the Skye's the limit

So technically it was more of a romantic week away than an official BCC expedition, but I'm so excited about the trip to the Cuillin on Skye that I've just returned from that I thought I'd write it up anyway ... hopefully as a way of inspiring the next trip up there!


The Cuillin Ridge is an amazing jagged arc of volcanic rock with 13 Munros and many more subsidiary summits. While there's no glaciers and the ridge never exceeds 1000m, it's still the closest thing to an Alpine experience you'll get in the UK. Much of the main ridge and many of the side ridges are knife-edged, and in many places there are sweeps of solid rock several hundred metres high. It's a desolate environment with a serious feel, but is incredibly beautiful. There is enough climbing, scrambling and walking there to last you for years.


The voyage

Getting there is half the adventure. Neither Katy or I has a car, so we decided to do it all by public transport and our own two feet.

Day one: we leave London at lunchtime. Train to Glasgow, time for a quick pint, then train to Mallaig via Fort William. Extraordinary views of the hills and lochs from the train. Train full of drunk Scots. Arrive in Mallaig around midnight, check into hostel, sleep.

Day two: up early for the ferry across to Armadale on Skye. It's a beautiful clear morning, and we get good views over Blaven/Clach Glas as well as the main Cuillin ridge in the distance, and the hills of Knoydart closer by. Catch a bus straight from the ferry to Broadford, where we have time for a cooked breakfast in a caff before the same bus comes back and takes us on to Sligachan at the foot of the north end of the Cuillin. There's not much in Slig except a bus stop, a hotel/pub and a campsite, but we were determined to carry on to Glen Brittle – 8 miles by a rough track or 15 miles by road – for a bit more of a remote mountain feel. So we hitch it. The first car to stop is a Polish couple heading for the Talisker distillery. I was sorely tempted, but the mountains were calling so we turned the lift down. A few minutes later, got another lift with a friendly French couple all the way to the campsite, after only around half an hour of standing by the roadside.

The campsite is perfect. The only problem is deciding whether your tent should face out over the beach, or up into the Cuillin. (the other problem is that there's no pub and the tiny campsite shop doesn't sell beer, so it turned out to be a pretty dry week...)


early scrambling

It's early afternoon by the time we get there and the sun is out, so we decide to head straight for the hills. We start with a pleasant walk into Coire na Banachdich, then up a grade 3 scramble (described as 'serious and high in its grade' in the guidebook) up the Banachdich slabs, a sheet of perfect gabbro sweeping down from the col. Gabbro is, quite simply, wonderful. Everything sticks to it. You can walk up rock at improbable angles, often not even needing handholds. As it was, Katy and I were left wondering where the 'serious and sustained' bit was, as we topped out swiftly and without much difficulty. From there, over the three tops of Sgurr na Banachdich, a pleasantly airy grade 2 scramble and Katy's first Munro, then another grade 2 scramble down the Sgurr nan Gobhar ridge. So far, so good, but it then finished in a scree descent so unspeakably awful that I won't describe it any further.


big rock

Day three and we're feeling good. Weather is cool but sunny, so we decide to go for a big day on the rock. We head up into Coire Lagan – a basin with 300m high rock cliffs in every direction – to climb on the Cioch face on Sron na Ciche. The Cioch itself is a curious knob of rock jutting out of the middle of a 300m rockface, and the face is split into 3 levels by small ledges, enabling you to mix and match different routes. We opt to start with Cioch Direct, a classic of the area that was originally graded 'Exceptionally Severe' on its first ascent 100 years ago. These days its goes at Severe 4a, but I reckon that's a bit of a Skye sandbag. Much of the route goes up a basalt dyke forming a series of corners and chimneys. Unlike gabbro, which tends to be solid and super-grippy, basalt polishes easily is prone to fracture, making it a much more worrying proposition.

After a thrutchy polished start up a chimney, the first couple of pitches go pretty easily. Then 20 metres up the third pitch, bang – there's the crux. A steep and awkward chimney, with every hold seemingly as polished as the most popular routes on Portland. I go part the way up it, come down a bit and breathe, go up again, thrash about, then down climb once more and set up a very exposed belay point just to get my breath back. After bringing Katy up, I have the (not so) bright idea of finding a different way around and rejoining the route higher up. I set off on a delicate traverse left across a gabbro slab, make a tricky rockover back right, then- fekkin ell- I'm faced with a 6-metre high overhanging corner. It looks hard, definitely harder than the crux I was avoiding. Overhangs and rucksacks don't mix very well, I feel like I'm being pulled off the wall backwards. But I've committed – there's no way I can reverse the moves back down to the belay. The only way is up, so I launch myself at it, laybacking, jamming, bridging and grunting. I come close to falling, repeatedly, closer than I've been to falling on any multipitch I've done before, but keep on moving upwards. It's definitely harder than Severe, felt like VS with packs on, though it may well have been part of the line of the neighbouring HVS route. I slap for a ledge and eventually pull up into a niche and a belay, where I gasp for breath and belay Katy up to join me. I'm not surprised at all to hear curses shouted up when she gets to the corner, nor to hold a couple of falls, but to her credit she got on with it and finished the pitch. We breathe, drink some water, eat something sugary, and continue. For the final two pitches the route moves on to open gabbro slabs which are poorly protected but easy climbing, with the grade dropping back to S or V Diff.

So after 6 pitches and several hours, we've finished our first route of the day. But the route finishes on a narrow ledge in the middle of a massive rock face, so the only thing to do is to choose another route and keep going. We pop round the corner to Arrow Route, an immaculate 70m dimpled slab that goes at V Diff (see http://www.ukclimbing.com/images/dbpage.html?id=114404). It's got a reputation as one of the worst-protected and most exposed V Diffs in the country, and those of you I've climbed with before will know that I'm terrible at slabs. But it had to be done. The first pitch traversed up a vague crack line to the middle of the face, to an entirely inadequate belay ledge that you could only just about get two feet on. The second pitch is the crux, tiptoeing straight up the face with incredible exposure. But despite the reputation for poor gear, I managed to get 5 pieces in thanks to creative uses of a tricam and a miniature hex. A beautiful pitch, on wonderfully warm rock in the sun.

This route arrives at a grassy ledge just above the Cioch. Apparently it's possibly to scramble off into the gully from there, but we had a look and it appeared deathly wet and slippery. So the only thing to do is keep climbing. We sat in the sun for a bit, waiting for another party to move on, before setting off on Wallwork's Route (VD). Unlike the chimneys and corners of the first route or the slab of the second, this route has a totally different feel to it and takes a rising traverse on steep blocky gabbro above a massive drop. It's by far the most exposed V.Dif that I've done, as it involves repeated moves to blindly swing round blocks or rock over ledges above an overhang, with hundreds of metres of space directly beneath you. But the moves aren't too hard once you get your head into it. Three pitches later, the route swings back the other direction onto a 70 metre blank but easy angled slab. Katy leads the final pitch, our 12th of the day, and we top out on the summit exhausted but happy. We descend the Sgumain Stone Shoot (just as nasty as it sounds, an evil combination of loose scree and tricky down-scrambling) and eventually get back to the campsite at 11pm – a 13 hour day – but thankfully with enough light left in the evening sky to cook dinner without headtorches.


Accessing the inaccessible

Day four: feeling tired but buoyed by the previous day's adventures, we head back into the hills, this time to go up the Inaccessible Pinnacle, a strange fin of rock jutting out of Sgurr Dearg that is the most technically difficult munro in the country. We walk up to Loch Coire Lagan with the original idea of doing a long Diff straight up the side of Sgurr Mhic Choinnich. However, once up there we spot another couple of climbers on the route and decide to the south buttress of Sgurr Dearg instead (a grade 3 scramble), for fear of getting stuck behind them. It turned out to be a wiser decision when we realised – an hour later, the climbers we saw dislodged a chunk of rock the size of a small fridge which sparked an avalanche of rock down the face. Had we started the route, we may well have been in its path.

The ascent of the In Pinn is only a moderate, but it's got a fierce reputation among hillwalkers as it's rather exposed with 70m drops both sides. So I wasn't best pleased when a rain shower broke out just as we were approaching it. Nor was I pleased by the rescue helicopter buzzing by at very close range as I was arriving at the first belay – the sound of those things freaks me out. But it was a pretty easy 2 pitch route, even in big boots in the rain, and we topped out swiftly then abseiled off the west end. Descent was to be via a path below the Bealach Coire na Banachdich, but I quickly lost it and we downclimbed the grade 3 slabs instead. All in all, a fun day out.


13k rest day

Day five: I unilaterally called a rest day. I was exhausted, particularly after leading 11 pitches on day 3. We hung around the beach, then walked out to the point at the end of Loch Brittle (13k in all, not bad for a rest day!), with beautiful views of the hills and the small islands (Eigg, Rhum and Canna) and Outer Hebrides. I might have seen a sea otter. At the end of the point there's some stunning gabbro seacliffs, around 8-10 metres high and with perfect rock. I'm keen to head back with a rope and my shoes for some 'new routing', as I didn't see a single mark of chalk or polish anywhere (though I'm sure some of the routes must have been done before).


A Difficult adventure

Day six: wake up feeling rested, despite the long walk, as I went a whole day without feeling like I was at risk of death. We head up to Window Buttress (diff), a 150m high ridge of blocky gabbro, so Katy can do some multipitch leading. It's sunny when we start the walk in, but a cold wind picks up and by the time we get to the base of the cliff it's chucking it down. Convinced it would clear quickly, Katy set off up the route anyway, leading confidently even on the wet rock. But by the time I reach the first belay ledge I'm soaked through and freezing. Katy leads again, the wind is howling, and the temperature can't have been more than a couple of degrees. It's much more difficult climbing in the wet, but Katy seems to be leading fine. As for me, I'm regretting wearing big boots and I can't feel my fingers. Despite full waterproofs and fleece, I'm shivering and miserable. At the second belay ledge we decide to bail out. We abseil back as far as the first ledge – then textbook disaster strikes. The rope jams as I try to pull it, and we're stuck 25 metres up a rock face with no rope and no way to get down. And it's still chucking it down and freezing cold. I was too cold to panic, so using the remaining rope slack I tied in and climbed back up towards the ledge to free the rope, placing gear as I went. Unfortunately the remaining rope wasn't long enough and I was stuck 5 metres below the ledge. However after a few pulls on the rope and a lot of rope stretch I managed to just about make it back to the ledge. At that point I discovered that the rope wasn't snagged on something after all; the wet, clingy rope just wouldn't pull over the rough gabbro. So there was no easy way of abbing down without risking getting the rope stuck again. I decided to do a tricky downclimb down the way I had just come up, then after rejoining Katy on the ledge I got her to lead the downclimb on the final pitch.

Having had enough adventures for one day, we trudged back to camp, packed up, and hit the road to get back to Sligachan. After 45 minutes of heavily-laden walking down an entirely empty road (in bright sunshine once again), an elderly Munroist stopped for us and kindly gave us a lift back to Slig. He was in pursuit of his last 20 or so Munros, and was mostly walking alone these days as his peers couldn't take the long days any more. Good luck to him!

Once the tents were up in Slig, the cold northerly wind that had been blowing all week suddenly stopped. Then the midges came out ... we wanted the cold wind back! We sloped off to the pub to avoid them.


The ground beneath her feet

Day seven: Last day in the hills. The route of choice this time is Pinnacle Ridge on Sgurr nan Gillean – it's only a Mod, but it's a big long route with an Alpine feel (including some decidedly dodgy rock). It traverses a series of five ascending rock towers, split by gullies, on the way up to one of the northernmost Munros on the ridge. We were blessed by yet another beautiful clear day, and set off early. The first three pinnacles are mostly interesting scrambling, but from there it becomes more complicated and good routefinding is required. From the top of the third pinnacle, a rather unnerving abseil is required, followed by a downclimb to a gully. From there, you're committed. We moved together alpine-style up the next pinnacle (Knight's Peak), then descended the other side. Poor route finding on my part led us to a nasty-looking 8 metre open corner. Always the gentleman, I suggested that Katy went first. She geared up and traversed onto a small ledge above the corner – then suddenly the whole ledge collapsed beneath her feet and ricocheted down into the gully. Katy was -thankfully- roped up and managed to keep hold of the handholds in the fall, but a terrifying moment nonetheless. Another party then appeared behind us, and found an easy way to walk down on the right. We climbed down after them, and set off alpine style again up the final peak, arriving to incredible views of the whole ridge and pretty much the whole island and beyond. I picked out Ben Nevis in the distance, still covered in snow on the north face. We decided to take the West Ridge (moderate) in descent, then abseiled down Tooth Chimney (diff) as a friendly party ahead let us use their rope.


From the bealach we decided to go up for one last munro, and set off the normal route up Am Basteir, a grade 2 scramble with one notch of Severe downclimbing. This was swiftly overcome, then the summit, then the scree slopes and the long long walk out, and finally the pub. It was the end of our climbing, and of a spectacular week.

Day eight: early start in the Slig campsite. Pack up then catch a 7:30am bus to Armadale, then the ferry over to Mallaig. Katy has a few more days and is headed to Eigg via another ferry; I'm headed home. I get the train to Glasgow, another to London, the tube across town then another train to Peckham and arrive home around 11pm, feeling somewhat culture shocked by the Skye-London transition, somewhat fatigued from the journey, but very much alive.



Jonathan Gaventa
14 June 2009

Ecrins, French Alps, June 21 - July 2 2008

The departure

When the avalanche hit, I was eating fried mushrooms and drinking strong coffee in a picturesque converted stable in the Cotswolds. My friends Kate and Jez had been married the previous night. The morning was spent among friends from undergraduate days, slowly recovering from the festivities, and telling anyone who would listen about my plans, excitement and apprehension about my first ever Alpine mountaineering trip. I was to leave the following day for the Ecrins massif in the southern French Alps, a mountain range characterised by jagged peaks up to 4000 metres, high mountain glaciers, huge granite rock walls and narrow Alpine valleys – and could think and talk of little else.

Meanwhile, my climbing partners were having a bad day on the hill. They had already gone out to the Alps; the wedding meant that I was to miss the first couple of days of climbing and would join the others out there. The plan was that the others – a mix of Brixton Climbers and their French friends from the Ardèche - would head out first, attempt a high mountain route and hopefully be ready to get back out for another route by the time I arrived on the Tuesday morning.

So while I was drinking English champagne and dancing to a ceilidh band, the others were setting off towards their bivi in the boulder field under the Sélé hut, at 2500m. While I was stumbling into bed in the early hours of the morning, they were just beginning their 4am 'Alpine start'. And by the time of my second cup of coffee, they would be in a difficult and dangerous retreat.

Point du Sélé

In clear early morning sunshine, two rope teams of 3 people each crossed over the moraine field and then up the steep slopes of the Glacier de Ailefroide, aiming for the Pointe du Sélé (3556m), a peak joining four steep rocky ridges rising out of the glaciers. Several of the experienced mountaineers in the group had been to the same area the previous year, and noted with some concern that there was not only much more snow than they remembered but also that it seemed far too soft: they sank with every step. An abnormal spring of heavy snows lasting well into June created unusual conditions on the mountains. Beautifully clear and warm weather may seem ideal for climbing, but – in retrospect - following so soon after the spring snows it signalled a rapid thaw, unstable slopes and risk of rockfall and avalanche.

On the upper slopes of the glacier, the two teams separated to attempt the summit by different ridges. The first team – Oskari, the Brixton-Finnish climber plus Patrice and Jean-Marie, two Ardeche Frenchmen – moved up their chosen ridge, only to be confronted with extremely loose and unstable rock. As they climbed, showers of stones ricocheted down the steep rock faces on either side of the ridge, dislodging large slabs of snow on the slopes below. Progress was slow. Eventually they made the difficult (but wise) decision that it was not safe to continue, and began the complex retreat from the ridge, through a mix of abseiling and down-climbing.

On the final abseil – just as Patrice, the final climber, was finishing his descent – they heard yet another thunder of rockfall, and looked up to see a 'microwave-sized' boulder (in Oskari's words) tumbling towards them. Oskari and Jean-Marie took shelter behind a large rock. Patrice managed to dive out of the way, the boulder missing him by only metres. The team hurried to retrieve the rope and get off the ridge. But as they pulled one end of the rope they were surprised to see two ropes falling towards them: the rockfall had completely severed one side of the rope, and cut halfway through the other. Luckily, this was the last abseil and Patrice was the last to come down, so they were able to descend safely – but everyone was shaken up by the close call.

On the other side of the mountain, the second rope team (Eric and Dominique, both French Brixton Climbers, and Ivan, a Frenchman from the Ardeche) were also having difficulties. As with the other ridge, there was considerable loose rock, making progress not only slow but also risky. The team downclimbed the ridge back on to the steep snowy slopes of the Glacier de Ailefroide. As the climbers descended on softening snow, still roped up against risk of crevasses, they heard a rumble behind them and a shout of 'Avalanche!' from Eric. Suddenly they were swept off their feet by a rush of snow and slid down the glacier for several hundred metres, desperately trying to stay on top of the snow. As they fell, Dominique and Ivan were knocked into each other; both suffered nasty cuts from each other's crampons. Dominique also badly sprained his ankle. Eric, further up the slope, managed to avoid tumbling into the other climbers, but at the end of the avalanche slide found himself entangled in the rope, half-buried in snow, and nearly unable to breathe. Unable to free himself, he decided to cut the rope – but his knife was out of reach somewhere in his rucksack. Luckily Dominique had kept his knife in his pocket and was able to cut the rope to let Eric breathe normally again.

At this point, they began the difficult process of getting off the mountain. While Eric was unharmed once freed from the rope, Ivan had crampon cuts on his chest and was bleeding; Dominique had cuts to his leg and could barely walk on his sprained ankle. In retrospect, calling out a mountain rescue helicopter could have been wise. Instead, they spent 6 hours hobbling down the trail (including descending the tricky 200m rock wall just below the Sélé hut) until they met Ros - another Brixton Climber who had stayed in the valley – who took them to the hospital in Briançon to be patched up. Ivan left the next day, vowing never to mountaineer again. Dominique was confined to crutches and stayed in Ros's rental apartment in Pelvoux for the remainder of the week. Yet he seemed incredibly unphased by the whole ordeal, frustrated only that his injuries kept him away from the hills.

'Alpine training'

Planning for the expedition started long ago – in practice from when Eric, Oskari and Patrice had returned from a trip last summer full of tales and incredible photos, but in essence from the first time I heard stories and saw pictures from the Alps. For any aspirant climber, the Alps loom large in the imagination: they present a beauty, a history, and above all else a sheer scale (and level of risk) that seems unfathomable in the UK - especially in comparison to the 8m high southern sandstone outcrops where I had cut my climbing teeth.

The preparations were continuous. Every climbing trip became an 'Alpine training' trip; every exertion just added to Alpine fitness. In April, we trekked up and down the slopes of the South Downs to get used to all the walk-ins – by chance on the one snowy day of the year. In May, Eric organised a crevasse rescue session, in the notoriously icy environs of Crystal Palace Park. In June, a scrambling trip to Glen Coe and Skye helped to accustom us to walking up steep hills and exposed ridges (the Aonach Eagach is a bit like an alpine ridge, only several times wider...).

We were to base ourselves in Ailefroide, a peaceful 1500m high village and campsite. It fulfilled every expectation: meadows brimming with wildflowers, clear icy-cold streams, sheer granite faces in every direction and spiky snow-covered peaks forming every skyline.

Alternative pursuits

I stepped off the sleeper train in L'Argentiere la Besée knowing nothing of the problems my friends had faced on the mountains. The only indication that something was amiss was a cryptic text message from Eric asking me to bring my rope (they had lost 3 already). So my first sight of these beautiful and extraordinary hills was accompanied by a running commentary on the violence that they can wreak.

Understandably, the group's enthusiasm for high mountaineering routes had been replaced with a much more cautious and subdued approach, at least until snow conditions improved. With temperatures topping 30 degrees in the valleys every day, the spring snow cover was disappearing fast and we figured it would not be long until it stabilised.

We turned our attention to alternative pursuits. This wasn't difficult: Ailefroide has an incredible amount of rock climbing (from single pitch to 400m routes) within easy walk of the campsite, and there are several via ferratas near by. After setting up camp, we set off to do a via ferrata route in a neighbouring valley – a long slanting traverse of a sheer limestone cliff. While relatively safe and technically not too difficult, via ferrata can be a brilliant way of practising moving quickly over difficult ground and becoming accustomed to the exposure: you find yourself grasping iron rungs with nothing but hundreds of metres of air between you and the valley floor. The route was fun and reasonably straightforward, even after a night of patchy sleep on the overnight train. The only real difficulty was the heat: my two litres of water disappeared quickly and I sweated off sunscreen just as fast as I could apply it.

Campfire discussions that evening turned to rock climbing. I was tempted to launch straight in to one of the big multi-pitch classics of the area that rise up over the campsite. In one direction, the Fissure de Ailefroide (Dificile, English VS, 250 metres) is a traditionally-protected chimney that cleaves a massive granite face. In the other direction and in complete contrast, Palavar-les-Flots (D-/F5b obl, 400m) is a long bolted slabby ridge that extends for 12 pitches.

In the end, however, we decided to start with some practice on smaller routes, to get accustomed to the rock, the grading, and the bolt spacing (I'm far more accustomed to trad climbing than sport; following some one else's bolts rather than placing my own gear was rather unnerving). The events of the previous days had led to a strong sense of caution.

Feeling safe is dangerous

The next morning we set off for La Draye, also known as the Practice Slabs, a popular sport climbing spot located only a short walk from the campsite. Most of the routes are single pitch and there is little loose rock. With the exception of the odd long run-out between bolts, the area feels fairly safe. Nonetheless, I still backed off the first route I tried, unwilling to trust the friction of the unfamiliar rock and unaccustomed to blank but easy-angled slabs. Oskari set off to lead the route and retrieve my gear.

The feeling of safety disappeared suddenly. We heard a scream and then the horrible, unforgettable, sound of a body hitting rocks. A nearby French climber (not one of our group) had been dropped while lowering off. The rope was not long enough for the descent and did not have a knot in it; the belayer had been watching the climber rather than the rope; the end slipped through the belay device and the climber fell 4 metres, hitting his head on a boulder below. Like everyone else at the crag, he was not wearing a helmet.

It was a terrible scene. The climber was severely injured, in and out of consciousness, breathing shallowly and bleeding heavily. I gave my first aid kit (which seemed pathetically small and useless in this situation) to the other French climbers who attempted to limit the bleeding and keep him still. A helicopter was called. But then nothing. There was nothing more to do but stand and wait for help. It is difficult, excruciating, to be in a situation that is so palpably an emergency, but to be able to do nothing but wait. It seemed like hours, but in actuality was only around 30 minutes. Two sets of fire-fighters arrived, then finally the helicopter. After several sets of complicated aerial manoeuvres – as we clung to our bags against the wind and dust - they managed to evacuate him. We later learned that the climber had fractured skull and was in a critical condition in the Grenoble hospital. I hope he recovers - both for his own sake and that of his wife, who had been belaying him and was completely inconsolable, blaming only herself.

Games climbers play

When you witness a serious accident it is difficult to carry on as normal. Combined with the events of the previous days, I think witnessing the accident at La Draye made us all question why we climb and whether the inevitable risk that accompanies climbing (especially in the high mountains, but also on any crag) is worth it. None of us wanted another mountain epic, and we certainly didn't want another accident of any kind.

Climbing is a strange dialectical process of exposing yourself to risky environments then taking steps to mitigate and control those risks, through use of external equipment (i.e. ropes and protection), skill and judgement. It is a game in which winning means successfully getting out of the very same difficult situations that you put yourself in, and losing is unthinkable. Rock climbing is far from the only area of risk that we expose ourselves to in our lives – cycling in traffic and going out on a Friday night spring to mind as other lifestyle hazards – but it is certainly the one in which risk is most obvious, made painfully clear by gut fear of heights and exposure.

Yet you learn to manage the fear and to manage the risk. At certain moments of exposure high on a cliff face, my chest still tightens, my stomach still drops, my knees still uncontrollably disco, but these days I'm mostly able to laugh it off, double check my knots, grip the rock a bit tighter and carry on like normal. And after a while, climbing does feel like it's normal. You spend enough time above the ground that you trust your equipment, ability and judgement. You remain aware of risk, but it becomes more abstract, more statistical, more akin to cycling in a city or going out on a Friday night. Yes, accidents happen - climbers make mistakes; cyclists get knocked off; innocent bystanders get glassed outside pubs – but you don't expect to see it, or for these things to happen to those around you.

But the feelings of relative safety that result can themselves be dangerous. The good conditions of clear sunshine and calm winds can mask a dangerously unstable snowpack or rock ridge. The easygoing ambience of a single pitch sport crag can lead to simple precautions (like knotting the end of the rope or wearing a helmet) being forgotten or ignored.

For me, seeing the accident did little to change my perception of the probability of risk, as a basic awareness of the statistics of chance was already there. Yet it made the consequences of risks, and of making mistakes, so much more tangible and immediate. And that in turn made all of us not only more cautious in our approach but also more aware of others around us, checking every rope from the corners of our eyes. Climbing may be a type of game, as Lito Tejeda-Flores's famous essay put it, but it is an extremely serious one.

Back to basics

With these thoughts in mind, we decided to return the basics and go for a walk. Yet in the Alps even walking is far from a walk in the park. Our objective was the Glacier Blanc, a huge icy tongue extending down the valley from the Barre des Ecrins towards Pré de Madame Carle at the end of the road from Ailefroide. We wanted to check out conditions of the snow and ice and practice glacier skills, so an alpine start was called for. This meant that we had the trail mostly to ourselves, as we puffed up the switchbacks towards the Glacier Blanc hut at 2500m. I'm not sure if it was the lack of acclimatisation (48 hours earlier I had been below sea level on the Eurostar) or a general lack of fitness, but the going was tough.

As we rounded the corner after the final switchback, I caughtmy first sight of the stark face of the Glacier Blanc and the jagged peaks surrounding it. The glacier is a thing of extraordinary presence, with angry-looking deep luminous blue seracs protruding from the snow in strange, wonderful shapes. The glacier looks solid, somehow immutable despite a rush of meltwater forming cascades below. And yet it moves. With a warming climate, the glacier is retreating by 8 metres per year. Many predict that Alpine glaciers will be completely gone within my own lifetime – a terrifying prospect and a terrible act of violence to this awe-inspiring landscape.

After a brief stop at the hut (fresh coffee halfway up a mountain - incredible) we continued over rough ground and onto the glacier itself. The snow was surprisingly firm, and had been much consolidated after the solid sunshine and 30-degree temperatures of recent days. We continued up the glacier to around the 3000m point, crossing deep eerie crevasses on the way. From that position we are afforded a clear view of the Ecrins hut and the Barre de Ecrins and Dome de Niege Ecrins – the only two 4000m peak in the area. The Dome is supposed to be mostly a snow plod, but long scars of an avalanche crown across the upper slopes – visible even 2km away – reminded us that nothing can be taken for granted in the mountains.

On our return, we stopped to practice various snow belays and anchors and placing ice screws and abolokov threads – a useful refresher in snow and ice techniques. We arrive back at the car before lunch, having climbed and descended 1100m – a relatively short outing in alpine terms, but higher than Scafell Pike, the highest mountain in England.

That evening we were treated to an incredible barbecue at the house of Vincent and Pascale, two friends of Eric who lived in Pelvoux village. Their house has a perfect view over Mont Pelvoux, and (in contrast to the British barbecue tradition of huddling round a damp fire with a few bland sausages) they produced course after course of incredible food. A better mood slowly returned.

Return to the mountains

Buoyed by the improving snow conditions and high spirits the previous evening, the next day Oskari, Jon, Alex and I decided to attempt a high mountain route. We decided on the Col du Sélé, a Facile route across the Glacier de Sélé to a col at 3283m, and possibly the Pointe des Bouefs Rouges (3516m, PD), at the end of a sharp ridge rising up from the col. We would set off for the bivi site near the Sélé hut that evening. Eric, the de facto leader of the expedition, was to leave that evening, along with Patrice, Jean-Marie and Derren (who had joined us briefly on route to Nice).

But first, one last expedition as a group. We went for a via ferrata towering high about the picturesque fortress town of Briançon. I had resolved to treat the route as a rock climb and not to use the metal rungs. This gave a wonderful couple of hours of smooth, flowing climbing at around English V.Diff to Severe. However, I made a strategic error of judgement: in my enthusiasm to treat it as a rock climb, I had worn climbing shoes and carried flip flops for the walk-in and descent rather than my cumbersome mountain boots. But the peak of the via ferrata was a good 700 metres vertical above the town, necessitating a rather inappropriate descent down a steep switchbacked rocky path in flip flops, kicking out rocks every few steps and cursing the whole way.

By the time we returned to camp, packed for the mountains, cooked dinner and said goodbye to our companions, it was already after 7pm. We had less than three hours of daylight left to climb up over 1000m to reach our bivi site high up the valley. Jon set a punishing pace at the head of the trail. Heavily laden with climbing and bivi gear and already tired from the day's via ferrata, the going felt tough. But after two hours of hard slog the reason for the pace soon became apparent: to reach the bivi site, we had to negotiate a steep snowfield then climb up a series of ledges on an imposing 200m rock face. The snowfield was a surprising challenge. The easy snow slopes that Oskari and Alex had travelled up earlier in the week had all but disappeared, leaving a steep, icy barrier to the first ledges of the climb. We considered putting on crampons or a rope; yet had we done so it surely would have got dark before we finished the rock face. Instead I took my ice axe from my bag and kicked steps up the icy névé, each kick only managing to create footholds a couple of centimetres deep. It was enough. Soon we were on the rock face, moving up a series of ledges and holding on to a fixed cable for safety. Eventually we topped out into a high boulder field, the sky draining pink above us. Within half an hour, we would be safely established in our sleeping bags and it would be dark.

Trust in gravel?

We rose at 4am, packed quickly and moved up the trail with headtorches blazing. By 5am, the first signs of dawn were spilling into the valley and we were roping up at the edge of the glacier. While the route was mostly a snow-plod, parts of the glacier are littered with seracs, dangerous-looking snow bridges and deep crevasses. However, routefinding was straightforward as many groups had gone before. The higher we travelled, the better the snow – a real relief and a stark contrast to conditions of earlier in the week. Moving together on the rope takes some getting used to – you can't start or stop too quickly - but after a while it was second nature, and I soon found myself walking a rope distance away from Oskari even when unroped. The glacier was steep and hard work, but not technical. Just over 2 hours later we were at the col, staring down onto the Glacier de la Pilatte on the other side. Skies were clear and the views were extraordinary, with spiky peaks and snowfields in every direction.

At this stage our team divided. Alex was recovering from shoulder surgery and could not climb on rock. Oskari and I decided to continue up the Bouefs Rouges ridge, while Jon would stay with Alex.

From a distance, the Bouefs Rouges looks like a classic Alpine ridge, dragon-backed, knife edged, and kinking slowly towards the summit. On closer examination, the whole ridge is a chossy and unstable pile of loose rock. As Oskari put it, on this ridge it isn't a question of if a hold is solid or not but rather a question of how much it moves. We travelled moving together, tenderly stepping over the worst of the loose stuff, and putting slings around any solid blocks we could find (all too few and far between). After traversing along the right flank of the ridge we moved up to its apex. The situation was incredible, with 100m drops down onto snowy glaciers on either side, but the rock in this section was little better and the climbing was slow. Every hold needed to be checked; every point of protection was suspect.

The ridge became a series of narrow pinnacles, as if it were a narrower and more exposed version of the Aonach Eagach. As I was lowering myself down from one of these, one of my handholds broke away and tumbled to the glacier below. I swung out onto a single arm (thankfully that hold held) and dangled momentarily before regaining the rock. I paused to breathe deeply: a fall while moving together would be very serious for both of us.

The pinnacles steepened and became more difficult. Eventually we came to the largest of the pinnacles. I started up a tricky move up its face, thought better of it, then reversed down to find an alternative route. None could be found. The move was perhaps no harder than English 4a or 4b, which I'd feel happy soloing on the ground, but I didn't feel comfortable committing to it while moving together with big boots and a pack in such an exposed situation. More importantly, I didn't want to down climb it on our way back from the summit! Oskari joined me at the base of the pinnacle. We looked for alternatives, and checked the clock. We had been on the ridge for two hours and were halfway to the top; the guidebook had indicated the summit should take an hour and a half from the col!

With a mantra of 'no more epics', we decided to turn back. Gaining the summit did not seem worth the risks presented by the loose rock or the prospect of returning across the glacier in the full heat of the afternoon.

The descent was harder than the climb, with more loose rock than ever. At one stage, an ice axe placement was needed as none of the rock around the ice patch was solid enough to hold on to. Another two hours, and we regained the col. After a quick energy gel, we were off across the glacier again, the softer snow of the daytime aiding the descent. The day was already hot; it is a bizarre feeling to be sweating profusely while standing on top of a kilometre long block of ice.

We regained the boulder field, collected our bivi kit and continued at pace down the trail. Eventually we arrived at the campsite, a full 2000m below the ridge, exhausted but safe and happy. Later we were to discover that the pinnacles on the ridge should have been avoidable by a lower ledge – but it no longer seemed important.

Iron men

It often happens that you don't notice how tired you've become until you stop. We had a lethargic rest day, sleeping, eating and not even leaving camp until I dragged the others off to belay me up some easy slabs (to help me overcome my fear of slab climbing) early in the evening. Alex, Ros and Dominique went home by plane, train and automobile. Then we were three.

After the rest day, I became optimistic. We had two days left, stable weather and improving snow conditions – good omens for reaching a summit. I had spent much of the rest day reading up on route descriptions. Enthusiastically reading out a passage from the guide, I glanced up to notice a dead look on Jon's face. It was instantly clear he would not be doing another high mountain route. Both he and Oskari had been going hard longer than I had. Both had open wounds on their feet from all the walking (thankfully, I somehow emerged with skin intact). And besides, they had other, closer, steeper ambitions: the Palavar ridge, a 400m D- rock climbing route that towered up over the campsite.

The route is 12 pitches long. That's 10 pitches longer than anything that Jon had done before, and at roughly British VS grade it's much more sustained than any of the long multipitches that Oskari or I had previously attempted. We went for a reccie. Staring at the route from the bottom turned into climbing the first 3 pitches just to check it out. So far, so good, with adequate belay ledges and no major difficulties. We were in good spirits, with Jon keeping us entertained by making up new lyrics to the theme tune of Iron Man. As we scoped out the fourth pitch, we met a couple of Irish guys in descent – abbing off the way they had come after 6 pitches. They talked of sustained exposure, micro-ledges to belay from, and just general exhaustion. Perhaps it wouldn't be so easy after all. We abbed down after them, determined to complete the route the next day.

Another Alpine start. Things were looking good, although it was always going to be a long day: climbing as team of 3 is slow work. I led the first pitch, and the climbing felt smooth and swift. But as I was bringing the other two up, a minor misfortune once again struck. My digestive system was giving me trouble. I knew from past experience that I'd be ok within the hour, but I also knew that until that point a tiny belay ledge (on a popular route) was no place to be. I also knew that with another 11 pitches in front of us followed by a complicated descent, we didn't have time to spare. Reluctantly, and very frustrated, I had to descend, leaving Jon and Oskari to climb on without me. (Hours later, I was to watch them reach the top then abseil down a blank wall painfully slowly and eventually return to the campsite giddy from their endeavour).

Summit fever

Sure enough, an hour later I felt fine. With nothing else to do, I decided to walk into the mountains. Unencumbered by a heavy pack and now fully acclimatised to the altitude, I set a fast pace to work out my frustration. An hour and forty minutes later, I arrived at the Pelvoux hut (despite the trail marker advising an approach of 4 hours). I continued upwards towards the route to Mont Pelvoux over a short rocky face and then onto a hogsback of scree until I reached the edge of the Glacier de Sialouze at around 3000m.

I stopped. All was still, but for the occasional rattle of rockfall down narrow couloirs. In every direction were walls of rock and ice, jagged ridges and high peaks. It is an extraordinary landscape, one that fills you with awe in the old-fashion sense of amazement twinned with fear. I looked out onto the Glacier du Ailefroide, now disencumbered with the soft layer of snow that carried my friends down the mountain, and the Bouefs Rouges ridge out beyond the Sélé glacier, that gravity-defying pile of oversized gravel that somehow still stayed upright.

More rock echoed down the gullies, falling in microwave-sized chunks. I will admit a certain disappointment as I looked up towards the summit of Pelvoux and across to Pointe de Celse Niere: my time in the Alps was over without summitting anything. So many pages turned down in the guidebook, so few routes completed. Yet the disappointment was a fleeting one. I had come to the mountains to learn, to appreciate the landscape and conditions, to gain experience, to have some big mountain days and to return safely. Looking out on such an incredible jumble of rock, ice and sky, I was just happy to be there.

Summits are destinations rather than goals.

Postscript: Lessons

I have a habit of ending climbing trip reports with a list of lessons learned, so that I may remember them and others may learn them more easily. This time it's challenging, not for the absence of lessons but the surfeit of them. Some are obvious: tie a knot in the end of the rope or better yet into your belayer, make sure you know the length of the route and of your rope before you climb, wear a helmet, check conditions before setting off, keep a knife and first aid kit handy, and don't let feelings of safety let you forget to take the obvious precautions. But such procedural instructions can only ever be part of the story. I also learned that to be successful and safe in Alpine climbing you need a heavy dose of fitness, skill, judgement and luck. And fundamentally, whether on roadside crags or high peaks, the mountains can be admired, appreciated, respected – but never underestimated. As my brother put it to me, you can be a bold mountaineer or an old mountaineer, but seldom both.

Jonathan Gaventa

July 2008

Brixton Climbers in Scotland (3-7 June 2008)

At the beginning of June, a team of four explorers ventured north of the border, and then some, to Glencoe and Skye, for mountain adventures! We were: Jonathan, Chris, Adela and Nina. Adela and Nina had joined us after finishing their exams on the same course as Jonathan.

Tuesday 3rd June
At lunchtime Jonathan, Nina and Adela arrived at Glasgow Central station, and were picked up by me, having driven from Ayr. We headed west and north on the M8 and were soon enjoying picturesque waterside views. Pretty soon afterwards we were doing a quick about turn, having realised that the views were of the Clyde coastline rather than Loch Lomond. In the afternoon sunshine we drove through Bridge of Orchy, Crianlarich and Tyndrum and were crossing Rannoch Moor with Buachaille Etive Mor rearing up ahead of us.

At about 3pm we were at Lagangarbh, preparing for our afternoon’s objective, a grade 3 scramble up Creag na Tulaich, a crag on the western side of the Buachaille’s north top, Stob Dearg. Within half an hour we were donning helmets to clamber up the first of the buttress’s three tiers. A slightly exposed move or two led to easier scrambling to the second tier, which we climbed direct. The crux, on the third tier, was a 6m chimney, followed by easier scrambling up a gully with loose rock, to the top. Barely 3 hours after we had started we had descended the walkers’ path in Coire na Tulaich and were wheel spinning our way out of the car park (almost burning out the clutch in the process) and on to a picturesque but midge-ridden Red Squirrel campsite at the western end of Glen Coe.

Scrambling is the term given to mountain routes involving just too much climbing and exposure to be considered hill walking, but too little in the way of difficulty to be considered a graded rock climb. It is great fun and doesn’t necessitate rock climbing skills, and Adela and Nina much enjoyed their first taste this afternoon. However, as it is usually unroped and includes some very exposed situations, it would be wrong to treat it any less seriously than a full on rock climb. Over the next few days there were many occasions when having the rope in the bag to use if required provided much needed reassurance, and one or two occasions when it was called into use.

Tuesday evening was spent cooking tinned food and pasta (our staple diet) in the last of the evening sunshine, before the midges drove us to the make the short walk to the Clachaig Inn and to plot our next day’s adventures. Jonathan and I would attempt the classic traverse of Aonach Eagach; Adela and Nina would head off in search of the lost valley and up Bidean nam Bian.

Wednesday 4th June
The weather forecast had been predicting rain for the rest of the week, but on Tuesday, the weather had a major change of heart and the outlook was predicted to be fine for the rest of the week. Wednesday didn’t disappoint, and by 10am we were heading off on our respective routes serenaded by a piper busking amongst the coach parties in the car park.

Aonach Eagach is said to be the finest ridge traverse on the UK mainland. It is a grade 2 scramble and narrows to a teetering arête in some places. It’s the sort of route for which the Harvey’s map includes a health warning, with a continuous scramble for 1km between Meall Dearg and Stob Coire Leith from which there is no prospect of retreating from other than by continuing the ridge.

Although I’d done the route before, when the three people we passed each mentioned that they had thought better of the first tricky descent from Am Bodach, as Jonathan and I hauled ourselves up its SE nose, we both started to get a distinct sense of trepidation. Fortunately the going wasn’t quite as tough as they had made out and we were soon having lunch on Meall Dearg (Munro #1), ready for the ridge proper.

The scrambling didn’t disappoint with chimneys, arêtes and quite a number of tricky downward steps. This time round I was determined to savour the exposed situations: I found the very exposed block that previously I had barely crawled over and stood up on it triumphantly. Jonathan, not unreasonably, looked at me as if I was mad.

Eventually we reached Stob Coire Leith and bounced up to Sgorr nam Fiannaidh (Munro #2). After a lengthy descent on an awkward scree covered hillside we reached the road and hitched a ride back to the day’s starting point, where we met Adela and Nina.

Adela and Nina had certainly found the lost valley, a huge hanging valley not visible from the roadside but had wisely turned back when they found the headwall of the corrie blocked up with thawing snow (even in June)! They had, however, exercised their new found enthusiasm for scrambling, seeking out adventurous lines (and quizzical looks from fellow walkers) on the way up.

We couldn’t face the damned midges again and so opted for food from the Clachaig, which we ate outside looking across the valley at Aonach Dubh. Whereas mosquitos, ticks and other insects menace humans with bites and illness, a midge’s bite is mild, even ticklish, and it carries no diseases. Midge warfare is psychological: dwell too long in one place on a still, cool summer evening in Scotland and you are engulfed by maddening clouds of the wee things.

With the weather this good, we decided, we had to get to Skye that evening – at the very least, there might a breeze that could ground the midges – and we set out, via Fort William, down Glen Shiel and over the bridge to Skye. We arrived at Sligachan campsite at 10.30pm, but still with enough light to pitch our tents by.

Thursday 5th June
Jonathan, Adela and I would be heading up the last Munro on the Cuillin ridge, Sgurr nan Gillean. Nina, after spending the morning on Skye would get the bus back to Kyle of Lochalsh and the train to Edinburgh via Inverness.

The ‘tourist’ route up Sgurr nan Gillean’s SE summit ridge is itself a grade 3 scramble but we decided that we would warm up with a grade 3 scramble on its eastern spur. This route took us along a wonderful path down Glen Sligachan, before crossing the valley floor and up a rocky slope. The scrambling started in difficult and exposed fashion, up awkwardly sloped slabs before gaining the crest of the ridge, which became a series of rocky steps and walls interspersed with grass.

Our lunch spot was nothing short of perfect, allowing me to sit with my legs seemingly dangling above a drop of nearly 100m. The view took in Pinnacle ridge immediately to our north and, to our south east, the toothy profile of Blaven and Clach Glas – two classic Skye mountaineering expeditions. Beyond that we could see the Red Cuillin, the Old Man of Storr on the Trotternish ridge and, on the mainland, the mountains of Applecross and Torridon.

The view of the route ahead was less benign. In front of us was 20m of climbing up a gully. The easier routes were on crumbling rock; the better rock was on steep slabs. After a nervous few minutes, we emerged on to a boulder field, which we crossed to gain the main summit ridge. From here on it would be simple, right?

The climb up to the top presents a multitude of lines up several steep walls and chimneys. As Jonathan soon found out, all but one or two of these lines would count as a rock climb. Now we were really on the high-friction gabbro rock that forms the majority of the Cuillin ridge. As we got closer to the top, the ridge narrowed to a wonderful narrow arête and the summit (Munro #3) itself was barely any bigger (there was just enough space to pitch a tent, though you’d be mad to want to). We grabbed a sandwich and a photo and took in views south to the sea, and south and west to the rest of the Cuillin.

It was on the way down that Jonathan’s 60m half rope was first called into action. A particularly steep section we felt was just too steep to downclimb unprotected. Eventually we made it back down to the boulder field we had crossed on the way up and we set out on the ‘tourist’ path back to Sligachan. Here we first experienced quite a common Skye phenomenon: the path that deposits you on the side of a crag. There are no easy routes on or off the Cuillin ridge, and the downclimb that we had to negotiate would have been even more treacherous if we had encountered it in mist and rain – that is assuming we wouldn’t have simply walked straight off it. Future BCC expeditions please beware!

Friday 6th June
Adela had to leave this morning to join up with Nina in Edinburgh. That left Jonathan and I… and we had a rope!

The view from Sligachan campsite is breathtaking. Towering over us we could see Sgurr nan Gillean, Am Basteir and Sgurr a’Bhasteir. On the west side of Am Basteir there is a large overhanging pinnacle called the Bhasteir Tooth. The direct line to the top is a V. Diff. rock climb called Naismith’s route. This was our objective for the day.

We slogged up into Fionn Choire to Bealach nam Lice, which lies between Sgurr a Fionn Choire and Am Basteir, and from there had our first up close look at the tooth. Jonathan was having “serious exposure issues” and wasn’t happy at the bands of rotten rock that constituted the first few moves of the climb. I was having some exposure issues of my own, to put it mildly, and was only too glad to adopt the alternative plan of scrambling up Am Basteir, a Difficult rock climb because of an awkward step caused by a recent rockfall.

As one of Jonathan’s goals for the trip was to practise some Alpine techniques, we decided to put the rope to good use and practise moving together. This is a useful technique, and not too difficult (if only you can remember how to finish off the chest coils…). At the summit (Munro #4) we could look down on the Tooth: it didn’t look much good from above either.

The descent was by the Bhasteir Gorge, past crystal clear rock pools and natural showers (Jonathan cooled off by standing under one). However before we got there we had some serious downclimbing to do, and example number two of a Skye path to nowhere. Again we were ejected on to the mountainside with the path visible 40m directly below us.

At the campsite we had one final drink in the Sligachan Hotel bar before setting off for the King’s House hotel in Glen Coe, which Jonathan’s guidebook said allowed free camping in an adjacent field. We reached the campsite before last orders.

Saturday 7th June
Today was to be rock climbing on the Buachaille. Jonathan had picked out a V. Diff. route on Central Buttress called North Face Route, which would take us to halfway up Curved Ridge, where we could scramble to the summit. Well that was the plan… I now think we inadvertently climbed D Gully buttress (Severe) instead.

Having trudged up scree slopes to the foot of the climb (“a Scottish roadside crag”) we set off up some scrambling to the foot of the climb, but soon beat a hasty retreat and tried again on an easier looking route. After some more awkward scrambling we reached a ledge where we roped up. I led the first pitch, Jonathan the second, up broken, often vegetated ground. We came to a steep wall and, around the corner, a chimney offering some glorious climbing on good holds, which I led (continuing to follow my personal agenda of finding threads for runners and belays). The next pitch was the crux, which Jonathan led: nearly 50m of sustained hard climbing, beginning with a knife-edge arête (“your sort of route, Chris”). A final short scramble, moving together, took us to Curved Ridge which we decided to descend, as the route finding earlier had taken longer than anticipated.

The descent of Curved Ridge should have been, in theory, straightforward compared with the climb we had just finished but what followed was probably the most daunting part of the day. We had only been going a short while before we encountered a section that looked far too steep to descend. We sniffed around a bit and found another route, which looked only marginally easier, and, between the two, a chock stone that had previously been used as an abseil anchor. We eventually decided to rope up and treat the easier looking line as a climb: I would descend and place as much gear as possible, Jonathan would follow. After a few nervous minutes we were back on easier ground and making the long, careful descent back to the scree slopes, back to the car and back to the central belt, leaving the Highlands behind.

Dinner was in Crianlarich, and we reached Ayr at about 11pm where we crashed before getting the train to Glasgow and going our separate ways on Sunday.

It was an incredible trip: 5 days, 5 graded scrambles, 1 graded multi-pitch rock climb, 4 Munros, and a lot of exposure! I can’t wait to go back – there’s so much classic mountaineering still to do and you don’t need a passport to get there!

So, what did we learn?

• Midges are evil
• Exposure is scary, but you get used to it (until you have to do a hard move!)
• Moving together on a rope is much slower than soloing but feels safer. Pitching is much slower than moving together but feels safer. All of the above are quicker than standing around trying to decide whether to rope up or not.
• Going down can be harder than going up. There's no shame in rigging a rope for the 'inappropriate descents', especially if you're not in danger of getting benighted / missing last orders.
• Make sure it's actually safe before taking off your helmet (just as we were on a very tricky and loose steep section of the descent on curved ridge, a party directly below us decided to take off their helmets and pack their gear - directly in the fall line of anything that would be dislodged from the route!)