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.

 

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.

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.

Six Months of Real Mountains

Half way through the year and with the Cuillin munros recently completed, it seems like a good time to take stock of my progress in the mountains this year. The big difference compared with 2013 is the frequency with which I’ve managed to get up to Wales and Scotland. Over 12 days since January I have covered a distance of one hundred and fifty eight kilometres, climbed thirteen thousand four hundred and fifty metres in aggregate (roughly one and a half times the height of Everest) and and added twenty one munros and six furths to my tally.

Cuillin, June 2014

My trip to Skye earlier this month (a full account of which is posted to my Walk Highlands page ) undoubtedly marks a high point in my experience of the mountains of Scotland. The exposed scrambles and roped climbs involved in attaining summits such as Sgurr nan Gillean and the Inaccessible Pinnacle will remain firmly etched in my memory forever. Sharing those memories with friends and colleagues recently (e-mailing them links to my Flickr gallery of the Skye trip ) elicited some interesting responses. All admired the photographs, many were stunned by the beauty of the landscape and a few were of course alarmed at the thought of heading into that sort of terrain for fun. The most interesting response came from an Austrian colleague. Whilst admiring the pictures, he suggested that if I wanted to climb a ‘real mountain’ rather than a ‘hill’ (which he observed was almost rivalled in height by a hideous looking Arabian skyscraper called the Burj Khalifa) then I should head to Alps where he would be happy to suggest some via ferrata for me to try.

Inaccessible Pinnacle, June 2014

It was interesting for me to see how the mountains of the UK are sometimes perceived by people who have grown up in the shadow of much higher peaks. I had no hesitation in explaining to him that while the mountains of Scotland pose no danger of altitude sickness they are certainly not be underestimated and should be approached with the respect and caution that any mountain deserves – especially in winter. It’s easy to forget that many munro days (especially on the West coast) start at or near sea level. Routes are frequently pathless and the weather, well…. (I’m sure there’s a German word for ‘dreich’). I pointed out to my Austrian colleague that an ascent of the Grossglockner (Austria’s highest point) begins at a car park that itself is located above the 2000m contour. Thus, the climb to its summit involves around 1900m of ascent. By contrast, a full traverse of the Cuillin ridge involves around 3000m of climbing (about the same as a climb of the Matterhorn from Cervinia). Of course alpine ascents and munro bagging are not to be compared. These are different objectives with high altitude, snow climbs and glacier crossings changing the equation altogether. But it’s easy to see how the relatively low altitude of British mountains can deceive people who are used to loftier ranges.

Bla-Bheinn, June 2014

One thing the alpine climber doesn’t have to contend with is the dreaded midge. During the week in Skye I had my first encounters with Culicoides impunctatus and was extremely glad of my head net. OK, I’ll admit that it’s not a look that’s likely to take off on the catwalk any time soon but it’s a really effective way to keep the little buggers at bay. The onset of midge season also seems to coincide with the mass arrival of tourists in the Highlands. I noticed on the drive to and from Skye many more cars and caravans on the road than I had seen earlier in the year. So, despite my desperation to bag more munros I expect to delay my next visit to the Highlands at least until September when I hope the midges will be biting less, and the roads will be quieter.

4.45 am and 636 miles to home

In the meantime, I will set my sights on Snowdonia. Having enjoyed the scrambles on Skye so much I plan to take on Tryfan and the Glyders later in July. My sense of achievement in upping my munro count (from 3 to 24 in the space of a few months) is sometimes matched by feelings of frustration that the mountains aren’t a little bit nearer. A weekend in Wales means 5 hours in the car each way and a Highland trip (whether arriving by plane or train) is inevitably a wager on the weather of at least £200 in non-refundable fares. That said, being in London has its advantages too. It’s clearly too far to reach Scotland by car in a weekend and the flight options are good. In October a new service to Inverness opens from London City so with any luck, this coming winter will see a couple of weekend expeditions into the Cairngorms.

Since starting this blog in March I have received 350 views from readers as far away as Malaysia and the United States. Whoever you are, thank you for reading. I look forward to sharing more mountain adventures with you in the months to come.

24 down, 258 to go

Incompleatist, 29 June 2014