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.

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.

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.

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

 

 

 

 

Preparing for the Cuillin

So far this year I have managed one big mountain trip from London every month. In June, I face my biggest challenge yet: the Black Cuillin. Britain’s most fearsome and impressive mountain range, my ambition is to climb all eleven of the munros on the main ridge during the course of the first week in June. I will join a group guided by Richard ‘Paddy’ McGuire, with whom I climbed Blaven in October 2012. As exciting as a single traverse of the entire ridge would be, I suspect that for the moment, such an undertaking (even with a guide) may be a step too far. Splitting the ridge into sections, I hopefully stand a better chance of bagging all the principal summits and gain some route flexibility to work around the notoriously fickle Skye weather.

Dreaming of Skye, original LNER lithograph by Austin Cooper

When I’m not climbing mountains, I’m often thinking about climbing them – and I have been dreaming of the Cuillin for nearly two years. I will never forget my first sight of them, from the shores of Loch Coruisk after taking a boat across the water from Elgol in 2012. The dark, jagged peaks stand menacingly between loch and sea. Their summits are sharp and exaggerated. These are mountains as I might have drawn them as a child. At home in London, I have hanging on the wall a lithograph printed for the London and North Eastern Railway Company in the 1930s that depicts the classic view of Sgurr nan Gillean from Sligachan. The giant poster transports me mentally to the mountains on days when I am stuck at sea level, dreaming.

Route planning, May 2014

Normally, before a mountain trip, I will dedicate hours to careful route planning, breaking my routes into sections, calculating distances, times and bearings. To date, I have not planned route cards for the Cuillin. Going onto the ridge in a guided group, I could give myself the luxury of not planning route cards at all. However, between now and the start of June I will attempt to make some anyway. It is a good discipline that focuses the mind on the challenge ahead. It will also be interesting to find out if I select similar routes to those planned by Paddy. If I do, I will gain some confidence in my route planning ability. An inspection of the Harvey 1:25000 map of the area reveals the complexity of the terrain and abundant exposure.

These boots were made for scrambling, and that’s just what they’ll do

The notorious Inaccessible Pinnacle holds a fair degree of dread for me. I am principally a walker, not a climber. I hope though, that experience gained on some rock climbs in Applecross in 2012 and the scramble along Crib Goch in 2013 will set me in reasonable stead. I suspect that the exposed, unroped scrambling sections of the ridge may prove more terrifying than the In Pinn itself. The physical challenge is also not to be underestimated. Most recently I clocked up 37k with almost 3000m of climbing over two days and coped well but certainly felt exhausted the next day. I hope that my fitness will stand up to 4 consecutive mountain days, with maybe 1200m climbing each day.

The Cuillin – counting down the days

Right now I am a mixture of nerves and excitement. Only four more days in the office and a day’s drive separate me from what I hope will be my most thrilling mountain experience yet. I really can’t wait!

 

Obsessive Compulsive Munroism

On April 13th 2013 I went up onto the ridge of Buachaillle Etive Beag in Glencoe and bagged its southerly munro, Stob Dubh, in decent winter conditions – or at least I think I bagged it. That climb was my first big hill day since having arthroscopic surgery to repair a torn meniscus in February. On the day I was very much focused on my knee, praying I would get across the ridge, up the munro and down again without pain. Alan Kimber from West Coast Mountain Guides led the way and I scarcely looked at a map – which is why I say I ‘think’ I bagged Stob Dubh. I wasn’t really paying that much attention to our route or location at all because I was so focused on my knee. I know we crossed the first top on the ridge (around 902m) and then followed the ridge southward, climbing again until the slope levelled off and the ground appeared to drop away. We returned across the ridge, leaving the northerly munro, Stob Coire Raineach for another day.

Almost a year to the day later, I found myself on Buachaille Etive Beag again but this time alone. The weather was dreadful. Several days of warm temperatures and rain had stripped the hills of snow below 900m and I climbed up to Stob Coire Raineach in a howling gale with rain lashing at my face. (I’ve found that in these conditions, snow goggles provide excellent protection from the elements). The summit was not a place to loiter and I headed straight back down to the col. My original plan for the day had been to continue along the ridge to Stob Dubh and make certain this time that I really had bagged it. Despite the low cloud I actually had pretty good visibility from the slopes of Raineach across the first top and all the way towards Stob Dubh – but it didn’t take me long to decide that the prudent course of action on this occasion was to get off the hill and back to the car.

Stob Coire Raineach, April 2014

Crossing a narrow, snow capped ridge, alone and in gale force winds would have been an unnecessarily stupid risk. Yet the decision not to proceed onto that ridge still left me disappointed. I had really wanted to make it to Stob Dubh last weekend and my fixation on that goal reveals something, I think, about the obsessive compulsive nature of the typical munro ‘bagger.’ For me, heading back to Stob Dubh would have been the winter walking equivalent of turning round, 50m from the front door of the house, to check whether I’d forgotten to switch off the iron or perhaps left the stove burning. What can I say? No matter how many times you check, the iron is never left on, and the stove is never burning. I’d crossed that ridge a year before, with a guide and walked as far south-west as possible before the contours dropped. In any sane person’s book, I’d bagged Stob Dubh in 2013. But the munro bagger wants to be sure. These days, he or she probably carries some sort of GPS device too, so there need be no uncertainty as to whether one is actually at the summit or not.

Two days earlier, I had witnessed something similar at the summit of Ben Vane in the Arrochar Alps. I had taken an early flight from London City to Glasgow and was at the car park at Inveruglas by 11am. Excitedly (this being my first solo munro) I made my way past the power station and on up the slopes of this diminutive but very steep munro. Near the top I met another ‘bagger’ – a delightful lady from Inverness who was close to compleating (only 20 to go I think – not to mention that she was even closer to finishing the Corbetts and Grahams!) At the summit I happily plonked my axe into the cairn that I assumed must be marking the high point. I was struck when I noticed my fellow bagger skip over to a nearby rock that did appear to be perhaps as much as 50cm higher than the cairn! Who wants to leave anything to chance? Naturally, I wandered over to stand on that rock too.

Ben Vane, April 2014 – This is the summit right?

Munro baggers are a funny bunch. Many mountaineers deride any form of peak bagging, comparing it to stamp collecting. I can understand these criticisms. It shouldn’t really matter how many mountains you climb or how high they are. There is certainly something peculiar about ticking off peaks in a list. And the highest mountains aren’t always the best. But for me, and many others, there is something deeply satisfying in peak bagging. By chasing the munros and furths, there’s a structure to my enjoyment of the mountains and an easy way to measure my progress over a period of years. One thing I realised on my most recent trip though, was that the moment chasing those peaks starts to feel like a chore, then you know it’s time to ease off. The day after I’d been up Buachaille Etive Beag in the rain, and two days after Ben Vane, I was scheduled to return to London on an evening flight. Staying in Crianlarich I had enough time, with a sufficiently early start, to take on one or two of the Crianlarich munros on Monday morning. On Sunday night I was thinking that if I hit the trail by 6am I could probably make it round the An Casteal horseshoe with time enough to get back to Glasgow for my flight. After giving it some thought I decided that I wouldn’t set an alarm for Monday morning after all. I was tired, and climbing mountains should never feel like ‘work’.

The Crianlarich hills will wait and my legs needed to rest. I was pretty tired after three days of walking – in between Ben Vane and Stob Coire Raineach I’d spent Saturday walking both of the munros on Buachaille Etive Mor with Max Hunter. Together with my solo outings on Ben Vane and Stob Coire Raineach, the day on Buachaille Etive Mor was a big one for me. My first route combining two munros in a day (though earlier this winter I strung together 4 furths on a longer route in the Carneddau in Snowdonia). Parking on the A82 opposite Lagangarbh, the cloud was hanging low over Glencoe. I’d planned the route with careful regard to dangers: the obvious route onto the mountain, through Coire na Tulaich, has claimed lives in previous winters. Just looking at the corrie on the map, the potential avalanche hazard is obvious. Last Saturday, in late winter conditions, the avalanche forecast from the Scottish Avalanche Information Service indicated ‘low’ risk on the slopes. But in these thaw conditions, however safe the slopes, the danger of cornice collapse was real and, as the SAIS text forecast noted, quite independent of avalanche risk. We decided that the only sensible option was to climb the buttress to the west of the corrie. This was a steep and tiring slog but as we reached the top, the enormous fracture lines behind the rim of the corrie confirmed that we had made a wise move. If and when this thing goes (hopefully it will just melt away gently) it will drag an enormous amount of snow with it.

Coire na Tulaich – Glad we didn’t try to climb up this

Atop Stob Dearg I broke open my hip flask, a really thoughtful Christmas gift from my girlfriend Jennifer who is so tolerant of my increasingly frequent solo forays into the mountains. Unusually perhaps, my flask is filled not with a fine single malt (though I’m certainly partial to a Glenlivet or a Talisker) but with an absolutely superb, aged rum from Guyana – ‘El Dorado’ (seriously – give this stuff a try, it is super smoky and the most ‘whiskey-like’ rum I’ve ever tasted). Before taking a sip myself, I poured a little drop onto the summit, a votive offering to appease the mountain gods. The ridge south from the first munro of the day gave me a good opportunity to test my navigation. While Max has been up to Stob Dearg dozens of times with clients interested in the exciting climbs at the northern end of Buachaille Etive Mor, this was his first complete traverse of the ridge as well as mine. In the poor visibility, our map and compass skills were important in making our way to Stob na Broige which, at 5km from the road, feels reasonably remote. Reaching the summit, I was pleased with my achievement. Three munros in two days. It might not sound like much in the grand scheme of things but given my injury troubles in 2013, the start to my 2014 campaign is going really well.

Stob Dearg (1022m) – Cheers!

Our plan for the descent was to head down Coire Altrium but we both knew that it would – like Tulaich – be heavily corniced and potentially dicey. Worst case we would have had to return all the way to the buttress at the top of Coire na Tulaich and climb down from there. Thankfully though, we were able to avoid the worst of the cornicing and access the corrie more safely by crossing into it from the east. At the base of the corrie we could see a large amount of avalanche debris from earlier in the winter. Above us there were patches of blue sky. Walking along the river Coupal back to the road I had a real sense of deja-vu. I suddenly realised I’d walked into this valley before in 2012 with my Dad. I remember at the time admiring the peaks of both the Buachailles. It was great to be walking the same path two years on knowing I’d bagged them all.

Buachaille Etive Mor, April 2014

All in all it was an intense weekend. In three days, I doubled my munro count to eight. This was also the first time since 2012 that I’d done consecutive days in the mountains and my knees held up perfectly well. In fact, I think that the increase in activity in 2014 is only strengthening my legs and this hopefully bodes well for the rest of the year. Adding together all my routes so far in 2014 in Wales and Scotland, I have climbed five munros and six furths, completing a distance of around 80km with a total ascent of almost 6000m! I have a few weeks off now and will return to the Highlands in May. I’ve realised that all my 8 munros to date have been completed in winter conditions. With any luck, I’ll have fine weather in May for my next few. Thanks for reading, and happy hiking.

The Incompleatist, 12 April 2014 – 8 down, 274 to go

 

Over the sea to Skye

October 2012. Dad and I make a road trip to Scotland. Having seen the Highlands for the first time myself earlier in the year I was eager that my Dad should see them too. Before this trip, he had never been further north than Edinburgh or Glasgow. I was also keen to put some miles on my car which was beginning to look like an expensive luxury, seeing very little use in the year since I bought it. On our first day we made it from the West Midlands to the top of Loch Lomond, staying in a B&B with amazing views over the loch. During the drive up, as we passed through Cumbria I also got a small sense of what fine walking country the Lake District offers. I would have to wait almost another year before making my first visit to England’s finest mountain region though.

Loch Lomond, October 2012

Our objective was Skye. While we could have made it to Broadford easily from Loch Lomond in a day, we overnighted again en route at Onich, just outside Fort William. On the way up to Onich we stopped in Glencoe, spending a couple of hours there. On my first visit to the Highlands earlier in the year I had not made it to Glencoe, so for me this was another life ‘first’ and one that I’ll never forget. The mountains looked awesome in their blazing autumn colours. At the time, munro fever had really not hit me yet and incredibly, while we wandered along the start of the path up towards Buachaille Etive Mor, we didn’t climb any higher. To be fair, while Dad enjoys walking he’s not really a mountain walker and I’m not sure we could have climbed anything in Glencoe together that day. But in retrospect, now that the munro bug really has bitten me, I can’t imagine driving through Glencoe and not stopping to climb something.

Lagangarbh, Glencoe, October 2012

I must have expected some good walking that week though, as I had brought all my hiking gear with me. On arriving in Skye the views from Breakish were enough to convince me that I had to get one good day’s mountain walking in while on Skye. I knew that my target would be somewhere in the Cuillin and so, on our first day in Broadford I left dad at the holiday cottage and drove up the road to a pay phone (my then new smart phone not picking up any signal at all) to call round guides. Back in 2012 I was hesitant to head into the mountains alone, even outside winter, and I knew that the Cuillin had a fierce reputation. I made contact with Paddy McGuire and we arranged to meet at the Sligachan hotel early on Friday, the last day of the trip.

Cuillin Hills, Skye, October 2012

Over the next couple of days Dad and I explored the island at a leisurely pace. We had absolutely fantastic late autumn weather and it was often warm in the sunshine. Ironically, that week, much of the rest of the UK was experiencing wet and windy weather much more typical of the season. There aren’t many occasions when you can look at a TV weather map of the UK and see the only bright spot in the western Highlands. It happens occasionally though! The highlight of the week for both of us was undoubtedly a boat trip from Elgol to Loch Coruisk from where we had some incredible views of the Cuillin. The site of the mountains really stirred something in me and while I realised that their traverse was something way beyond my capabilities as such a novice mountaineer at the time, it was a goal that was definitely added to my bucket list that day.

Bla Bheinn, Skye, October 2012 – The day started fine

After much anticipation Friday morning came. Overnight the temperature had dropped and the mountains had been given their very first dusting of snow for the winter. At Sligachan Paddy proposed that we set our sights on Bla Bheinn rather than heading anywhere on the main ridge, and off we went. It snowed for much of the morning, a climb which I remember being occasionally quite rocky and scrambly. Miraculously, as we approached the summit, the clouds broke a little and the views opened up, revealing an awe-inspiring, red-hued mountain scape. We even had the good fortune to catch sight of an eagle, soaring beneath us. Truly magical. Without really being conscious of the fact, I had ticked off my second munro. My descent that day was reasonably painful and I was glad of the loan of one of Paddy’s poles. Looking back I can’t believe I waited so long, and subjected myself to so much knee pain, before investing in my own poles and taking other steps to get on top of my knee trouble.

Bla Bheinn, Skye, October 2012 – but soon it was snowing heavily

Paddy is an excellent guide. A Skye native, he is extremely knowledgable and seems to know the Cuillin like the back of his hand. While the weather conditions that day weren’t the worst (mercifully the winds were not that fierce) it was nevertheless a cold, wet and largely grey day on the mountain. Without the skill and local nous of a guide like Paddy I doubt that I would have made it to the top solo and, even if I had, navigating the descent would have seriously tested me. I’ve used guides extensively in my first two years of mountain walking and would recommend that anyone else exploring unfamiliar terrain or who is a newcomer to the UK mountains should do the same. It is money very well spent. I’m sure that the route I completed solo recently in Snowdonia in absolutely atrocious conditions and gale force winds is not something I would contemplate without the skills and knowledge that I have built up from spending a couple of years going into the hills with people who really know what they’re doing.

Bla Bheinn, Skye, October 2012 – as we approached the summit, the views began to open

The next day Dad and I made a very, very early start and completed the marathon journey from Broadford, Skye to Wolverley, Worcestershire in approximately 11 hours. The following day I drove another 3 hours back down to London. The Octavia VRS was made for journeys like this. It just chews up the miles and makes for a fast but comfortable ride. As a child of the 80s I remember Skodas being the butt of so many jokes in the playground. How times change. I wouldn’t swap my VRS for anything else on the road (except perhaps the new VRS – or, if you’re twisting my arm, maybe a Ferrari F12 Berlinetta).

Bla Bheinn, Skye, October 2012 – A fine view from the summit

It was a fantastic week and great to spend some quality time catching up with Dad. He is the person perhaps most responsible for my picking up the munro bagging affliction. As a Christmas gift that year, as a memento of my day on Bla Bheinn, he gave me a copy of Cameron McNeish’s book on The Munros. A must have tome for any ‘bagger’. The text, photos, maps and lists awakened the inner stamp collector in me. For me, the idea I might become a bagger was born at the end of 2012 and really inspired by this trip to Skye. Injury setbacks in 2013 have meant that my campaign has not really taken off yet. But I have since honed my fitness and navigation skills in the English and Welsh mountains and am now ready to step things up a gear.

More photos from this 2012 trip at my Flickr page