Why? Because they are beautiful

I’ve neglected this blog in the months since my first alpine trip last September. Having changed jobs and moved from London to Brussels in the intervening period, my goal of climbing the munros has inevitably taken a back seat. However, I now find myself that little bit closer to the Alps and I am currently preparing for my second alpine trip, this time with fellow members of the Belgian Alpine Club.

Last year I started to write about my motivation for heading to the hills and mountains. Ultimately, there are just two factors at play here for me: the aesthetic and the physical. Today I want to focus on the first of these. In my opinion, mountain landscapes are the most captivating of any on earth. There is just something awe inspiring in the shape and form of a chain of mountains. Depending on the weather the same slopes can inspire both wonder and dread.

Switzerland, September 2016

I have clear childhood memories of drawing pictures of mountains. I would sketch the outline of a pointy peak and then trace the pencil horizontally between the two slopes to mark a snow line. I have no idea how this idealised image of a mountain entered my consciousness at such a young age. It was certainly not from any time spent on or near mountains.

I suppose like most children though, snow held particular fascination for me. The infrequency of winter snowfall while growing up in the West Midlands of England during the 1980s was a source of frustration. During the winter months I would dream of heavy snowfall covering everything in its blanket of white (and perhaps closing school for a few days) yet it rarely did. Decades later, during my first Scottish winter trips the sensation of crunching through crisp snow seemed to awaken an almost child-like sense of excitement in me and to this day I think that any mountain is at its finest in its full winter raiment.

Glyderau, Snowdonia, December 2016

In my late 20s and early 30s I saw glacial ice for the first time in my life. The vivid blue and turquoise glow of Patagonian and Alaskan glaciers was mesmerising. Last year, in Switzerland, descending from Mont Blanc de Cheilon I observed the phenomenon of pink streaks in glacial ice; signs of algae and not necessarily indicative of the ice flow’s health (an important topic for a separate post).

When asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest George Mallory supposedly answered simply, “Because it’s there.” If I had to answer the same question I would respond, “Because it’s beautiful”. To be clear, I harbour no ambitions at all to climb Everest but there are many fine peaks in the Alps that I do long to climb, notably the Weisshorn and the Dent Blanche – two extremely beautiful giants.

Dent Blanche dominating the horizon, Switzerland, September 2016

But in terms of aesthetics and the beauty of the landscape, it is not simply that the mountain itself is stunning. It is also (and perhaps even more importantly) because the summit of a mountain offers a vantage point like no other. I’ve been up plenty of British hills that would not win first prize in a mountain beauty contest but whose summits still offer breathtaking views (conditions permitting).

Within a week I should be in the shadow of Monte Bianco, doing some warm up hikes before heading further east to the Monte Rosa where I hope to make my first foray above 4000m. A long way from the Brecon Beacons yet, strangely, perhaps not all that far in my mind. For me, any mountain landscape stirs similar passions.

 

Why? – Part 1

I’ve wanted to write about my motives for mountaineering for some time and, on the eve of my first trip to the Alps, today seems as good a time as any to start jotting down my thoughts. I came relatively late to the delights of hillwalking and mountaineering and strange though it sounds, I might never have developed the passion I now have for the hills were it not for a frustrating and unsuccessful attempt to book passage aboard a cargo vessel across the Atlantic in 2011. At the time, aged 31, I was coming to the end of a 2 year stint working in Washington, D.C. and preparing to return to London. Rather than flying home I decided I wanted to cross the Atlantic on a commercial vessel. During the Second World War my grandfather served in the Merchant Navy and sailed many times between the US and the UK, surviving two separate sinkings by German U-Boats during the Battle of the Atlantic. Partly to honour his memory and partly to satisfy my own curiosity about life aboard a working ship, I was determined to make the voyage home by sea.

I began to make enquiries and soon found a cargo ship that sailed regularly between Baltimore and Tilbury with four passenger berths. I made contact with the agent in Hamburg who sent me a medical questionnaire to complete. Being an honest chap I disclosed my (well controlled) epilepsy, explaining that I had never suffered convulsive ‘grand mal’ seizures of the type most people commonly associate with the condition and noting that my doctor would be happy to provide medical certification of my fitness to go to sea for 10 days on a vessel with no doctor on board. However, the agent flatly refused to accept my booking, doctor’s letter or not, asserting that it would not be safe for me to sail on the ship. I protested, arguing that it had been several years since my last seizure (during sleep) and noting that the D.C. Department of Motor Vehicles judged me fit to drive. My protests were in vain and the idea went nowhere. With some disappointment, I booked a flight home but decided that I would find something fun and adventurous to do with the time and money I had ear-marked for that Transatlantic crossing. It remains the only time in my life where my epilepsy has genuinely interfered with my life’s plans.

Heading home from Washington Dulles airport, 2011

While living in the US I had already visited a few of the National Parks including Yosemite, Shenandoah and Death Valley. I had done a little hiking, but nothing too strenuous and had certainly not caught the bug for mountaineering that grips me today (though in retrospect, a day out in 2011 to Shenandoah to climb Old Rag mountain was probably my first 3000 ft summit and certainly my first scramble). If a lady sitting behind a desk in Hamburg judged me too infirm to sit around on a cargo ship for 10 days then I was going to show her. I decided to head to the wilds of Alaska for a week with Alaska Alpine Adventures on one of their organised back country hikes. The trip itself deserves a separate write up but for now, suffice to say that the mountains and glaciers of Alaska made an enormous impression on me. The landscape reminded me of Chilean Patagonia which I had visited in 2008 on another organised tour which had (sadly in retrospect) scarcely involved any hiking or outdoor activity at all. In Alaska we humped heavy loads over rough ground amidst spectacular scenery. Mountaineering was not the purpose of the trip but surrounded by so many beautiful peaks, it was impossible not to wonder what it might be like to climb some of them. I will never forget the sight of the Tokosha mountains rising at the end of the Ruth Glacier. These are by no means the loftiest summits in that part of the world but to my eye they are some of the most dramatic I have ever seen. If I ever make it back to Alaska in the future I am sure that they would make a fine mountaineering objective. Were it not for the official in Hamburg refusing to let me sail across the Atlantic, I might never have seen the Tokosha.

Tokosha mountains, Denali NP, Alaska, 2011

After my return to London in the autumn of 2011 I wanted to find some wild country on my doorstep to give me some of that same buzz I had enjoyed in Alaska. This is what led me to sign up for a winter mountaineering course with Martin Moran in February 2012. Given my relative lack of summer hill walking experience that trip to the North West Highlands was certainly a case of jumping in at the deep end. However, that week in 2012 was pivotal for me. It introduced me to mountaineering objectives in my own country and, with a winter ascent of Ben Macdui following some graded snow gully climbs, earned me my first munro ‘tick’. While my trips to Alaska and the Highlands in 2011 and 2012 help to explain how I developed my interest in hill walking and mountaineering in recent years, they don’t directly answer the ‘why’ question. Hill walking and mountaineering involve risk (especially during winter) and to many people they must seem like painfully pointless activities. For my own part, there are two main reasons for heading to the hills: the first physical, the second aesthetic. Mountains are beautiful and climbing them is good for you. I want to explore these two themes in subsequent posts but for now, I must leave you to complete my packing and kit check. Tomorrow I depart for the Alps where hopefully I will build on my experience in Snowdonia and the Highlands to gain some summits by even more challenging ground. While I was upset and offended at the time, I suppose I have to thank the shipping agent in Hamburg who refused to let me sail in 2011. Were it not for her, I might not have set down the path that I’m very happily treading today, five years on.

Quality Street

Since ticking off number 50 back in October 2015 I’ve experienced quite a shift in my philosophical approach to bagging the munros. Although climbing all 282 hills on the list remains my long term goal, I’m beginning to realise that the quality of my mountain days counts for more than the number of ticks in a list or the speed that I check them off. 12 months ago I was in such a rush to climb the munros but now I understand clearly that there’s no hurry at all. Completing may take me decades. In the meantime I want to progress as a mountaineer and to gain experience on more difficult terrain.

Route finding at the start of the Cyfrwy Arete, February 2016

Back in February I climbed Cadair Idris via the Cyfrwy arete with John Moxham. This is probably one of the finest mountaineering routes in the country. A year earlier, I was so singly focused on the munros that instead of searching out a route like the Cyfrwy arete (conveniently only 2 hours drive from my folks in Worcestershire) I was drawn instead to straightforward walks in the Southern Highlands that allowed me to easily up my munro tally but which hit my wallet much harder than a day climbing in Wales because of the extra cost involved in a trip from London up to Scotland.

Max Hunter leading on Tower Ridge, March 2016

Cyfrwy arete proved to be perfect preparation for Tower Ridge, which I climbed with Max Hunter in late winter conditions in March – my first ever foray on Ben Nevis. Neither day provided me with a bevy of ticks for my list of Welsh hewitts or munros. Yet both days gave me shots of adrenaline and a sense of satisfaction that eclipses anything I’ve felt on a day of hill-walking. I’ll never be a hard core rock climber but I know now that scrambles and mountaineering routes are what I enjoy most. Big days with walk-ins, ropes, exposure and a summit reward are where it’s at for me. Understandably then, the call of the Alps is proving irresistible.

Below the Table on Cyfrwy arete, February 2016

In September I will spend a week in the Valais with a guide. I hope that over this and successive seasons I can become as comfortable in the alpine environment as I am beginning to feel on the rougher terrain of Snowdonia and the Highlands. I have lots to learn. In the meantime, the hills of Wales and Scotland will continue to provide the perfect training ground for even bigger objectives. If I put some ticks in my lists on the way, then that’s a bonus.

The Numbers Game

Saturday the tenth of October 2015 was a big day for me. Three and a half years after reaching the summit of Ben Macdui I had made it to my fiftieth munro – Meall Buidhe in Glen Lyon. Back in the Cairngorms in 2012, at the start of my journey, I had no idea what a munro was. I was participating in a winter mountaineering course and was really interested in climbs rather than summits. We were walking from the Aviemore ski centre over to the Hutchinson Memorial Hut, which was to serve as a base for climbing in the Loch Avon basin the following day. Our objective was Castlegates gully. I accorded no real significance to the ‘top’ of Cairn Lochan or the ‘munro’ of Ben Macdui that we passed en route to the bothy. In retrospect it brings a smile to my face to think that I climbed my first munro almost by accident. Later that year though, my Dad bought me a book on the munros and almost immediately I began to think about the long term goal of climbing all of them.

Castlegates Gully, February 2012, I had climbed my first munro (Ben Macdui) the day before without even realising it.

Living over four hundred miles from Fort William it was clear from the start that this would be a long journey. However, over the course of 2014 and 2015 I started to establish something of a routine. Leaving work on a Thursday evening and jumping aboard the train to London City Airport I can pick up a rental car at Glasgow before 9pm and be resting my head at a B&B in Crianlarich before 11pm, leaving Friday and Saturday for walking. Inevitably, most of my first fifty have been south of the Great Glen, though I’ve been fortunate to climb all of the Skye munros over two separate trips to that enchanted island. I’ve also admired the north face of Ben Nevis in winter from the summit of Carn Mor Dearg. Sadly I was unable to make it onto the ridge and over to the Ben itself after injury of my companion that day forced a retreat. Having seen the impressive north face, an ascent via Tower Ridge is high on my list and the CMD ridge itself may have to wait until my munros are completed.

Over my first two years of ‘bagging’ my navigation and general hill skills have improved considerably. Sometimes I have walked alone in quite testing conditions. The satisfaction that comes from safely guiding oneself up and down a mountain in hard weather and poor visibility is immense. Walking with others is an equal pleasure though and I have been lucky to meet some great people who share an enthusiasm for the hills. I have also benefited greatly from the experience and knowledge of Max Hunter (on winter days and rock climbs near Fort William) and Paddy McGuire (on the Cuillin) to the point where I now feel confident alone in winter conditions or on a summer scramble. I am also indebted to Robin Thomas, my guide on the Martin Moran winter mountaineering course in 2012 that first introduced me to the munros.

On my way to number 50 in Glen Lyon, October 2015

Recently pouring over my munro chart I wondered how long it would take me to climb the next fifty. It’s silly really but for a committed peak bagger, it sometimes feels as if only the numbers matter. The numbers game means that baggers can occasionally find themselves climbing hills that don’t always seems worth the effort. Fine though my fiftieth munro was, Meall Buidhe is a pretty uninspiring mountain compared to some of its neighbours. Were it not a munro, it would surely see much less traffic. Still, I’ve set myself the goal now so there is little point in grumbling about the less interesting hills on the list. As I move forwards I have to make sure that I strike a balance between the bog trots and the classic, rockier routes. Besides, even on a rainy day, squelching in bog, there is pleasure to be had in simply being out in the open and so close to nature. Even when the clag is down there are the sounds of the hill to enjoy, whether it be the howl of the wind, the call of a grouse or ptarmigan or bleating of a sheep.

Soon after I began climbing munros I started to make more frequent visits to Wales as well. The mountains of Wales provide an interesting counterpoint to their Scottish cousins and have become a ‘second front’ in my peak bagging campaign. The Ogwen valley is now familiar territory to me and the sight of Tryfan rising like a sentinel at the head of the valley stirs me just as much as that feeling you get (rain or shine) as you drive along the A82 into Glencoe. When I think of those wonderful views I realise that even for peak baggers, it isn’t really about the numbers at all. I just love being in the hills and for me (as I suspect is the case for most baggers) the list just provides a convenient framework that probably gets us into the hills more frequently than might otherwise be the case. A non list ticker might never bother with Allt Lwyd, an obscure Nuttall at the eastern end of the Brecon Beacons. But thanks to Allt Lwyd I was gifted the most amazing day in the Beacons recently, providing me with views of a snow capped Pen y Fan that will rest in the memory for a long time.

Brecon Beacons, December 2015

 

You never climb the same mountain twice

Since injury struck in March I’ve finally nursed myself back to a level of hill fitness. In June I spent a week up in Kintail and managed to climb a couple of munros and some smaller hills. Although the the big routes for which the area is famous were beyond me I was still elated to reach the solitary summit of Ciste Dubh. I crossed Am Bathach, the Corbett to its south under grey clouds and in driving hail. Reaching the col (bealach a Choinich – or the col of the bog – the name is apt) the weather had only worsened and I was in two minds about continuing to the munro but I’m so glad that I did. The sun came out on the final ascent and the fin shaped summit was really beautiful. Ciste Dubh is probably the most attractive munro that I’ve climbed alone.

Ciste Dhubh, ascent, June 2015

While injured I tried not to think about the mountains at all and over the last 3 or 4 months I’ve spent more time playing guitar than pouring over mountain maps. But now, in recovery, my mind turns to the mountains again. I’ve wanted to write something about the ‘list ticking’ aspect of peak bagging for a while. Spending a week in Wales with J recently, we climbed Snowdon and the Glyders together – all repeat routes for me. J is a fair weather walker and on our last walk together in February I regretted taking her on a miserable bog trot across 2 of the more obscure and uninteresting summits accessible from the Ogwen valley (only chosen because they were on my tick list). This time, I think J appreciated the solid paths on these more popular routes.

Time in the mountains is so precious and I’m so single minded in my pursuit of the munros and the Welsh 2000ers that part of me would have preferred to avoid re-visiting mountains already climbed. Really I would have loved to have picked off some new summits. But things on my radar either involved exposure (the Nanttle ridge) or bog trots (the northern Carneddau) – all of which would have made a dreadful day for J. Despite getting soaked on Snowdon, both days were really enjoyable. Up on the Glyders I climbed the cantilever stone and scaled Castell y Gwynnt (a really good little scramble) – both things I’d missed on my first walk across the Glyders.

Ciste Dhubh, descent, June 2015

Peak bagging is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it can take you well off the beaten track to some beautiful locations that you wouldn’t otherwise get to. On the other hand I think it can deny you the opportunity of really getting to know a particular mountain or route. I’ve heard it said that “you never climb the same mountain twice”. Weather conditions and your own frame of mind always make each return to a mountain feel different. I’ve now stood on Snowdon’s summit in blazing sunshine, pouring rain and freezing snow and the mountain feels all the more familiar to me for these repeat visits.

I’ve also realised than when enjoying the mountains with others who don’t share my obsession with list ticking, it’s just not fair to drag them up routes that are either too difficult or too dull for them. While opportunities to get into the mountains are not as frequent as I would like, I’m slowly learning that I don’t have to climb a new mountain every single time I go out. That said, the greater distance and cost involved in getting up to Scotland means that when I do repeat hills, they are far more likely to be in Wales.

Atop Castell y Gwynt, July 2015

Looking ahead I hope to manage the Aonach Eagach ridge in September and to tick off some of the Lawers munros in October. Initially I’d planned to sweep through the latter in one giant day of seven munros. However, given my recent experience of injury I think it will be sensible to divide the Lawers range over two or three trips. The sports masseur who has helped me back to fitness since March has extensive experience as a triathlete and long distance runner and she has battled overuse injuries herself. Her best advice to me was that as far as endurance activities go (and mountain walking definitely falls into that category) it can take a few years for the body to really accustom itself to the stresses associated with the activity. So before I launch into 30k routes with 2000m of elevation it will pay dividends for me to spend a couple more years walking at half that level of intensity before stepping things up.

Mountains and the mind

Last Friday should have been a moment for celebration. But as I turned from the summit of Ben Chonzie, my 40th munro, I knew instantly that something was not right. The familiar knee pain that had plagued my early forays into the mountains – and that I thought I had banished – had returned with a vengeance. Approached from the south, Chonzie is not a steep hill – more of a broad, flat topped lump. Yet even the gentle slopes of this popular Perthshire munro proved enough to set off my knee.

Ben Chonzie, March 2015

Early on in my hill walking days, I learned that tightness in my calves and hamstrings, and weakness in my quads, hips and glutes were causing inflammation of the ilio-tibial band (a long band of connective tissue running down the outside of the leg). This would often lead to excruciating knee pain – but only ever on descents, and only in my right leg. A course of physio and a regime of stretching and strengthening exercises seemed to resolve the problem. I was already using poles religiously and had started to wear a knee support. By February 2014 I was climbing big hills with nary a care in the world. Over the course of the year I built up to longer, harder days, covering greater distances and much more elevation gain. I’ll never forget the elation that I felt in May 2014 on completing a 21km route over three munros near Crianlarich. Part of the wave of positive emotion I experienced that day was relief. During a long, testing descent in driving rain and darkness my legs felt absolutely great. My hand ached a little as I had cut it quite badly slipping on wet grass and smashing it into a rock near the summit of Beinn Chabhair. But who cares about a bit of blood? The cut was bandaged. What mattered was that I had beaten the knee pain. The following month I climbed all the munros on Skye’s Cuillin ridge and over the rest of the year just went from strength to strength – even managing to whizz up and down an active volcano while on holiday in Japan.

The very first sign that not all was right with my legs was on my final walk of 2014, a big day over 3 of Snowdon’s north western outliers and culminating at the icy summit of Wales’ highest point. I had almost reached the car when, on the very last stretch of the Llanberis path, I noticed that familiar twinge. This time however, it was my left leg. During subsequent walks in January and February that small murmur of complaint seemed to grow louder and louder. Still, it was nothing like the levels of pain that I had experienced when first battling IT band problems in my right leg. In February I had a couple of fantastic winter days in Breadalbane including a 22km route that involved substantial descent and re-ascent between munros, with a total of 2500m elevation gain over the weekend. It was in mid February, on a far easier route in Snowdonia (recounted at Walkhighlands) that I knew I was battling something more serious. The pain was now significant enough to interfere with my descent. Later that evening a gentle downhill stroll to a restaurant in Betws became an awkward hobble. The IT band knee pain that had first attacked my right leg was back – but this time in my left leg.

Breadalbane, February 2015

I had a month to sort things out before my next trip up to Scotland. Flights, car and B&B were all booked. Having cancelled two trips earlier in the season due to winter storms I wasn’t keen on scratching my plans for mid March. So I restarted the stretching and strengthening routine that I had foolishly let slip. But my month of hasty preparation wasn’t enough. The pain I felt coming down Chonzie was all the confirmation I needed. My plans for the remainder of the weekend had been to do the Tarmachan ridge on Saturday and then 2 more Perthshire munros on Sunday (Ben Vorlich and Stuc a Chroin). But this was now all up in the air. I wasn’t sure that I would be able to do anything else for some time. I decided to drive from Comrie up to the Ben Lawers car park to recce the start point for Saturday’s planned walk and to gather my thoughts. The road climbs to over 500m but was now largely clear of snow. Some distance beyond the car park I stopped the car, startled by the sight of a large crow picking away at the carcass of a young deer resting by the road. The poor creature did not appear to be long dead but already the crows had had their fill, leaving black, empty eye sockets and bloodied bone protruding through flesh and fur.

Below Ben Lawers, Friday 13th March 2015

The morbid scene reflected my mood. I felt absolutely crushed. Even walking a short distance from the car caused searing pain in my knee. I knew that I would not be bagging any munros for a while. Standing on the summit of the Inaccessible Pinnacle had been the mental apogee of my first year of serious hill walking. Now this moment on the Bridge of Balgie road was the absolute low point – I felt like I was staring into the abyss. The sensation of being right back at square one was an enormous psychological blow. Later in the evening, sitting in the Real Food Cafe in Tyndrum my demons really surfaced. I have battled with both depression and anxiety in the past. Hill walking is actually great medicine for the mind. But now, just hours after completing my 40th munro, a wave of emotion swept over me: anger, frustration and almost despair. Only negative thoughts entered my head.

By Saturday morning my mood had lifted a little. Slowly, I was beginning to think more rationally. Yes, it was a setback. But I had overcome a similar problem before so I could do so again. I drove out to Oban then up to Ballachuilish. En route I telephoned BA to switch my flight to Sunday. No point in hanging around – the sight of snow capped mountains in warm spring sunlight would only frustrate me, stuck at sea level. Driving back through Glencoe to Crianlarich the conditions were superlative. I scanned the Bidean massif that I had summited the previous November and my eyes drifted across to the crest of Aonach Eagach. Not a cloud in the sky. I thought jealously of all the avid hill walkers and mountaineers enjoying this wonderful playground. Further down the road I glanced up and saw the ski centre car park completely packed. I felt like the kid with his leg in plaster, stuck at the touchline watching his mates play football.

I suppose like any sport, there is an enormous psychological element to mountain climbing. And climbing mountains from a base several hundred miles south of the trail head involves time, expense and careful planning. I never thought that climbing the munros would be easy. I confess I did think that I would be able to climb them more quickly than is likely to be the case. I’d hoped to hit 75 by the end of 2015. I realise now that I have all the time in the world and that setting intermediate targets is pointless. Done quickly or slowly, this endeavour is still going to take years. IT band syndrome is an over use injury and my experience last Friday is a warning, to take my foot off the gas and to rethink my strategy (such as it was) of simply going hell for leather. I lost the battle on Chonzie but I can still win the war. One step forward, two steps back. It’s going to take time (of which I have plenty), patience (something I’m invariably short of) and and a proper routine of exercise and physical therapy – but it can work.

One of the less wholesome aspects of mountaineering, and peak bagging in particular, is its obsessive nature. On the one hand, it takes a certain amount of focus and dedication to climb mountains. But when anything becomes an obsession, that’s not a good sign. Obsessive drive in mountaineers can lead them into dangerous, even life threatening, situations. Witness the “summit fever” dimension of many of the more recent and well documented disasters on Himalayan giants such as Everest and K2. More prosaically, mountain madness can lead us to neglect other aspects of our daily lives. Aristotle was right to argue that happiness truly does lie in the “golden mean”. Too much of something is as bad as too little. The right amount of courage is a virtue. But its surfeit – recklessness – is certainly not. Time will tell if my new strategy will pay any dividend. I will cancel my planned trip to the Highlands in April. Instead, I will fill the next 8 to 10 weeks with proper physical and mental rehab, perhaps taking in some smaller hills before a week in Kintail in June. Having hoped to pack maybe fifteen or twenty munros into that single week I will scale back my ambition accordingly. I don’t care how many more or few munros I climb this year, so long as I climb them pain free.

Cheated by the weather

2015 seemed to get off to a good start. On the third day of the year I found myself back in Snowdonia’s Ogwen valley completing a 18km circuit of the northern Glyders, walking with Andy from Walkhighlands. The route included two Hewitts (Foel Goch and Carnedd y Filiast) that I had tried to climb last year but had missed out on after atrocious weather forced a route change. Conditions this time were much better. A reasonable amount of snow on the ground and decent visibility most of the day. It was good to get them in the bag and looking at my map after the walk, I realise that of all the Glyderau summits only Tryfan remains virgin territory for me – one to save for a nice day. Foel Goch has a grassy but exposed summit, with teriffic views down the valley. Further north, Carnedd y Filiast and its subsidiary top were an interesting pair. The jagged rock formations reminded me of the more famous Glyders to the south but there was also something forlorn and lonely about this less explored northern end of the range.

Pen Yr Ole Wen and Tryfan from Foel Goch

Last weekend I’d planned to be up in Scotland bagging my first munros of the year but sadly the weather forced a change of plan. After a cold but bright spell on the Scottish mountains over the New Year weekend (how I wish I had been able to be up there then) the north west of the UK has been battered by a series of fierce winter storms coming in from the Atlantic. In the run up to last weekend’s planned trip I had been watching all the weather forecasts closely, and carefully monitoring the avalanche warnings from the Scottish Avalanche Information Service. One thing that I have learned about managing avalanche risk on the Scottish mountains in winter is that simply checking the situation the night before you walk isn’t sufficient. You need to be watching the weather closely in the days before you walk to get a picture of what sort of state the mountain might be in when you get there.

Last weekend I had my sights on Beinn Challum near Crianlarich and Ben Chonzie in Perthshire. Both solitary munros with relatively straightforward routes approaching from the south, they seemed like good choices. With the recent storm force winds coming in from the west and south west I was keen to avoid any routes up leeward slopes to the north and east where snow accumulations would pose the greatest avalanche danger. However, any slope with snow on it can present a danger and I also know that a significant proportion of avalanches occur during periods of new snowfall. (SAIS records already show one avalanche this season on Chonzie’s southern slopes). Last Friday, my first planned day out, the forecast was for gale force winds and heavy precipitation. Things looked a bit better for Saturday – but not by much. Also, while Friday’s planned walk was from close by to the B&B, Saturday would have involved a long drive, the final section of which would have taken me along a remote country lane probably covered in deep snow. Even accounting for difficulty actually getting to the hill, all the signals flashed red that last weekend was not the best for solo winter munro bagging. There was going to be a lot of fresh, deep and unconsolidated snow with a lot more being dumped on top. Ideal avalanche conditions.

So, after some consideration (the urge to just go for it and see how I would get on was pretty strong) I coughed up 50 quid to British Airways and shifted my flight and car booking back to later in the year. I’m very grateful to Ewich house in Strathfillian, who allowed me to rebook my accommodation with no hassle. All mountaineers need to know when to turn round and in wintertime, knowing whether or not even to set out involves similar judgment. Being so far from the mountains of Scotland and needing to book travel and accommodation in advance, quitting a mountain 460 miles from its summit is very frustrating. But safety is priceless and any mountaineer’s risk appetite should fall in winter time. Some things that you would try in summer you simply wouldn’t in winter.

Summit, Elidir Fawr, 3 January 2015

So January 2015 turns out to be munro free. My next planned trip north of the border will be the last weekend in February and hopefully the weather will have improved. It wasn’t the start to the mountaineering year I had wished for. Last January I only managed one munro (having to turn back on Carn Mor Dearg before starting the ridge to Ben Nevis) and I had hoped for a better start to 2015. But in winter, plans being frustrated by the weather is just par for the course. There will be many more days and those munros aren’t going anywhere. They’re just sitting there, as they have been for millennia, waiting patiently for me.

From Moel Eilio to Snowdon: 2014 draws to a close

Although I made a few forays into the mountains of Wales and Scotland in previous years, 2014 has been the first that I’ve managed to get into the mountains regularly. Over the last 12 months I have really begun to build my hill fitness and improve my navigation skills. I have covered a distance of over 350km, with a total vertical ascent of 27482m, bagging 33 munros, 20 hewitts and a one active volcano. It has been a year of many firsts. My first solo munro (Stob Coire Raineach), my first solo winter day (Y Garn), my first day bagging 2 munros (Buachaille Etive Mor), my first route over 30k (Black Mountains), my first day with more than 2000m of ascent (Crianlarich 4), my first summit above 2000m (Japan) and my first solo scramble (Bristly Ridge). With all this under my belt I feel a real sense of pride and achievement, particularly given how far from the mountains I am based – for every hour above the tree line there must be at least another two either sat behind the wheel of a car or idling in airports.

Soon after returning from Japan at the end of October I was back in the Highlands to add Ben Lomond and Ben Vorlich to my munro tally. On paper neither of these munros should present too much of a challenge. However, the weekend that I climbed them in November the weather was atrocious. Atop Ben Vorlich I encountered the fiercest winds imaginable, reducing me to a crawl at one point. In such conditions it might have seemed foolish even to continue. Perhaps it was, although I feel I can rationalise my decision to press on because the summit area of Vorlich is reasonably broad and the visibility was pretty good. Had I been faced with a narrow ridge or other serious exposure I would certainly have turned around.

View towards Ben Nevis, Glencoe, November 2014

With those two cold and lonely days near Loch Lomond behind me it was a real pleasure later in the month to meet up with other keen walkers at the Walkhighlands autumn meet in Tyndrum. The day on Bidean Nam Bean was spectacular. Great views across the AE ridge and northwards first snows settling on Ben Nevis, CMD and Aonach Mor whetting my appetite for the winter ahead. Reaching the summit of Snowdon in December meant that I had managed to get out to Wales or Scotland at least once a month in 2014. It was a long, fulfilling day and a fitting end to a year of mountains.

I made a very early start, reaching the car park in Llanberis under moon and stars and watching the sun rise as I climbed the northern slopes of Moel Eilio. Alone and in the still of dawn every single sound registers so clearly, from the crunch of semi frozen earth beneath my boots to heaps of slate crashing down a nearby mountainside and the thud of a Sea King helicopter flying overhead. My planned route was just over 22km, traversing from Moel Eilio over to Foel Gron and Moel Cynghorion before heading up to Snowdon itself via the Ranger path and then descending the Llanberis path. In order to avoid any descent in darkness, an early start was imperative. Still, a survival bag, extra food, spare gloves, warm layer and head torch were all stowed in my bag – just in case.

Dawn breaks over Snowdon’s north west ridge, December 2014

Before long I was enjoying hot coffee and a snack at the top of Moel Eilio. Navigation was straightforward in such good visibility and at one point around 10am I could make out the shelter on Snowdon’s frosty summit. Until reaching the Ranger Path I had hardly seen another soul all day. A group of three other walkers had followed me round from Moel Eilio and we bumped into one another near Moel Cynghorion and climbed together for the first section of the Ranger Path. These walkers were properly suited and booted for the season and I expect they were as stunned as I was to notice how many people were making their way towards the snow line clearly unprepared for the winter conditions that lay ahead. While my ice axe stayed strapped to my pack the whole day I put my crampons on at around the 800m mark and as I climbed above the snow line the cloud dropped and visibility fell to around 20m.

I had heard all the stories about people climbing Snowndon in jeans and flip flops but had assumed that it was exclusively a summer phenomenon. At the summit itself, I was amazed to see a few people arriving in jeans and soaking wet trainers. I even saw one chap huffing and puffing his way to the top in jeans and a T-shirt. His top was a couple of sizes too small for him and the guy was obviously a gym addict, with muscles bulging for all to see. I wasn’t sure what would motivate this sort of bravado (or is it simply stupidity?) When you are surrounded by snow and the air temperature is perhaps minus six degrees celcius, what on earth possesses someone to strip down to a cotton T-shirt?

Snowdon summit, December 2014

After enjoying my sandwiches at the top I turned and headed for home. I narrowly avoided a navigation error on the descent. At first retracing my steps on the Ranger Path I recalled that I should keep the railway to my left to descend the Llanberis path until Clogwyn station. Crossing back over the tracks I picked up the correct path. Lower down, near the snow line, I got a great view of the fearsome crags of Clogwyn. With just an hour or so of daylight left I was again astonished to see so many people still making their way up. There was no way they would make it to the top and back down before dark. Some of them weren’t even carrying packs – so no torches or extra warm clothes, let alone axes or crampons. On the one hand it was great to see people challenging themselves and enjoying the mountains – perhaps for the first time in their life – but on the other hand it was disheartening to see such flagrant disregard for safety and such lack of respect for the mountain (I picked up several pieces of litter during my descent). My thoughts turned to the brave men and women of the Snowdonia mountain rescue teams who put their own lives on the line to come to the aid of people who get into trouble in the mountains. It must infuriate them to see people so ill prepared for winter conditions.

In any event, I arrived safely back at my car with daylight to spare. 2014 has been a terrific year and I look forward to many more mountains in 2015. Next weekend I will be back in Snowdonia. Hopefully I’ll get some blue skies and crisp white snow. However, as I sit and write this in London on 28th December the weather in almost every mountain area of Britain has been spectacular – which just about guarantees it will be dreadful next weekend! Well, you never know….

See more of my 2014 photos here: https://www.flickr.com/photos/sbk21/sets/72157649859618061/

And my walk highlands reports (including gps tracks) here: http://www.walkhighlands.co.uk/blogs/Riverman

Mountains and volcanoes of Japan – autumn 2014

On Sunday 29th September, after months of anticipation, I climbed aboard a British Airways 777 at Heathrow, bound for Tokyo’s Haneda airport. J and I had been planning this trip for months and I was perhaps as excited about the journey as the destination. All the air miles that I had accumulated while travelling for work between 2009 and 2011 were exchanged for return tickets in First Class, a treat we would never ordinarily have afforded.

Our three weeks in Japan passed all too quickly and I can’t hope to recount all of our amazing experiences there in one blog post. While our itinerary (mostly completed via the magnificent Shinkansen bullet trains) took us to Hiroshima, Kyoto, Osaka and back to Tokyo, in this post I will concentrate on our time in Miyajima in the south, and the Alps region in Honshu, where we sampled the delights of mountain walking, Japan style.

Miyajima

Miyajima

Miyajima is a tiny, hilly island just off the coast near Hiroshima. It is a lovely spot to overnight in a traditional Japanese ryokan, a lodging where zen and comfort combine. Famous for its Tori shrine, while on the island we also took the opportunity to climb to its summit, Mount Misen (535m) to enjoy spectacular views of the coast around. The trails up and down were well marked and though the mountain is not particularly high, it is a steep climb from sea level and the rocky summit has the feel of a ‘proper’ mountain. It had been a few weeks since my fairly testing round of four of the Crianlarich munros and it was reassuring to zip up and down Misen with my legs feeling strong. I had not been able to pack hiking poles in my luggage and I have come to depend on them quite a bit on my trips to Wales and Scotland. The fact that I could climb comfortably without them for a day is witness to the strength I feel I have developed, compared to my first, fairly painful forays into the world of mountain walking in 2012.

Misen summit view

From Takayama to the Alps

After an unforgettable week in Kyoto and Osaka we continued northwards to Takayama. A small, peaceful city in stark contrast to the mayhem of Tokyo and Osaka, Takayama sits at around 570m above sea level. It was from here that I caught my first glimpse of the high peaks of the Alps, towering over 3000m on the horizon. Soon we could see the mountains even more clearly, as a bus carried us towards the resort of Kamikochi. With private cars prohibited in the resort centre, buses are the only means of transport in or out. As we crept through a tunnel burrowed several kilometres inside an enormous mountain, along immaculately maintained tarmac, I was reminded of my rather bumpier trips along the A82 from Glasgow to Crianlarich this year. I wonder if the Japanese could spare a few of their road engineers to sort out that mess at Pulpit Rock? While they’re over, perhaps they could fix us up with some nice new trains too?

Kamikochi

In Kamikochi we stayed at a guest house run by an experienced Japanese mountaineer. The lodging had a fantastic library of mountain literature, and photographs on the wall of Mr Okada’s expeditions in the Himalayas, including K2 and Everest. On the first afternoon we enjoyed a pleasant stroll along good paths to explore the valley itself, with magnificent mountains all around us. Until dusk the trails were very busy. Accommodation in Kamikochi itself is limited, and most visitors jump on a bus at the end of the day, to return to Matsumoto or nearby Hirayu Onsen. The autumn weather was perfect and we had a good look at our objective for the next day – Yake Dake, an active volcano climbing to 2455m above sea level.

Yake Dake (2455m)

Luckily, the good weather held and early the next morning we set out on the trail, passing the ‘Weston Memorial’ – a small dedication to Walter Weston, an English missionary who is widely credited as one of the pioneers of mountaineering in Japan. Notwithstanding the good weather, we set out into the cold, clear dawn still with some trepidation. A couple of weeks earlier, the very day we had left for Japan, there had been a terrible disaster on another nearby volcano, Mount Ontake, where an eruption of steam and water had claimed 57 lives. From what we had read and heard, the phreatic type of eruption that had occurred is extremely difficult for seismologists to predict. The evening before our attempt on Yake Dake, I had asked Mr Okada whether he considered the popular route to be a dangerous proposition, in the wake of recent events. His answer was straightforward, “Of course it is dangerous. It is a mountain. But people climb it all the time and the trail is clear. I expect you will be fine.” Can’t argue with that, all mountains are potentially dangerous, volcano or not.

The first part of the climb takes you through quite dense forest. It takes a reasonable amount of time to get above the tree line. This frustrated me a little. One of the great things about any mountain day in Britain (or anywhere else as far or further north) is the speed with which you get above the trees and (on a clear day) are rewarded with views. Another odd thought that struck me was that our hike today would begin an end on a valley floor that already sits about 100m higher than the summit of Ben Nevis. Indeed, while today’s route would take me to the highest summit I have ever reached under my own steam (cable cars to 2000m in Austria and motor cars to 3000m in Armenia don’t count!) the day would only involve around 950m of vertical ascent, something I ought to manage easily enough after a year of intense munro bagging.

At the col

As we crept above the trees we encountered a steep section whose ascent is facilitated by long, almost vertical fixed ladders. I had mixed feelings about these. On the one hand, it is great that they open the way to everyone – and the route was certainly busy. But they do spoil the natural environment somewhat. Ultimately I had to be thankful for them because I am no rock climber and, I suspect, without them, would not have been able to continue. After the next section we reached a col that was a natural resting spot. Here we were surprised to find a small hut selling refreshments, including cold beer sitting in a bucket of melting ice! I found this very strange – beer at 2000m in between steep ladders and a rocky scramble to a volcanic summit. Maybe not the best idea.

One of these

Followed by one of these?

Departing the col we enjoyed simply spectacular views all around. My heart was really stirred by the sight of these enormous mountains. Looking at the way ahead I was excited to think how high we were about to climb. As we neared the summit evidence of volcanic activity was all around us; fluorescent sulphur deposits on the rock, steam venting from cracks in the mountainside and the powerful odour of rotting eggs. It’s fair to say that by this stage of the day I was enjoying things rather more than J was. After all the fun I had had on the Cuillin and the Glyders earlier in the year, this was just the icing on the cake for me – an unforgettable and awe inspiring mountain environment in a strange but wonderful foreign land. While I felt in my element, I think for J the sensations were less pleasant. While she enjoys hill walking (and we have walked together in Wales and the Lakes) this terrain was harder, rockier and less forgiving than anything she had experienced before. She certainly felt exposed and was fearful of a slip. Little good it did me to try to reassure her that the trail was really very good and the exposure really minimal, even compared with a ridge like Crib Goch, let alone the Cuillin.

Japan Alps

Reaching the south summit (around 2400m) we did not stay long. The route to the true summit (at 2455m) is not passable without technical climbing. We took photos and headed off. As much as I was enjoying the sensational views, the image of hikers running from the ash cloud on Ontake was at the front of my mind, and I knew J was eager just to get down. After navigating the ladders in reverse we stopped again at the little hut to have our snack bar lunch and drink some water – I resisted the temptation to grab a beer! Before too long we were back below the trees. We passed dozens of other hikers making their way up. I almost ran out of breath uttering “konichiwa” and offering a slight bow to everyone we passed. These frequent encounters and busy trails stand in contrast to some of the quieter mountain days I’ve had this year in Wales and Scotland. At the valley floor we also ran across a few monkeys – quite different from the wildlife in Glencoe!

That evening, I retired to my bed (well, my Japanese bedding laid atop tatami mats on the floor of our zen room) with that very pleasant feeling of tiredness that only a good day in the mountains can deliver. The next morning I was relieved at the hard rain pouring down outside but spared a thought for those who would climb today. Our luck with the weather could not have been better. Before leaving I chatted briefly with Mr Okada about the mountains of the UK. He was aware of the famous climbs on Ben Nevis and mentioned that Tower Ridge looked like a superb winter climb. He showed me photos of some of the winter climbing on the northern island of Hokkaido which looked fantastic. By the end of the day, after a bus ride to Nagoya, a local train to Tokyo’s Shinjuku station and the tastiest railway lunch box you can imagine, we were back in the mega metropolis where our exploration of Japan had begun a couple of weeks before.

Our trip to Japan really was the trip of a lifetime. The climbs of Misen and Yake Dake are etched just as firmly in the memory as our days among the splendid shrines and temples of Kyoto and the awesome energy of Tokyo and Osaka. I would certainly love one day to return to Japan and see more of the country and its mountains. More of my photographs from this trip are at my flickr.

Four more round Ben More

September saw me return to Scotland to bag a few more munros before heading off on holiday to Japan. I’d tackled the western three Crianlarich munros earlier in the year on an epic, 10 hour day that ended in darkness and driving rain. This time, my aim was to spend a Friday warming up in Glencoe by climbing Creise and Meall a’Bhuiridh and then on Saturday cover the eastern four Crianlarich munros in one go, to take me to the milestone of 30 munros.

Meall a’Bhuiridh

On Friday, Creise and Meall a’Bhuiridh were dispatched without much difficulty (though insects were certainly a distraction and I had my head net on for much of the day). I climbed in warm sunshine and had the whole route to myself. Meall a’Bhuiridh is sadly scarred by the ski lifts but once the ridge is crossed over to Creise some fine views are a reward. Glencoe never fails to impress and the cloud inversion around Buachaille Etive Mor was stunning.

Glencoe, cloud inversion

On Saturday morning I arrived early at Inverlochlarig and began the long, steep slog up Stob Binnein. At the start of the path were placed two fairly recent memorial stones, a sad and sobering reminder of the dangers of climbing Scottish mountains. These are big hills, rising to over 3,500 ft. They can be dangerous at any time of year but particularly in winter. The north facing corrie of Ben More is a well known avalanche black spot.

On the way up to the first top of Binnein, Stob Coire an Lochain I was caught up by another walker. An English lady from Edinburgh preparing for a Himalayan trek, we ended up walking the whole route together. I was glad of the company. While one of the attractions for me of hill walking is solitude, it’s good to walk with others sometimes as well, particularly on long, physically testing routes. My companion for the day was certainly fitter than me and I was glad of the pace she set. Had I been walking this route alone, I expect it would have taken me at least an hour longer.

For much of the day our conversation focused on the Scottish independence referendum, which was then just days away. I shan’t go into any great detail here but suffice to say I was glad of the result later that week. Before too long we reached the first munro, Stob Binnein. The walk north to Ben More was straightforward but involved a couple of hundred metres of descent and reascent. From the col between Ben More and Stob Binnein we then began an ever greater descent into the valley separating the first pair of munros from Cruach Adrain and Beinn Tulaichean. Blessed with fine weather the navigation across to the next pair of munros was easy enough but the re-ascent was extremely tiring. After gaining the subsidiary top of Stob Garbh I wasn’t sure I’d have the legs to get up Cruach Adrain but I managed it. The fourth munro, Beinn Tulaichean was a much gentler climb and from there it was a fairly quick descent back to the car park.

Cruach Ardrain, 3rd munro of the day

A long and very tiring day with some 2200m of vertical ascent over 18km, I was really pleased with my achievement. Six munros in 2 days and well over 3000m of vertical ascent. Hard weekends like this only serve to increase hill fitness and endurance, while longer routes also provide greater opportunity to test navigation. Later in October in quite different mountain terrain in Japan (the subject of a separate blog post) I could feel real strength in my legs and was able to enjoy a totally different mountain environment from the Highlands without worrying about aches and pains in my legs.

Over the course of 2014 it’s occurred to me that when I first presented at a doctor in 2012 complaining of knee and leg pain when out walking hills, the first thing the doctor should have enquired about was the amount of hill walking I had already done. Questions like, “How many hills have you climbed in the last year?” and “What’s the furthest you’ve walked and greatest elevation gain you’ve done in a single day” would have revealed to the doctor that I was a total novice and that my aches and pains in 2012 and 2013 were simply explained by trying to do too much too soon. But no detailed enquiries were made as to the amount of hill walking I had been doing or was trying to do. Instead, all the enquiries focused around the type of pain I had and what sorts of activities induced it. These led swiftly to MRI scans and probably pointless arthroscopic surgery for a meniscus tear.

My guess is that for many hill walking related aches and pains doctors would do well to enquire in detail about activity levels (distances, height gain etc) and then take a view as to whether the patient was maybe trying to run before they could walk. This year I’ve focused on trying to build up gradually to longer, more demanding routes and to combat the dangers of a sedentary job by increasing the amount of walking I do during the working week. So far, that strategy seems to be paying off. I don’t think my cardio-vascular fitness has changed much, but that’s not my goal. The strength of my legs and my endurance levels are undoubtedly improving with every visit to the mountains. And so, it was with little difficulty at all that I recently ascended the 900m from the beautiful Kamikoche valley in the Japan Alps to the summit of Yake Dake (2455m) an unforgettable experience to which I shall turn in one of my next posts.