achieved something that he will remember for years to come, had a day that other days will be measured against. As he said himself, he raised the bar. I don’t doubt that the next time he drives past the Buachaille, he’ll feel a little differently about it. It’s a funny thing though, I spent two years thinking about that solo but at the end of the day I think I felt more satisfaction giving Keith his big day out than from my climb. It was, I think, a fitting farewell.

Bivi-ing High in the Mamores

May 17th, 2010 • Hill walking

It was half past 11 at night and not far from the top of a munro that I realised I didn’t have a lighter for the stove.  If only I’d realised two hours before when parting company at the Corrour train station, a place once made famous by the Cult film Trainspotting.  But irrespective it was on and up for me.  At 2am walking up to the top of the Munro felt like walking on another planet.  I put my head down using the summit as a wind break, and woke 5 hours later covered in snow.  By 9am I was on top of the next nearest Munro, but, picking a kak-handed route down, had to dig myself out of a Coire.  At Larig bothy I found a lighter, which helped to produce the worst cup of coffee I’ve ever made – nescafe and powered milk, with no sugar to hide behind.   I might’ve stayed in the Bothy, but a spotlight of sunlight on Stob Bhan showed the way.   Six summits later, after a wind, sun and hail blasted traverse above the Grey Corries, I was faced with Aonachan Mhor, a challenge which I turned down in favour of a party in Fort William.  Maybe the  Mamore to Ben Nevis traverse will go sometime when the weather’s better and there’s someone else to share the craic with…