Hot-Aches and Haggis
Rob Baker enjoys the Highland highs and blisteringly cold lows of a Scottish winter season
Just the thought of climbing in Scotland in winter can induce hot-aches and anxiety. The cold, wet mountains and the horrendous boggy approaches are enough to make even the most hardened climbers retreat to the nearest pub. But for some reason I loved the mountains and climbing in Scotland. Maybe it was insanity induced by the long winter nights, or possibly I just have a masochistic streak. I’ll let you decide.
In 2006 in Patagonia I met two Sheffield-based climbers, Ross and Tim, who regaled me with tales of wild blizzards, icy rime-encrusted rock and heinous spindrift avalanches. Their tales intrigued me, so when I arrived in the UK for a year of work in 2007, I signed on for some Scottish winter action.
Scotland had its first snow in November. Pete, a friend from Sheffield, was heading north to the Lakes District and possibly Scotland if the weather looked good. I made the four-hour drive to Sheffield from my new home in the southwest of London on Friday afternoon, and headed up with Pete and his mate Duncan. They both seemed to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of what was good, what was ‘in’ and a constant supply of psyche for Scottish winter climbing.
After a day of walking in the Lakes District, the weather for Sunday looked better, so we made the four-hour drive north to Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Britain. By 6am I was walking into the northern side of Ben Nevis, excited at the prospect of my first Scottish winter route. I teamed up with a guy called Ian for an ascent of the North East Buttress (IV, 4, 400 metres), while Pete and Duncan were attempting the classic Tower Ridge (IV, 3, 600 metres).
Kitting up in the hut below the north face, I observed that there was actually no ice on the mountain at all, just a foot or more of snow covering the rock. It was going to be interesting. We decided on a direct start to the route, so I led off. After about 40 metres with no protection in sight and insecure climbing all the way, I yelled down to Ian to ask if this was normal.
‘Yep, not much gear to be found on the Ben in these conditions.’
I continued on with the thought-provoking climbing, hooking and torquing my axes on hidden holds beneath the snow. The pitch was so long Ian had to simul-climb until I found a suitable single piece belay anchor. The climbing was time consuming and as darkness approached we arrived at the crux of the route, a small three-metre-high boulder problem known as ‘the Mantrap’. It couldn’t be that hard could it? It turned out to be desperate. Delicate hooking and mantling were required to overcome the obstacle, which was protected by a fixed piton about waist-height.
After an equally difficult 15-metre-high corner we arrived on the ridge and made our way to the summit of Ben Nevis. It was 7pm. It had been dark for the past three hours and the moon was full. Snow-capped mountains could be seen in every direction. After descending down Number 4 Gully, we arrived at the car park at 10pm and began the six-hour drive back to Sheffield, from where I then made the solo four-hour drive home. A quick text message ensured my boss knew that I might be a little late for work the next morning.
THE WINTER WAS A LEAN one in terms of snowfall and, by late February, only a handful of routes high on Ben Nevis were in condition. I teamed up with a keen tight-wearing Swiss guy for the classic Smith’s Route (V, 5), high up on Ben Nevis. The crux was a steep, pumpy 40-metre ice pitch, with bomber ice for screws. We topped out in sunshine, the best weather I experienced in Scotland.
A few weeks later, Captain Pete was once again psyched for some Scottish winter action and although the forecast didn’t look brilliant, he was optimistic. I drove to Sheffield on Friday afternoon and we headed up to the fabled Lochnagar with the hope of climbing Eagle Ridge (VI, 6). We awoke to torrential rain but proceeded with the two-hour approach. On arriving in the corrie, it was still raining heavily and the temperature was obviously well above freezing, so we bailed and headed south for some climbing on Northumberland sandstone.
The following weekend Pete was more optimistic and I headed north once again. He assured me that he had finally fixed his car and that it was ready for a mission. Half an hour out of Sheffield, the battery warning light started flashing. We probably should have turned around then, but psyche has no reason, so onwards we went until, north of the border, in a city called Perth, the headlights and engine faded completely. After an impromptu bivvy in the Tesco car park, we awoke to a splitter day of weather and made the call to continue our mission…after push-starting the car.
Arriving at the base of daunting north face of Lochnagar, the conditions were perfect. Upwards we climbed, torquing and hooking our axes in cracks and protrusions under the snow and finding the odd solid piece of turf. To my amusement, Pete had decided we only needed one belay jacket between us so by the time the second arrived at the belay, I had usually started to get cold. Pete on the other hand seemed to cope quite well. When we arrived at the top and compared layers, it was clear why; Pete wore five layers, while I wore two light layers.
We topped out close to dark and arrived back at the car a few hours later, only to find the battery dead flat…again. Roll-starting the car, we drove the ten kilometres back to Ballater holding our headlamps out the window. The engine died completely on arrival in the main street so we camped out in the park in the middle of town.
After wasting a day charging the battery, on the brink of driving back to Sheffield, the decision was made to get another route done on Sunday morning before heading back across the border in the daylight, without the need for headlights. We headed to Beinn an Dothaidh to climb a classic grade-IV route called Taxus. Vertical, unfrozen turf on the first pitch made for some interesting creative climbing, especially since Pete had me on a hip belay. Upon arriving at the belay, after a few hundred metres of simul-climbing, Pete agreed it was a little desperate. After some steep ice through a few bulges, it was my turn to top out through the desperate overhanging cornice with my last decent protection 30 metres below. An hour later, covered in rime and wind blown spindrift, I was happily sitting on top belaying Pete from my tied-off axes. We even made it back to Sheffield before dinner.
A SLIGHTLY CRAZY IRISHMAN called Donie was psyched for a mission to the Scottish Highlands the following weekend, so we headed north once again, bound for Ben Nevis. Donie was keen to do battle with two beautiful pitches of gnarliness imaginatively named Route 1 (VI, 6).
Donie suggested that he lead the crux first pitch, leaving me huddled in my belay jacket in the freezing wind for two hours. Once I started climbing up the intricate chimney and mixed terrain, my body began to warm up and with it came the inevitable hot-aches, otherwise known as the ‘screaming barfies’, as blood crept back into my extremities. The hot-aches reached their climax as I reached the belay where Donie joked: ‘You can cry if you want’. I almost had tears in my eyes from the pain and laughter as I prepared to set off up the next daunting pitch. Delicate, intricate mixed climbing with very spaced protection made for an absorbing and exciting lead. A small stopper, a piton, a short ice screw and a shitty cam in an icy crack was all the protection I could find on the 40 metre pitch. Falling wasn’t an option and care was needed to finish the route safely, before heading to the pub for a few pints, some haggis and pizza. Alpine climbing convenience at its finest.
The next day the biggest face on the Ben beckoned and we started up an aesthetic 400-metre route called Astral Highway (VI, 5). The ice was continuously steep with good axe placements, but solid screw placements were hard to come by. Exciting 30-metre run-outs seemed the norm on this route where the unspoken thought of ‘On Belay, but please don’t fall’, applied at almost every belay. Creativity was the name of game when constructing belays. A tied-off screw or a knife-blade piton equalised with ice axes seemed an almost too-common solution to a challenging conundrum. The amazing climbing continued until we finally reached the Northeast Ridge and eventually the summit in close to zero visibility and a darkening gloom. The shutter on my camera froze as I framed Donie, covered in spindrift and sporting a gleaming smile, topping out on the ridge. This was what Scottish climbing is all about – amazing adventure with a mad Irishman in less than ideal conditions. On arriving at the summit marker, Donie realised that his compass was broken, so we had to navigate off the southern side of the mountain using the compass on my watch. After two hours of icy snow slopes and shin-deep bog, we arrived back at the car not really psyched for the ten-hour drive home.
MY BODY SECRETLY YEARNED for a rest, but the following weekend I headed north again with Donie. This time our goal was to climb the classic Hadrian’s Wall (V, 5) on Ben Nevis, a beautiful ribbon of 300-metre high ice in Tower Gully.
Once again, the mountain didn’t disappoint. I had heard stories of horrendous spindrift avalanches in the Scottish gullies, particularly the famous Point 5 Gully, where powder snow from the summit plateau is funnelled into the gullies creating full-on climbing conditions. Hadrian’s Wall was to be my first experience of climbing in the midst of these crazy incessant avalanches. Every few minutes a deluge of dense snow would funnel down the face filling any receptacle left open. Gloves were kept on and jackets were tightly sealed, ready for battle with the elements. We climbed in a whiteout with only about 20 feet of visibility.
In the midst of battle with the ice and spindrift avalanches, we heard screams and calls for help from the nearby Zero Gully. A climber had fallen high on the route and had broken his leg quite badly. Word got down the mountain and the helicopter dropped the rescue crew on the summit with their 400-metre cable.
The first few pitches were beautiful steep ice, which eased off before a steep headwall. We simul-climbed up the moderate terrain together. The headwall was an exciting finale to the route; I placed my last ice-screw at the base of the 40-metre headwall and had to continue to the top without any further protection.
I had learnt by then that the Ben never lets you win without a fight and a bit of trickery. When Donie and I compared our compass bearings at the summit marker, the north arrows pointed in opposite directions: extremely useful information in a complete whiteout! We figured Donie’s compass was wrong and proceeded to navigate off the mountain using my compass to avoid the dangerous gullies. Another cool adventure and another long drive back home.
The Scottish winter climbing psyche was firmly ingrained by this stage and I managed to get back to the Ben for two more consecutive weekends before the winter season ended. The ice was thick, the hoar frost was everywhere and the psyche was high on these last two weekends. Pete and his mate Tim got avalanched in Number 3 gully on the approach to a desperate route called Darth Vader (VII, 8) on the Ben, but still managed to climb the route with only three axes between them. I managed a few more classic mixed and ice routes, and made the ten-hour drive on six consecutive weekends. Coffee and Red Bull became my friend on the long nights of driving and sleepy Mondays in the office, where falling asleep at my desk became the norm.
The 2007–2008 winter season gave me some of the best adventures of my life. It was one of those memorable times in life when you feel truly alive, grateful for the amazing experiences shared with great friends. The memory of days like these are what we take with us when the ice melts and the hills emerge from their winter coats. We dream about the next winter and the challenges the magic season will bring. If you haven’t been to Scotland in winter, you are missing out on an experience of a lifetime.
Rob Baker sometimes resides in Adelaide between climbing adventures to various parts of the world. His twisted sense of humour seems to equate some forms of suffering with fun. His mum thinks he works as a postman…
