Category: Epics

Croatia 2023: Climbing our first Big Wall – Anića Kuk

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The cursed day

6th July has become, through pure, uncanny coincidence, a day on which something significant happens to me. I may write about this separately (think car crashes, ultramarathons and multi-mountain hikes) so I’ll skip straight to 2023, which was no exception: Ryan and I decided to climb our first big wall*, the 350m vertical north face of Anića Kuk in Paklenica National Park, Croatia.

*there’s no hard and fast definition of what constitutes a “big wall” but the infallible source of all verified knowledge (Wikipedia) describes big wall climbing as a form of rock climbing that takes place on long multi-pitch routes that normally require a full day, if not several days, to ascend. While we didn’t plan to spend the night on the wall, we chose a route called “D. Brahm” (5c), a  300+m, 13-pitch classic that would probably take at least most of the day, so as far as I’m concerned it qualifies. This route was named in honour of Dragutin Brahm, a climber who died while attempting the first ascent of Anića Kuk – on this route – in 1938.

This year, 6 July taught us the following climbing-related lessons:

  1. Find the route
  2. Don’t throw gear off cliffs
  3. Mind out for dead things
  4. Treat loose rock like glass
  5. Take enough water

We learnt these in the following way.

Thursday 6 July

After Ryan’s little wobble whilst climbing in the canyon on Tuesday, and having researched D. Brahm as thoroughly as possible, which was less than I’d have liked given the limited information available online, we felt the weight of anticipation prior to our first ever big wall climb. We half-heartedly shovelled down some cereal (leftover rice slop for Ryan) and left the apartment at 7:30am, carrying rucksacks containing questionably light climbing racks. We’d packed minimally to keep luggage costs down and we desperately hoped that we had enough gear to make it up the route, which was technically a sport (bolted) climb but with some run-out pitches that would require additional trad placements to protect against potentially huge (40m+) falls.

To save time and energy we drove a short way up the road to the entrance to Paklenica, showed our three-day passes at the gate and followed the winding track up the gorge towards the mountains, which loomed ahead looking vast, rocky and slightly menacing. We parked by a thick, leafy forest at the mouth of the canyon, whose vertical limestone walls rose high either side of a gravel path as if designed to make the visitor feel quite inconsequential, and headed up the great cleft towards Anića Kuk.

The Klanci Valley

After 15 hot minutes its enormous, pale north face appeared ominously around a corner, rising high into the clear blue sky like the hunched back of a great, rocky monster. We identified the vague, wandering line of D. Brahm using an information board showing the main routes and reflected that its northerly aspect meant we’d spend most of the day shaded from the hot sun. Satisfied with our reconnaissance, we crossed the valley via a steep, narrow path through lush woodland, following signs to Anića Kuk and even our chosen route:

We emerged from the trees and stopped at the base of the wall, which suddenly gained a new dimension. Rather than a flat, sheer face, it now looked like an impossibly high, slightly-less-than-vertical series of slabs, cracks and shrubby ledges jumbled in a complex arrangement that made it likely we’d only be able to see small sections of the route at once. This would complicate route finding, which we suspected would be difficult anyway given the size of the wall and the fact we were relying on website screenshots and a photo I’d sneaked from a guidebook in a shop.

Nevertheless, we were excited to have arrived. We identified what we thought was the start of the route, harnessed up, tested the radios and talked through our plan.  I was to lead the first pitch as that would mean that I’d also lead the crux (hardest move) at pitch seven, but – as I’ll explain later – this didn’t go to plan.

D. Brahm plaque

Pitch 1 (4b made harder): Route finding

I set off at 9am by a large memorial plaque for D. Brahm – which turned out to be ill-placed – and followed an easy crack up a slab. My confidence was misguided: after about ten metres the route became uncertain. Knowing that it went left at some point, I made some delicate, balancey moves across the exposed face of the wall to an insecure stance, where I placed a trad nut into a crack and rested on it while I worked out where to go.

After a vain, time-consuming attempt at continuing upwards over a holdless bulge onto more featureless slab, I conceded that I’d already lost the route and returned – a little sketchily – to the crack I’d come up. Ryan suggested going right, on which advice I soon rediscovered the route (my heart leapt when I spotted a bolt) and realised that I’d gone for a more difficult, direct start, rather than setting off up a chimney about 10m to the right of the plaque. This was confirmed when Ryan spotted, quite unhelpfully by this point, a triangular tag on the rock indicating the “true” start of the climb.

Happy to be back on track but slightly apprehensive at how difficult the rest of the route may be to stick to, and consequently how long it might take, I continued along a diagonal crack up an easy gradient to a grassy ledge and the first belay.

Base of the wall
Pitch 1

P2 (3b): Blocky

Ryan followed me up, unimpressed at having to make the awkward sideways moves to retrieve the wayward nut, and proceeded to lead the long, blocky second pitch – which had just one slightly awkward move up a corner – without difficulty.

Some nasty hobbit feet looking down pitch 2
Swapping gear by clipping it onto your cowstail avoids arguments over who dropped it…
Clearly having a whale of a time at the belay

P3 (4b): Shrubby

I seconded pitch 2, passed Ryan and led pitch 3, which went directly up another easy corner, where shrubs clung to the wall in little pockets and trees perched on small ledges. Ryan followed, met me at the belay and continued past, following a red painted arrow, which was very helpful here as the route veered suddenly off to the right.

Pitch 3 from below
Pitch 3 from above
Most of the anchors were connected by short rope loops

P4-5ish (4a): Sideways

He traversed along a diagonal fault, then disappeared around another corner. I belayed patiently, wondering what was taking him so long, and struggled to pay out rope as it dragged sideways through the bolts – which were few and far between – and trad gear.

After a good while I heard him call “safe” and prepared to follow while he pulled in the slack, which – given the distance he’d climbed – was a relatively small portion of our 60m twin ropes. I completed the long, straightforward but exposed traverse across the wall (which would not have been a good place to fall as it was very “sideways”) and discovered the cause of the delay and the rope drag: Ryan had strung together pitch 4 and most of pitch 5 by bypassing the fixed anchor at the end of pitch 4. In fairness I didn’t see it either, so can’t blame him.

I found him at a hanging belay beneath an intimidatingly vertical, slabby face, attached to two bolts with nothing under his feet but an overwhelming amount of air, and congratulated him on his excellent management of both ropes, which – in the absence of a surface to place them on – were folded neatly across his cowstail (the short length of rope attaching him to the bolts). This turned out to be the belay for another route, “Black Magic Woman”.

Although the climbing was easy, we were now over 100m from the ground and the exposure was exhilarating. Luckily neither of us were fazed at all by the sheer drop below – we had expected to be fine, but having never climbed a big wall before, we accepted that we wouldn’t really know until we were there. Enormous beech trees filled the belly of the canyon like a mossy floor, interspersed by gargantuan, house-sized boulders that looked like pebbles, and a small forest clearing revealed a helicopter landing pad that looked fit for a bumblebee. It was sensational.

Face above the belay, several minutes before I mistakenly followed the bolts
View down from the hanging belay
Ryan at the hanging belay, taken from the first bolt of the next pitch, looking back at pitch 4 & 5

P5ish-6 (5a): Dubious rock

I joined Ryan at the uncomfortable hanging belay and we deliberated over which way the route went. We thought that he’d done pitches 4 and 5 in one but weren’t 100% sure. We couldn’t see anything to the right, so on spotting a line of bolts set close together up the vertical slab to our left (perhaps that should have been warning enough, as all the previous bolts had been many metres apart), I set off upwards to see if the moves were easier than they looked. I discovered, three bolts up, that they were not, at which point Ryan conveniently spotted a bolt set way over to the right, almost level with him. Relieved but still in a precarious position, I downclimbed delicately, unclipping quickdraws as I went, and later realised that I’d made several balancey moves up a 6b+ pitch of Black Magic Woman.

I squeezed awkwardly past Ryan and made a long, airy traverse to the right. I clipped into the bolt he’d spotted, to both our relief (he’d kindly pointed out the great fall I’d have taken before the bolt, of which I was extremely aware), then pulled up a loose-looking, blocky section and discovered the belay bolts at the end of pitch 5. Ignoring them, I moved up and left across a pale, disconcertingly fresh looking slab, placing a couple of nuts and hoping that any newly exposed rock would hold in the event of a slip. I reached the anchor after a tricky move up a steep diagonal crack, then radioed Ryan with instructions to watch out for the loose-looking flakes. The radios were proving a godsend on these long, wandering pitches, where climber and belayer were often out of sight. He followed and joined me on my narrow belay ledge.

At the first bolt of the pitch
Looking back from pitch 5
Belay stance at end of pitch 6

P7 (5c+): Ordeal, loss of an ally

We looked upwards into a distinctive chimney, which was 2-3ft wide and topped by a large chockstone (a loose block held between two vertical walls). Although the shortest pitch of the route, we’d read that this was the awkward crux – the hardest section. We’d planned the route so I would lead it as Ryan’s confidence had taken a knock a couple of days before, climbing in the Klanci valley way below where we were perched, but as we’d strung two pitches together and were alternating leads, it now made sense – from a time and faff perspective – for Ryan to lead. I offered but he mulled it over and decided to try it, to my disappointment – a mild disappointment that was tinged with quiet relief.

The chimney didn’t look too difficult from below, although almost immediately after setting off Ryan reported that it lacked holds and that its two opposing walls – against which he jammed his body, relying on the outward pressure of his back, feet and hands – were polished and slippery. In an attempt to gain friction he dipped his hands into the single chalk bag we’d brought in a desperate, and with hindsight misguided, attempt to reduce the weight of our luggage on the plane. Looking for other ways to make the pitch easier, he realised that his rucksack was a hindrance as it pressed against the chimney wall. He rested on a cam he’d placed in a crack and went to unclip the waist strap so I could take the bag.

Unfortunately Ryan unclipped the wrong strap. I watched helplessly as our single chalk bag, which had belonged to me and seen me up hundreds of climbs, tumbled in slow motion down into the airy void, landing neatly on a grassy ledge way below with a dramatic puff of chalk dust. There was a brief, stunned silence as we processed the loss, then all we could do was laugh. The polished crux – and the rest of the route – would have to be tackled without additional friction.

Thankfully this section had three close-together bolts for protection and the cam was good, so a fall would have been minor. However, I’ve never belayed an uglier pitch. Ryan scrabbled, clambered and humped his way up the smooth chimney, his movements resembling those of a large, unwieldy bear. He made it to the top bolt, which was just below the chockstone, had a quick rest, then threw (and I don’t use that word lightly) a leg across the gap to a miniscule hold on the right hand wall.

I watched dubiously from directly below him as he did his own mediocre version of the splits, concerned for the welfare of his inflexible tendons; was deeply alarmed when his left leg followed his right so his body was almost horizontal; then I marvelled as his desperate attempt to surmount the chockstone – with something like a semi-controlled, semi-frantic bear-hug-come-bellyflop – appeared to work. I was still processing my emotions (a heady clash of anxiety and amusement) when he suddenly disappeared over the top of the chockstone, still horizontal, in a strange, smooth movement, as if dragged into the belly of the mountain by a great, rock-dwelling monster. His feet vanished, and I knew that he’d completed the crux.

Once he’d set up the belay, a triumphant Ryan – who was highly satisfied with the theatre he’d just performed – cut short my rendition of James Blunt’s “Goodbye my Chalk Bag” and I started up the chimney. I made no lighter work of it that he had, but thankfully there was nobody below to bear witness. I jammed my body between the walls, cursing the two lumpy rucksacks on my back, agreed that it was very polished and devoid of good holds (the okay-looking blocks at the back of the chimney were useless), and made quite a scene of salmon-flopping my way onto the chockstone.

Below the crux chimney
Goodbye my chalk bag
Goodbye my friend

Lunch with a view

I scrambled up to Ryan, who was tucked into a corner of a rocky, grassy ledge looking harrowed but pleased with himself, and we contemplated rappelling down to retrieve the much-lamented chalk bag. This would have been time-consuming so we decided to have lunch instead, then press on. Fake sausage and fake cheese in tiny slices of strange bread never tasted so good.

As we ate, we took in the exposure and the view across the canyon, which seemed both miniature and gargantuan. Tiny people trailed along the barely visible path way below, beneath hulking limestone cliffs across the valley, and the moss-like forest filled the canyon belly like a wide, green river curving around the base of the mountains. Up the valley distant green and grey peaks sprawled across the horizon, and on either side of our ledge, vertical walls plunged into nothingness above and below.

Harrowed
Anchor at top of pitch 7
That tiny black speck
is this tunnel, and those tinier specks are people

P8 (3b): Grassy scramble feat. anty bat & loose blocks

Once lunch was over I set off up pitch 8. I climbed a short wall above Ryan’s head and on mantling over the square lip, I saw that I’d been lucky – I’d blindly placed my palm onto a flat ledge a couple of inches away from a small, dried bat, which was peppered with ants. I alerted Ryan to the presence of the bat, topped the wall and continued up a grassy gully. This section was little more than a long walk up a relatively gentle slope, which was strewn with boulders and shrubs, but – although easy – it required some caution, as it was littered with loose rock.

A complete lack of bolts led me to wonder if I’d lost the route, but I decided it more likely that the rock on this pitch was simply too unstable to be trusted. At one point I placed a hand on a block the size of a small football, set on a sloping, outward-facing ledge at chest-height, and froze as it moved under my touch. I realised that I was now supporting both its weight and the weight of another, cricket ball-sized block above it, so – very cautiously – took the smaller block, placed it carefully on a flattish bit of the ledge (which wasn’t quite as flat as I’d have liked), and used both hands to move the larger block to a more stable position. While holding these rocks I was acutely aware of the gravity of this situation – if I’d had a clear view below, and wasn’t 200-odd metres from the ground, I might have cleaned them from the route, but all I could see behind was the narrow, V-shaped channel I’d come up. Ryan was out of view at the base of the bat wall and I had no idea who might be below us, so I handled them as if they were made of glass.

Disaster averted, I continued up the gully and was quite relieved to find two anchor bolts, connected by a short rope sling, up a steep block next to a tree. One of the bolts was too small to clip so I clipped the other, the sling and the trunk to make a “tree piece anchor” (a name I remain proud of), then belayed Ryan up while fending off some kind of flying, buzzing insect.

No photos of pitch 8 as I was busy avoiding bats and blocks, so here’s the tree piece anchor

P9 (3b) – P10 (4a): More scrambling

Ryan followed without difficulty, then passed me and led pitch 9. This was another easy scramble, so – conscious of time and perhaps not satisfied with what felt like a glorified hike – he continued on to lead pitch 10, which went up a steeper, slabby corner at the top of the gully. I was glad when he radioed to tell me he’d reached the belay, as it meant I could stop grappling with rope drag.

The top of pitch 10

P11 (4a) – P12 (4b): Mile-high traverse

I joined Ryan at the belay and continued up pitch 11, which involved some straightforward moves up another corner to a platform with two sets of bolts. Feeling a bit short-changed, I decided to carry on up pitch 12.

I moved off the platform onto a steep slab with a single distinctive feature: a straight, diagonal crack stretching way out to the right, with a line of bolts showing the route. This afforded an excellent, very airy traverse, and I was exhilarated by the exposure as I padded sideways with nothing beneath me but a dizzying drop where the slab plunged towards rocks and trees that may as well have been a mile below.

I climbed very carefully, fully aware that a fall would mean a big swing from the horizontal, still fairly spaced-out bolts. Having strung the two pitches together I really struggled to pull the rope through, as the change of direction caused a huge amount of drag. Despite this difficulty I had no regrets – for me, this pitch was probably the most fun.

I reached the end of the crack and the gradient eased as I pulled above the slab. I suddenly felt the warm sun on my face and realised that having spent the day in the shade of the wall, we must be nearing the top. Scant bolts ran parallel to a blocky wall on my left, and I followed them upwards, heaving on the rope, past a tall, leafy tree until I came to the anchor set into the wall.

I set up the belay and absorbed the view. The lumpish mountains across the canyon didn’t seem quite so vast from this height, tapering down to a just-visible sea via the smooth, pale grey curve of a westerly ridge. The water shone bright in the late afternoon sun, which bathed the peaks up the valley in a warm light that cast angular shadows and accentuated their intricate contours.

Mountains
Sea
Both – finally worked out the angle

Ryan receives my wrath

Just as I felt the end was in sight, I went to take a sip of water from my hydration bladder. I was thirsty as I’d rationed my three litres carefully throughout the day. I was rewarded by a few unsatisfying drops, then the disagreeable, rubbery resistance of an empty pouch as I vainly sucked air from the tube. I thought of Ryan’s thirsty gulps from the mouthpiece, which dangled – perhaps too accessibly – over my shoulder, after previous pitches, and vividly recalled telling him to make sure he had enough water before we left the apartment (ie. more than the 500ml that he did take). Inwardly seething, I prepared to give him a piece of my mind when he joined me at the belay.

That I did, my mood not improved by hauling at the dragging rope, after he skipped up the two pitches and had the cheek to conclude that it was pleasantly exposed and thoroughly enjoyable. My fury at such an amateur mistake was dampened slightly by his enthusiasm to finish the route, and further by the breathtaking scenery as I pointed out the dazzling sea. I decided not to drop him as he set off up the near-vertical start of the final pitch.

P13 (4b+): One tough move

He climbed up the slab, following a line of spaced-out bolts. Several metres up he made a difficult, no-hands move on small footholds to reach for a lofty crimp. I watched, impressed, and silently forgave him – temporarily – for his silly oversight. He pulled up, topped the slab and disappeared for a while as he searched for the route.

After what felt like a long, thirsty wait, he radioed to tell me he was safe and setting up the final belay. After a few minutes I followed him up, doubly impressed by the balancey move up the slab on discovering how small and far apart the holds were (although as it was only graded 4b+, I put its difficulty down to mental weariness after sustained concentration throughout 12 exposed pitches). I pulled over the top and arrived at a large mound of jumbled boulders that proffered no indication of how to surmount them.

I followed Ryan’s instructions to go left and weaved my way up the unprotected final scramble. My water woes were completely forgotten when a spectacular rock arch appeared above me, then Ryan came into view, belaying from a large boulder underneath it. I clambered up the last few metres and walked over to him, a little dazed. We’d topped the face of Anića Kuk at nearly 6pm, nine hours after setting off up the first pitch. The first thing I said was “we didn’t die!”.

Victory

We were both taken aback by the sudden flood of emotion. Having never climbed anything so committing, technical and exposed before, our previous multipitch experience being limited to the classic VDiff ridges and scrambles of Scotland, North Wales and the Lake District, we were overwhelmed by relief, slight disbelief and a completely shameless feeling of triumph. The realisation that we were capable of a big wall was empowering: it was as if we’d broken down a barrier to a whole new world of climbing. We hugged, congratulated each other on our competence and continuing state of aliveness, and drank in the panorama of sun-drenched mountains and sea.

After investigating the magnificent natural rock arch, through which was a wonderful view of the long, opulent Adriatic inlet between Starigrad and the flatter part of Zadar county, we collected ourselves and crammed our chaotic array of climbing gear into our rucksacks. We scrambled up a rough, rocky bank next to the arch onto a boulderfield plateau and hopped around on large rocks looking for the red painted circles that denoted the “climber’s way” down the south side of the mountain, which was not shown on my map of Paklenica. The view was now panoramic: layered, hazy ridges of triangular peaks swept down to the glistening sea on one side, and on the other the high, grey-green mountains of the southern Velebit range sprawled majestically across the horizon, looking just as staunch as they had done earlier but – now that we’d conquered one of them – less menacing.

A harrowing descent

Regrettably my enchantment was jaded slightly by thirst, and we were both keen to leave Anića Kuk behind us for a drink of water. We found the painted waymarkers and clambered down the large, awkward rocks until we came to a thick, via ferrata style wire cable dropping several metres down a nearly sheer wall of boulders. I knew I was dehydrated because I felt quite weak as I leaned back on the cable, feet on the wall, and slid down slowly to avoid skinning my unprotected palms.

The going was tedious down the steep, irregular terrain, and unfortunately there were several more via ferrata cables requiring utmost care and concentration. My irritability at Ryan’s silliness had returned in full force and we descended in stoic silence, both focusing hard on every foot and hand placement. Thankfully the red markers were numerous and easy to follow once off the plateau, although the Klanci valley below didn’t seem to get closer for a very long time, and the terrain did not ease, remaining loose, blocky and steep the entire way. I couldn’t remember the last time (if there was one) I felt so parched – I was certain my body would shrivel up like a raisin before we got back to the car.

We plodded down the mountain in this way for what felt like an age. Eventually, after descending an enormous, very steep, loose bank, we reached the cobbled path in the valley. We contemplated walking up it – about 15 minutes – to the drinkable spring water pipe we’d found on the way to Manita Peć cave a couple of days before, but decided to save ourselves time (in case I shrivelled up) and drink from the hose by the National Park entrance hut, where we’d previously seen a motorhome fill up 5L bottles.

Looking back up to the top
Follow the arrows & circles
Looking down into the Klanci Valley
Looking up at the climber’s descent

Salvation

We headed down the valley and were back at the car in 10 minutes. Salvation was in sight, nearly two hours after beginning the descent. We drove away from the canyon down the narrow, winding road and stopped at the little entrance car park. Agonisingly someone else was using the hose, which was fed by the Paklenica River and evidently filtered through pipes in a small concrete structure a little further upstream. I dashed for it the second it was free. I downed two 500ml bottles in seconds and it was heavenly. Never before have I tasted such pure, cold, clean-tasting water. Ryan was now truly forgiven, although the incident won’t be forgotten – I’ll certainly be reminding him to take plenty of his own water in future.

We returned to the apartment down the road and collapsed onto the bed, giddy with a wonderful feeling of accomplishment. I had one more mountain to overcome that day – washing my hair – so I jumped into the shower while Ryan cooked dinner. Despite barely eating all day, we weren’t really hungry until we tucked into a delicious bowl of rice slop with cheap sausage, tomato and whatever else he found in the fridge. We went to bed without washing up, exhausted, delighted to have ticked off our first big wall climb and slightly relieved to be back in one piece.

Snowdonia, Sep 21: Climbing Little & Big Tryfan (Pinnacle Rib Route)

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What a week. We’ve just returned from an incredible trip to Snowdonia and the mountain blues have hit us like a steam train. Hiking, scrambling, climbing, mountain biking, an island road trip, a smidgeon of wild swimming and several pubs – the last few days have had everything I could have asked for and more.

Friday 17th September

We drove up on Thursday night and stayed in a layby just before Betws y Coed. After a good night’s sleep and eggs on toast for brekkie, we drove west along the A5 through the picturesque valley that cuts through the lush, green Gwydir Forest. Past the trees, the landscape opened out to wild country, where mountains sprawl lazily for miles across rugged land untainted by concrete or tarmac.

Little Tryfan

After a 20 minute drive we parked in the long layby on the A5 just after Gwern Gof Uchaf campsite, nestled in the Ogwen Valley. We fancied a gentle introduction to what we (rightly) anticipated would be a full-on week, so we started with some easy trad climbing on Little Tryfan, where I’d climbed with army cadets a decade ago and Ryan had climbed a couple of years ago. We tramped past Gwern Gof Uchaf and a short distance up the south side of the valley to the huge, slanting rock face, whose gentle angle and solid, grippy rock make it the perfect destination for new or casual climbers.

Most of the wall was being used by a big army group so we walked past them to the far end and climbed “Mossy Slab”, an easy two-pitch route graded HVD. I led the first pitch and Ryan led the second. Some of the gear was good but I found that several of the crack constrictions were “wrong” in that they were V-shaped and didn’t allow nut placements to correspond with the direction of fall, but the climbing was so easy that I was comfortable with running the gear out. At the top we paused to appreciate the stunning view of the Ogwen Valley, then walked down the rightward descent scramble.

We felt that Little Tryfan was one of those “if you’ve climbed one route, you’ve climbed them all” crags, so at the bottom I put forward a case for climbing “big” Tryfan. My arguments were:

  1. the weather was drier and clearer than forecast,
  2. we were part way there anyway,
  3. we’d packed enough equipment to not have to return to the car, and
  4. we’d already discussed climbing it via a certain route called First Pinnacle Rib.

Ryan put up precisely no resistance and insisted that he’d be fine in his battered old Nike skate shoes. It was one of those off-the-cuff decisions that lead to the best days out, and the verdict was unanimous. Off we went.

Tryfan: to Heather Terrace

The first bit involved a steep walk/scramble up to Heather Terrace, the path that runs roughly north-south along Tryfan’s east face and is characterised by uneven rock, unavoidable grey boulders, resolute purple heather and lovely high views over the valley of Cwm Tryfan. Heather Terrace is probably the gentlest and flattest route up Tryfan, a mountain whose summit requires at least a scramble regardless of which way you go.

Once we were in roughly the right place along the path, we searched the rock for the start of the climbing route. We’d eyed up First Pinnacle Rib (also called Overlapping Ridge Route), a classic VDiff multi-pitch that featured in both our new Rockfax book and Kev’s (Ryan’s dad) 1990 Constable guide, which Kev had climbed years before. We couldn’t easily tell exactly where the routes were as the rock to our right was high, steep and looked very much the same, and the photos in the guidebooks were taken from further back – we’d have fallen off the side of the mountain if we stepped back to gain the same vantage point.

After a frustrating 20 minutes or so I spotted “FPR” vaguely etched into a slab. Kev had told us that “1PR” was scratched at the bottom of the route, so we assumed that the “1” had been turned into an “F” at some point and didn’t investigate further. A few days later we spotted in the Rockfax book that FPR actually and misleadingly denotes the start of Pinnacle Rib Route, fortunately another classic VDiff which is next to First Pinnacle Rib, so that’s what we set out on.

Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route, the nice bit

We shoed, harnessed, helmeted, geared and roped up and I led the first pitch, an easy line up a big groove with good gear and solid holds. Ryan followed me up and led the second pitch up a rib, again with good gear and holds. I came up and led the third; we weren’t exactly following Rockfax’s instructions as to where to climb/belay, but just doing what looked good and felt right. I paused a couple of times to snack on some wild bilberries that grow on scrubby bushes all over the mountain.

The first slightly sketchy section came at what I thought was “Yellow Slab”, an infamous polished wall. With hindsight and research I don’t think it was Yellow Slab, but I found myself on a flat, vertical face covered in thin yellowish lichen, few holds and fewer gear placements, just past a flat ledge and out of Ryan’s view. I felt strong and confident so I pulled myself up, managed to place a small blue nut which subsequently popped out shortly after I climbed above it, and belayed from just above it – fortunately it was quite short.

We were enjoying the climbing hugely and flying up quickly until Ryan finished the fourth pitch and belayed me up. The sky was starting to cloud over and at one point I was climbing above a rainbow, which was cool. However, Ryan had gone slightly off-piste by climbing in whichever direction he liked the look of, and we weren’t entirely sure where we were. We read something in the book about walking rightwards for 20m and belaying, so we tramped right up some awkward wet, heathery ground and stopped at a slightly ominous-looking corner crack.

Tryfan: Pinnacle Rib Route? The ordeal

For reasons that will become clear, I don’t have any photos of this section. The weather had closed in, the stunning views had gone, we were starting to get damp and Type 1 fun was rapidly turning into Type 2. Looking a little reluctantly at the wet corner, I started up it and quickly realised that opportunities to place gear were scarce. It followed a crack up a corner between two fairly bare slabs which tilted towards each other at a shallow angle, not enough to properly bridge, meaning that I had to trust my shoes to grip the damp rock on tiny or next-to-no holds while I made some awkward upper body moves. The crack itself was slimy and mossy and the gear placements just got worse.

I climbed quite slowly, constantly weighing up whether to carry on or come down. The gear became so run-out that if I slipped it’d have been a ground fall onto the ledge where Ryan was belaying (very supportively and encouragingly despite his soaking wet shoes, to his credit), a fact of which I was painfully conscious. When I was climbing my head was calm, clear and acutely aware of everything, but when I paused to look for a much-needed gear placement I felt genuine fear. I’m not used to that feeling – there’s a difference between the adrenaline-inducing thrill of climbing above a bolt at a crag, flying down a steep mountain bike trail or scrambling along an exposed ridge, or even worrying a little that we’d get back later than planned after a big day out, and real, spine-chilling, one-wrong-move-means-hello-mountain-rescue fear.

Eventually I reached a good handhold where I placed two nuts. I didn’t allow relief to wash through me because the next few metres looked as bare as the previous few. I convinced myself to carry on, then proceeded to put myself through the same torment as before, with a long, run-out, balancey few moves up slippery rock until eventually (another potential ground fall later) I reached a horn of rock, which I threw a sling over, clipped into and fully exhaled for the first time in a good few minutes. From there I clambered up onto another horn, which I straddled tightly and belayed Ryan up from, genuinely relieved to be unscathed.

Ryan followed me up and congratulated me on being alive and unbroken, then led the next pitch up an awkward channel which luckily had plenty of gear placements. I followed him, a bit shaky from my belaying position, and met him at his belay. I was a bit disheartened not to see Adam and Eve, the two adjacent pillars that mark the summit, but after a slightly awkward scramble up a column of rock they emerged through the clag to our immense relief.

Tryfan: summit, descent

Ryan clambered up first and did the famous leap between the pillars to gain the “freedom of Tryfan”. I followed, still a little shaken from that hellish pitch, and jumped across before I could ponder the sheer drop to the left, the wide gap between the rocks or the slippery-looking, uneven surfaces on the tops. Ryan thought it funny to tell me I had to do it again as he’d missed the photo; I did not find it funny. Fortunately (for him) he’d captured it perfectly.

We swapped climbing shoes for Scarpa approach shoes / Nike pumps (joking that Ryan was now “that person” we hate to see up mountains), munched a cheese salad sandwich and walked down the steep south side of the mountain until we branched left and rejoined Heather Terrace. The terrain was awkward, uneven and very rocky, and our knees took a battering all the way down. The clag lifted as we descended, the landscape-defining artery of Nant Gwern y Gof appeared way below us to the right, and eventually the views over the long Ogwen Valley returned.

The Perfect Ending: pub, curry, van

We passed behind Little Tryfan, through Gwen Gof Uchaf and returned to the van around 5.30pm, pleased to see the bikes hadn’t been stolen and slightly amused that we’d only travelled just over 4 miles (2,000ft elevation aside). We threw our stuff in and drove the short distance down the A5 back to Tyn-y-Coed, a nice, welcoming pub Ryan had frequented on a previous trip with his brother. I was revived by a cider and an Irish coffee, then Ryan drove us back along the A5 to a car park by Llyn Ogwen, a wild, peaceful mountain lake overlooked by Tryfan.

Several vans were already parked up and there were no signs so we decided to settle for the evening. I cooked a Thai green chicken curry which was admittedly pretty good, especially after the day we’d had, and with hindsight, we could (almost) laugh about the strange route we’d taken up the mountain. We slept very well.

Mountain biking the Torridon Loop: Scotland day 4, Sep ’20

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After much deliberation about the day’s activities, we decided that taking on a renowned mountain bike route would be more fun than hiking up Liathach in the clag. The Torridon loop is a 30-mile trail around some of the vast glens of the northwest Highlands, rated on various websites as “hard”, “advanced”, “expert” and “very hard”. Irresistible.

We parked in a layby outside the pretty lochside village of Torridon and set off along the road. The first few miles took us through the belly of the vast Glen Torridon, flanked by the towering Torridon Hills. The road flowed through the valley like the river that ran alongside it (unsurprisingly enough, the River Torridon), its path dictated by the unheeding topography of this great Scottish wilderness.

Eventually we turned right off the road and cycled along the east side of Loch Clair. A couple of ownerless black labradors ran over to investigate our intrusion on their land, and we lamented the fact that we weren’t born into rich Scottish estates. We took a left along a muddy path through a wood and encountered our first hill; I spent the climb telling Ryan all about the Jacobite movement in the 17-18th century, a piece of Highland history which I find fascinating. I’ll spare the detail. At the top we realised that we’d climbed the hill unnecessarily as we’d missed a right fork which would have kept us on the flat, but it was worth it for the fast descent along a gravel track to rejoin the route.

Another bit of gentle cycling saw us across the sweeping farmland around the head of the small Loch Coulin, then along the River Coulin. By this time we were suspicious about the lack of ascent/descent/anything that felt like real mountain biking, especially on a route that was supposedly so difficult. And rightfully so – we had no idea what was to come.

The gradient gradually increased, and soon we were chugging up a steep track running parallel to the river. We reached a small bothy, had a quick nose inside, then crossed a bridge by a waterfall. It was uphill from there, along a narrow path littered with rocks large enough to render the way largely unrideable. We found ourselves on a wide, upland heath surrounded by yellow grass, purple heather and hills hidden in cloud. Then the rain came.

It crept in silently but quickly; one minute we could look back on the hills and valleys behind us, the next we were engulfed by wet mist. Eventually the ground levelled out to a high, scrubby plateau and we jumped back on the bikes.

The next section was totally unexpected and pretty epic. A long, extremely rocky couple of miles of incredibly technical downhill over big chunks of solid slickrock, with some very tight corners and definitely-don’t-want-to-fall-off steep bits. Our bikes clattered over massive rocks in a quick – slow – quick – slow pattern, and we finally understood why the route was graded difficult. It was a shame the rock was so wet as the slipperiness slowed us down, but it was an incredible trail nonetheless. I hit a rock side on and ended up over the handlebars only once, which – considering I was riding my 12 year old, bashed up hardtail – I thought was good going.

The most annoying thing was the frequent channels cut in the path, which consisted of two slabs placed vertically opposite each other with a big gap in the middle for drainage. Our rear tyres whacked the harsh edge of the slabs repeatedly, so  when the ground finally levelled out I wasn’t surprised to find a slow puncture. We pumped it up, then made our way through a forest section and across a railway track to the hamlet of Achnashellach. For some reason, it seemed strange to be in civilisation again. We munched a sandwich in a layby, swapped my inner tube and carried on west along the road for a few long, grey, very wet miles, wondering whether we were actually having a good time.

After what felt like a long time we turned right and followed a gravel track up along a river that headed into the mountains, which were ominously dark and shrouded in thick cloud. It was just about rideable, but the big, wet rocks on the path made it very awkward, and the wheel-bashing channels had returned. After a lot more time we reached the coolest bothy I’ve ever seen: a two-storey cottage with two big rooms downstairs and three “bedrooms”. It was the stuff of horror films, but would have been a great place to stay.

If we weren’t so stubborn, the next couple of hours might have seen us lose the will to live. We walked our bikes most of the way along the soaking wet, boggy, rocky path up, up and up. At first we tried to retain some element of dryness by avoiding the worst of the bog, but before long we were wading through rivers halfway up to our knees and dragging our bikes through dark mud and mire. It just kept going. The most soul-destroying part was that while the cloud above was bright grey where the light of the distant sky shone through, the cloud ahead and on all sides was dark grey. The kind of grey that announced that we were surrounded by high, steep ridges, which meant that we hadn’t reached the top of anything – we were effectively trapped in a big bowl of misery.

We stopped at the high Loch Choire Fionnaraich and did the thing we only ever do when in dire straits: had an energy gel. It perked us up enough to push on up the hill, barely speaking. After what felt like another age we pulled up onto a kind of rocky plateau pass between Maol Chean-dearg and Meall Dearg. Our relief was dampened by the pressing concern that we’d soon start losing daylight, so – happy to be back in the saddle, but still racked with anxiety and suspicion at what this wretched day would throw at us next – we pedalled along the rocky path, startled a few red deer which had inexplicably chosen this godforsaken place to graze, then flew past Loch an Eoin and another couple of small lochs (imagine the dead marshes from Lord of the Rings) which were backed by mysterious ridges. The trail was steep in places, very technical, quick and (most notably) often indistinguishable from a narrow, fast-flowing river.

Despite the treacherous weather and unforgiving terrain, we made it across the wild plateau quite quickly and relatively unscathed. I wish my GoPro hadn’t died, as we weren’t in a position to take photos and I can’t convey with words how wet, fast and rocky the trail was. We emerged on the other side of the plateau and the gradient got steeper, the rocks slipperier and the drops bigger. Our bikes (mine in particular, poor old thing – Ryan was on his new, full suspension Giant) clattered down the rocks begging for mercy, and my brakes had gotten soft to the point of uselessness. But ever since we’d been going downhill, I was secretly having a good time again.

It’s a shame the weather was so bad, my brakes were shot, we were exhausted from lack of food and the light was fading, as otherwise the way down would have been amazing. It was unlike anything we’d done before, but we couldn’t quite appreciate it or go as quickly as we’d have liked. We’d climbed for hours and it was a long, steep descent, well worthy of any hard / expert / advanced / very hard label. As the houses of Torridon and the little silver speck of the van appeared, we made our way down the final technical slickrock descent, knackered and very relieved.

We got to the van soaked to the bone. We threw the bikes on the rack, shivered awkwardly into dry clothes and fumbled around arranging a wet bag, which everything went into. I made the best hot chocolate we’d ever tasted and we polished off a pack of shortbread in minutes, then we drove the short distance back up the hill to the picturesque layby we’d stayed in the previous night. Ryan cooked the best carbonara in the history of the universe and we didn’t take anything for granted that evening: food, warmth, dryness, cider and rest. We slept well that night.

Torridon loop conclusion: Largely unrideable. Probably a different story in good weather / a big group / plenty of daylight. Would recommend if you like Type 2 fun. Scenery is probably lovely. Oddly enough, would do again.

NB: The photos don’t do justice to the awkwardness of the trails – the awkward bits were too awkward to move along while taking pictures.

Lakes Rampage 2020, Day 3: Six Summits

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Monday 6th July 2020

Scafell Pike, Great End, Esk Pike, Bow Fell, Crinkle Crags, Sca Fell

This was one of those rare days that I know for certain I’ll never forget. It started innocuously enough, with Ryan cooking breakfast and me making sandwiches at our camping spot on the edge of Wast Water, overlooked by the rugged, imposing mountains and ridges of the Wasdale valley. We knew it’d be a long one as our route encompassed six summits, a lot of miles and a serious amount of elevation gain. Bags packed and bodies fuelled, we drove to the car park at Wasdale Head and set off at 10am.

Scafell Pike, 978m. Summited 11:55

The path began in the lowest point of the valley, just 80m above sea level. It crossed a wide, shallow river, Lingmell Beck, before climbing a little way up the side of a high, grassy ridge, Lingmell. It followed the contour of this ridge through scrubby sheep territory until we rounded the corner, at which point the sheer, dark west face of Scafell Pike emerged at the head of an immense valley. Lingmell Gill flowed high and fast on our right and we followed the path alongside it until the rocky crossing, which wasn’t particularly crossable due to the rainfall. A few hikers had gone quite a way upstream before crossing and heading back down to regain the path, but we didn’t go far before hopping across five or six sturdy-ish looking rocks in an ungainly (but dry) manner and continuing up the mountain.

The rocky path led the way clearly up Brown Tongue which, as well as the multitude of other hikers and my vague memory of the route, made the map redundant for the time being. We took the left fork and approached the summit from its northwest side, the slightly longer but more popular approach. From the fork, going as the crow flies to the summit would have necessitated a serious multipitch rock climb up its ominously sheer west face, which gives the mountain its wild, dangerous appearance.

Our legs were already feeling slightly sore from flying up and down the Old Man of Coniston (803m) the previous day, and I’d forgotten that although popular, the path up Scafell Pike is surprisingly long and steep. Shortly after taking the fork we were hit by a sudden heavy rainshower, which – as they always are, once you’ve committed to getting wet – was exhilarating. We pulled waterproofs on, snapped a couple of pictures and carried on, turning right up the steep, scree-covered path that leads to the summit. The clouds were stubborn but intermittent, and we had our fill of the stunning, rolling mountain scenery in glimpses as we made our way up.

The top section is pretty much a huge pile of jagged rocks, as if the tip of the mountain has been shattered into millions of pieces. At the summit is a trig point and a raised war memorial, and we delighted at being the highest two people on English soil for a minute before finding a sheltered spot for a sandwich. Although perfectly warm when we were moving, our sweaty backs got cold quite quickly in the bitter mountain wind so we took a compass bearing to ensure we were heading for Great End and descended the awkwardly boulder-strewn, loose northeast side of Scafell Pike.

Great End, 910m. Summited 13:06

The cloud subsided when we reached the trough of the col between Scafell Pike and Broad Crag, the mini-top just before Great End. The path to Great End was fairly steep and quite direct, although when it came to branching off the path towards Esk Pike for the actual summit Ryan took us an unecessarily awkward way over a series of rocks. We pulled out the Jetboil and had a brew at the wind shelter on the summit, wondered at the panoramic views and seemingly endless mountains and descended the proper way back to the main path.

Esk Pike, 885m. Summited 14:02

Esk Pike wasn’t easily discernible as the ground on the east of Scafell Pike is all quite high and the rocky ridges and summits seem to merge together. Experience has taught me to be wary of paths as they often look obvious on a map, but much less so on rocky ground where everything is the same colour, and it was around this point that I commented on how the path thus far was suspiciously clear and well-marked by plenty of cairns.

Bowfell, 902m. Summited 14:47

Next up was Bowfell, which had a more obvious summit as there was a group of people having lunch on it. For some reason I remember the scenery here being particularly unforgettable, even though we’d been fortunate enough to have a clear view of the surrounding mountains since before Great End.

The nearer peaks were rugged and olive green, and all had unique shapes with sides that occasionally fell away to reveal sheer, unvegetated rock faces. They weren’t jagged like the gargantuan mountains of Patagonia or the Himalayas – in fact they’re not even comparable – but they had their own wild, majestic kind of beauty. Rivers ran like tiny veins far below in the steep-sided valleys, some so perfectly U-shaped it was as if they were carved out with a giant ice cream scoop, and the mountains further away glowed in mysterious, hazy layers of grey-blue. This is perhaps what I love most about the Lake District: it’s the only place in England where I feel truly immersed in the mountains. I can’t imagine how incredible it must have been up here before hiking became popular and there were no paths scratched into the surface or bright down jackets pock-marking the wilderness.

Crinkle Crags, 859m. Summited 15:51

Crinkle Crags was a bit disheartening because gaining the summit would mean scrambling up a rocky path a kilometre long, starting at the unimaginatively named Three Tarns, only to scramble back down the same way and continue our route. Ry insisted that he wanted to do it despite his knee hurting a little, so we went up the now-elusive path-come-series of rocky scrambles and after what seemed like an age, arrived at the (also unimaginatively named) Pile of Stones marking the summit.

This is where the real fun started (English for where it all went wrong). We looked across two wide valleys towards Sca Fell and it looked terrifyingly far away, leering at us from the horizon. Ryan suggested that if we descend Crinkle Crags off-piste, we should hit the footpath we were aiming for low down in the first valley which would take us parallel to and then across a river, and we would then walk [a really long way] to the base of Sca Fell on flat terrain. This would remove the need to turn back along the annoyingly rocky and long path we’d just come along. He was correct and I agreed – indeed, we should have hit that footpath by the river.

The descent was pretty sketchy, super-steep and more of a downclimb in places via huge boulders, mini waterfalls and loose, scrubby bits of ground. We were careful not to disturb vegetation, rocks or sheep, and although I was inwardly questioning our decision, it was kind of thrilling to be off the beaten track. I was super happy to discover some bilberry bushes (bilberries are like small, sweet wild blueberries) as I’d always wanted to find some but never had before, so my fruity mid-descent snack perked me up.

The Trough, 350m ish

This section deserves its own sub-heading because it would unfair (on the mountain) to attribute it to a mountain. It was a trough in both senses of the word – the low bit between peaks, and a sustained dip in the extent to which the hike was going as planned. As they say, peaks and troughs.

After what seemed like an age we reached the bottom of the treacherous descent down Crinkle Crags, only to discover that the footpath we had hoped to join was untrodden to the point of non-existence. Instead we were met by soft, tufty, awkward ground covered in long, yellow grass. In the absence of a path and an obvious place to cross Lingcove Beck, we looked at the map and decided that the best course of action would be to walk south parallel to the river until we came to the fork, where we would join another path that runs alongside the other branch – the River Esk – to the base of Sca Fell. It would extend our route by a couple of long, slow miles over difficult terrain, but at least we’d be certain of where we are and that we could cross both rivers.

This was frustrating enough, so when my left foot punched through a hole in the ground and into over-the-top-of-my-boot deep muddy water, I became tetchy. After a couple of hundred metres of tramping with one wet foot through boggy ground in an exasperated sulk, it dawned on me that I’d only eaten half a sandwich, half a bag of mini cheddars, an apple, half a flapjack and a few bilberries. We wanted to press on but I self-diagnosed myself as hangry, so we stopped and munched a whole sandwich each. It tasted incredible and I perked up magnificently.

We maintained our course by keeping Lingcove Beck on our right hand side, which took a long time because of the awkward, soggy ground, occasionally picking up scraps of what looked like they could once have been path. Eventually we reached a stone bridge at the fork we were aiming for, glad to finally cross the river and start walking towards, rather than away from, Sca Fell. This time we kept the River Esk on our left, relieved that we were now following a clear path.

The first bit was steep, then it levelled out and we walked for a mile or so across a great, open plain in the belly of the valley between the towering ridges. The path was better than the previous one although ambiguous in places, so we kept a close eye on the map, noting the shape of the river, the contours around us and the bits of drystone wall marked down as boundaries. Unhelpfully, the path disappeared at the river crossing. We’d hoped for some rudimentary stepping stones, but there was nothing. The river was about eight paces wide and higher and faster than usual, and we followed it upstream in search of a way across for 20 minutes or so. Eventually we accepted that our feet were wet anyway and committed to a crossing place that was far from ideal but slightly less terrible than some other places and hopped across.

Sca Fell, 964m. Summited 20:17

We tramped across pathless ground to a long waterfall leading up Sca Fell, which was a mile away as the crow flies. The next section was a steep scramble up a dubiously labelled footpath, keeping the waterfall/river on our left. It was tough going but good to gain height as it made us feel closer to finishing the day. We got to a crossing place and stopped to make a decision. We could either cross the river and approach Sca Fell from the south, carry on along the clear path and approach it from the west – which would mean branching off left and going up and down the same way – or call it a day and continue on the same path, which would take us safely through the col between Sca Fell and Scafell Pike and back to the van, potentially with time for a drink in the pub.

We were tired, hungry and at risk of losing light, but stubbornness prevailed and we crossed the narrow, rushing river, hopeful of completing a circular route up and down the mountain. It looked as if there was a path on the other side, but this quickly disappeared and we were once again tramping through the wilderness. We knew the approximate direction of Sca Fell and we knew we had to do a lot more “up”, so we made a beeline for a high, steep scree slope on our right hand side.

This was one of the crippling low points of the day. The terrain was very rough (scrubby vegetation interspersed with loose rocks), we were exhausted, our phones were nearly dead, the summit was an uncertain, invisible concept beyond a serious amount of elevation gain on poor ground and there was a real risk that we’d lose daylight. We had everything we needed – headtorches, an emergency bivvy shelter, warm clothes, foil blankets and porridge – but we were damp, hungry and determined to get back to the van.

On either side of the scree slope were high rock faces and from a distance it looked as though a figure of a person was suspended from one of them. At first it looked like someone leaning back and taking a photo of something higher up, then it looked like a climber who had  reached the top of a route, then it looked like someone hanging there eerily limp, as if they’d fallen and been caught by the rope. It’s funny how the mind plays tricks when you’re tired, as it turned out to be just a black, figure-shaped void between two slabs.

The scree slope took forever to reach, and once there it was even more terrible than we thought. I did something very unusual: I pulled out my last-resort snacks, an energy gel each, in a desperate attempt to boost us up the terrifyingly steep ascent. The scree was mostly saucer-to-dinnerplate sized reddish-grey rock, and I was careful not to climb above Ryan as I could have sent a rock tumbling down on him at any time. It took just about all our strength to reach the top, and I was almost too exhausted to feel relieved by the sight of the landscape opening out in front of me as I pulled over the brow.

We turned right and headed along the high ridge, relieved to be on more manageable terrain but uncertain exactly how far it was to the summit. Our phones pinged as we received signal for the first time in a few hours, but we were both on 1% so couldn’t faff around taking photos. The scenery either side of the ridge was beautiful, hazy in the fading light, but we didn’t appreciate it as much as usual. The ground got rockier and we finally came to the pile of stones and crude rock shelter that marks the summit of Sca Fell at 8.17pm. It was a huge relief to finally conquer this last peak, the bleakest and wildest of them all, after it had tormented us for the age that had passed since Crinkle Crags.

Return

It wasn’t over yet as we still needed to get on the path back before losing light. It’s common knowledge among mountaineers that most accidents happen on the way down, so we were careful not to get reckless. We descended down the path north east of the summit, which was once again ridiculously steep but this time marked by the odd cairn. It was a relief to be going down but our knees weren’t having a great time, and we half-slid down the loose slope. The path then bore left at the tiny Foxes Tarn and took us literally down a small river/waterfall, balancing on wet, slippery rock on whichever side of the water looked least treacherous.

Once we were at the bottom, miraculously intact, we munched our last snack bar and looked exasperatedly to our left at the next rocky slope we were required to climb to gain Mickledore, the col between Sca Fell and Scafell Pike. It was almost funny, and we just got on with the slow, awkward drag to the top, trying to keep on the vague, loose, steep, zig-zagging path. My concern was that the path over the col on this side of Scafell Pike wouldn’t be obvious (or even in existence) as I took this route the first time I climbed the mountain in 2014, and I remember scrabbling up a steep, scree-covered slope in claggy conditions following no obvious path and hoping for a cairn to appear through the fog. If this was the case, there was a risk that it’d get too dark to navigate and we’d have to bear a cold, damp, rocky night out.

At last we reached the top of the slope and spotted the emergency metal shelter on the ridge up to Scafell Pike. Its straight sided boxiness looked very strange against the rocky backdrop, having seen nothing but natural, jagged shapes all day. Then we experienced the best feeling in the world: pulling up over the lip of the col at Mickeldore. All of a sudden we could clearly see the path that would lead us back, and my concern evaporated. The world seemed to open out in front of us. We had Sca Fell on our left, Scafell Pike on our right, and in front was the vast valley that we’d hiked up eleven hours earlier. We could see the fork where our footpath met the path that we’d taken left up the other side of Scafell Pike that morning, the sun was low, and there wasn’t another person in sight.

We descended down the steep scree slope (see the pattern emerging?) that was the top of the footpath and gained slightly more level terrain, happy in the knowledge that there was no more up. The sun broke through the hazy clouds and glowed a magnificent, warm orange ahead of us, which illuminated the valley and accentuated the wild beauty of every rough, rocky, rugged corner. It felt like nature’s way of saying well done, you did it. I’ll never, ever forget that moment. The walk back along the strangely solid path was slow and unlike my vivid memories of earlier that day, I remember it vaguely as if it were a dream. We talked all the way back to the van, but I have no idea what we talked about.

We followed the path round to the right at the end of the valley, the same way we’d come up, through the steep sheep fields of Lingmell in dwindling light. We didn’t quite need to pull out the torches because the path was good, but it was dark by the time we reached the flat field and river at the bottom. We got back to the van at 10.30pm, equal parts exhausted, triumphant and famished, drove ten minutes to last night’s camping spot near Wast Water, and didn’t have the energy to cook stir fry so ate tinned soup, bread and cheese. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

Alps 2020, Day 4: Snowshoe Hiking and Black Ice

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We left the cabin much later than planned due to the reluctance of our slow, hungover bodies and plodded to the hire shop to pick up some snowshoes. We planned to hike up Mount Joly (2,525m) via the ski runs and hiking trails, which was fairly straightforward – navigable using the map in the ski leaflet, or so we thought.

I always thought of showshoes in the typical cartoon tennis racquet sense, which isn’t too far off. Ours were big, flat, foot-shaped bits of plastic with small metal studs on the bottom for grip, with two “settings” – hinged under the toe, which allowed the outside portion of the device to “flap” down and stay close to the ground when lifting the foot, and fixed, which locked the whole shoe stiff. Hinged was better for going uphill and fixed better downhill. It was strange at first and I kept treading on the edges of my own shoes, but got used to it after a little while. It was amazing how much grip we had, and the shoes enabled us to walk on deep, soft snow and up steep, icy slopes that we never would have been able to climb in just boots.

The Ascent

We hiked up blue runs, red runs and through tall, dark green pine forest, all the time backed by jagged, snow-capped mountains. As we climbed higher the mountains seemed to grow around us in size and number, until we reached l’Epaule du Joly (2,135m) – the shoulder of Mount Joly – and the high, white brow we’d been fixated on for over an hour suddenly gave way to a horizon full of rough, majestic peaks.

The hardest part was towards the top of that section. We had to hike up two red runs, which were unforgivingly steep and seemed never-ending. I focused on reaching that post, then that post, then that sign, breaking it down into more manageable bits, and I wouldn’t stop until I reached a more significant milestone, like the bottom of a new run. I watched some Alpine choughs diving off the roof of a cabin and listened to their high-pitched trill. Ryan and I didn’t speak for a long time.

Peril #1

L’Epaule was the highest ski lift, and to get to Mount Joly we had to move up steep, snow-covered rock. We swapped snowshoes for crampons, looked up at the looming white mass, and started upwards, using the leki poles to check that the snow and ice in front of us concealed hard rock, not open space. It was thigh-deep in places and we regretted leaving the ice axe back in the cabin.

We moved sideways up the steep face, front-pointing the toes of our crampons firmly into the ice, until one of mine came loose. I’d borrowed my crampons from Ryan’s dad and my boots were a bit too narrow for them, so my heel kept slipping out the back. While I adjusted, we really had to lean into the slope and find a solid footing as a slip would see us tumbling down the steep, rocky ridge with no means of arrest.

The crampon was wedged tight on the back of my boot, so much so that I couldn’t move it in our precarious position. Neither of us wanted to make the call and for a moment we just took in the near panoramic view, until Ryan expressed his concern in a strained tone that I’d never heard before. Recalling fatal stories of summit fever and remembering his dad’s words of caution, we reluctantly turned round and headed back down.

With hindsight I’m more disappointed now than I was at the time, but it was the right decision. While testing the ground for firmness on the way down, I punched a leki pole straight through a cornice (an overhanging snow edge that looks solid; we looked up at it afterwards and were almost certain that it was a cornice) into thin air, and with one pokey, semi-loose crampon, I couldn’t have pressed on much further. We’d expected a hike, not a graded ice ascent, so didn’t take axes. The sky had been growing thicker and darker all afternoon and we were concerned about visibility worsening; we didn’t fancy an overnighter. There was no other sensible option.

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Descent

The plod back followed the same route and was scenic but very, very long. We’d both been a little hungover but Ryan felt really rough coming back down, which I maintain had something to do with him refusing to eat. I returned the snowshoes in dwindling light while sickie dragged his poor body straight back to the cabin, then I tried to revive him with a hot drink and some food. We didn’t have much and had planned to find somewhere to eat out for our last night in France, so we got in the Polo and set off on what would soon become a treacherous journey.

In our normal blasé fashion, we did zero research and intended to stumble across a place to eat. We found that the pizzeria in our tiny village was closed, so we sent Google maps to the nearest restaurant. We followed the innocent-looking little blue arrow off the main road and down a suspiciously steep drive, which narrowed, steepened, became twisty, and – most worryingly – increasingly icy.

Peril #2

We couldn’t turn back, so we crawled along. There’s no way to describe the heart-in-your-mouth feeling of suddenly being taken by black ice. We slid diagonally down the road, picking up speed, as I tried to feather the brakes. Our concern (verging on terror) grew, but luckily the gentle braking worked and we slowed to a precarious halt. It was so tense that we felt that breathing too hard could set the car off again. On our left – the side closest to me and the way the camber pushed the car – was a deep ditch and a bunch of not-very-soft-looking rocks and trees. We ran through our options. We had snow chains in the boot, but no way of putting them on without moving the wheels. Attempting to control the car was likely to result in another sliding session, but we didn’t seem to have much choice. For the second time that day, Ryan spoke in a tone that I’d never heard before.

Stifling the rising feeling of dread, I told myself that although I didn’t fancy losing the €800 deposit on the car or negotiating our recovery in French (then paying the fee), we weren’t going to die. Ryan got out (gingerly) and moved around to the driver’s side, then put all his weight into pushing the car towards the uphill camber, while I tentatively eased off the clutch and crept forward. We slid a little, then I was in control. We slid again, and I was in control again. Ryan left his post and walked/slid in front of the car, directing me to the least icy bits of road, and we moved down the hill this way – just tickling the accelerator and the brake – for what seemed like an age.

Finally we reached a flatter bit and Ryan got back in the car. We crept along, flanked on either side by dark, ominous trees and incredibly on-edge, crossed a bridge over a river, and started ascending the winding road on the opposite side of the monstrous valley. The relief was immense but fragile, as we were painstakingly aware that we could come across more ice.

Relief

We emerged literally out of the woods and onto a more major road. Very few times in my life have I felt comparable elation, mixed with the sudden realisation that I was famished and totally exhausted. Not only had we climbed more vertical metres in a day than either of us had before (about 1,000m), in snow, but we’d barely eaten a thing. It was about 9pm on a Monday and we weren’t near any major resorts, so our hopes of finding anywhere open were low.

By chance, we came to a Chinese restaurant on a road in Saint-Gervais-Les-Bains, the nearest large town to our village. We nearly didn’t get out the car as although the lights were on, it looked dead. We pushed at the door and it opened, sounding a bell, but there were no waiting staff or customers anywhere. We looked tentatively around the warm, colourful room decorated with Chinese art and didn’t dare to hope too hard. A minute or so later a waitress came along, looked a little confused by my desperate-sounding plea (in French) for a table and gave us the second-best news of the evening: that they were still serving food.

I have never tasted such delicious Chinese food anywhere, and I don’t think it was just because of the day we’d had. It was everything I could have wanted – prawns in a lovely spicy sauce and fragranced rice with veg, and Ryan had some noodley thing. He perked up afterwards, but we were both so exhausted that after the thankfully uneventful drive back to the cabin (safe to say we eschewed Google Maps and stuck to the main road) we collapsed into bed like two sacks of potatoes.

The best meal of my life
And his

71 Miles Later: Great Glen Ultra

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This was the hardest day of my life. It started at 9pm on Friday on a coach full of ultrarunners.

*After-note: I didn’t intend this to be a long post, but the flashbacks returned as I wrote. At least it reflects the slow-drip torture of a 71-mile run…*

The journey from Inverness to Fort William took nearly three hours and I didn’t get a minute of sleep thanks to conversations about running and Scotland (two things that keep me sane), pre-run excitement and a beautiful sunset over Loch Ness. At FW we bundled into a village hall where I did the registration admin, faffed about and attempted to sleep behind the stage curtain. Again I was unsuccessful, this time due to the unforgivingly cold, hard floor, blasé babble of seasoned runners and absurd consciousness of the strangers laying around me.

During the race brief I noted that the average age of the headtorch and buff-clad runners was probably about 50. After last year’s 50-miler this didn’t fill me with confidence – as far as ultrarunning is concerned, age seems to be a virtue. We shuffled our way into the cool, black Highland air and started the run at 1am.

Mile 0-7: Canal, boredom

I thought that darkness, excitement and running in a big pack would make the first part fly by. I was wrong. This section went along a long stretch of canal, which meant that it was flat, even and monotonous – my worst nightmare. I wasn’t used to running that slowly (about 10-10.5mins/mile), my legs felt heavy, I couldn’t shake off heartburn, my right calf felt tight already and I was conscious of every footstep around me. The only scenery was the heels of the runners in front of me, lit by my headtorch as I chased my own shadow.

Mile 7-11: Trail, the only fun I had that day

The route crossed the canal and thankfully took me along an enjoyable section of rooty forest singletrack. I paced myself on the person in front of me and focused on the twisty, undulating path through trees and ferns, trying not to be too jealous of a group of bemused, beer-drinking, fire-poking lochside campers. The first checkpoint was a bit further on than I expected, and I grabbed my first dropbag without stopping. Jelly snake number one perked me up a little. Heartburn persisted.

Mile 11-20: Gravel, pain

I was acutely aware that I’d already been in pain for a while, mainly in my right calf but also general discomfort everywhere else from padding along the boringly samey surface. This section was a long drag along wide, pine forest-lined gravel tracks which rollercoastered up and down along the north bank of imaginatively named Loch Lochy, whose still, black water crept into view below high braes as the sun made its reluctant way up. Heartburn persisted.

Mile 20-27: Forest, regret

At checkpoint two I grabbed my drop bag and carried on, fuelled by a second jelly snake and a pocketful of nuts and dried fruit. My memory of this section is a bit hazy, I just remember hating everything. I think the path changed from gravel to muddyish dirt to road to hilly forest track. Heartburn was overtaken by general pain.

Mile 27-32: Lochs, hopelessness

I remember the miles before checkpoint three vividly. A flat, straight gravel section that ran along Laggan Lochs and Loch Oich and stretched endlessly into the distance. As a trailrunner who loves uneven terrain and doesn’t want to be able to see more than a few feet in front at a time, I hated every step and every breath. Given how I felt, the thought of making even 40 miles was hopeless. The runners had strung out a long way apart by this point, and I didn’t see another person for a long, long time.

After what felt like forever I reached checkpoint three. I was glad for the company and the snacks, but the midges were relentless, every part of my legs hurt already and I was grumpy.

Mile 32-54: Mountains, under-appreciation

I stopped shortly after checkpoint three to plaster a blister that I’d ignored for way too long, which had all but destroyed a little toe. Blisters became my biggest issue, which was frustrating as they didn’t bother me at all during last year’s 50-miler, and although superficial they’re debilitatingly painful. I checked my distance way too often and tried to block out the pain of every step.

These long miles along “the high road” were unenjoyable and kind of blurry in my memory, so I’m definitely not doing the scenery justice. I think this was the most varied, wild and beautiful bit, but I’ve never appreciated such a stunning place less. The trail became undulating and twisty, through lush green forest, hillside heathland overlooking vast Loch Ness with its mountainous backdroup, more green forest, and past the golden fields of huge, sprawling farms.

I was pleased to make 50 miles, given how much I was struggling, and at checkpoint 6 I thought about how I could throw in the towel satisfied in the knowledge that I’d run further than ever before. But I could still walk, so I knew that I couldn’t live with myself if I gave up, and I limped along a few miles of Drumnadrochit pavement towards what would be the hardest few hours of my life to date.

Miles 54-62: Forest, torture

The road out of the town was long, straight and boring, and even a jelly snake did little to lift my spirits. Then came the woods and the hallucinations. The sun shone patchily through the tall, dark pines and I think the woods were beautiful, but everything was eerily still. Shadows moved around in my peripheral vision, and I saw all kinds of animals. I’ve never properly hallucinated before and I was amazed at how real they were – at one point I was totally convinced there was a baby hare on the path, which turned out to be a bramble, and I saw lions, bears, dogs… etc. I decided that if a forest demon came to snatch me away, I’d be glad for it as I could stop running.

The steep, pine-wooded section turned into a long, undulating few miles of gravel track edged by dense firs and desolate heathland. Painfully conscious that I still had ten miles to go, I tried singing to myself in a desperate attempt to conquer the suffocating feeling of loneliness, futility and despair. I passed a murky, black pond and had to tell myself that the white, bloated face I saw in it (a la Lord of the Rings, Two Towers, the dead marshes) wasn’t real. That was the least “cool” hallucination.

Miles 62-66: More forest, more torture

A lot more agony later and I limped into checkpoint six, grateful (for once) for human interaction, a bag of soggy nuts and my final jelly snake. The midges were out in full force so I didn’t hang around, and I left for the final and most agonisingly painful few miles of my life.

Shortly after the checkpoint the path took me through a dense, low tunnel of trees and past the creepiest café I’ve ever seen. It was tucked away and signposted with eerily bright, scruffy, handmade signs – despite the pain I had to stop and take a picture:

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Then there was a road section that went on and on, surrounded by countryside which seemed very desolate under the dark grey sky. The race organisers had kindly spray-painted “the never-ending forest” on the road to inform distraught runners that the worst was yet to come. Eventually it did, and road turned into heathery moorland, which turned gradually into tall, dark, dense pine forest.

Miles 66-71: Despair

These were the worst few hours of my life, despite passing a red deer and a red squirrel with a blonde tail (I have blurry photo evidence). I slowed to a walk because my hip flexors had become so tight and painful that they rebelled and refused to let me lift my legs, my feet were on fire, my joints felt shot to pieces and every muscle in my legs had all but seized up. For most of the race my pace was okay, until it wasn’t. By this point I probably averaged 18-20 minutes/mile.

My phone died along with my love for life, although I didn’t regret saving my last scrap of battery for a photo of a squirrel over a potentially life-saving phone call. I checked my Garmin obsessively and experienced something entirely new and unexpected – tears of hopelessness, desperation and agony streamed down my face.

The trees thickened and closed in on me in a crushingly dark, straight tunnel. Then came the creepiest hallucination yet: a tall, slim man in a grey suit with a Donnie Darko-esque rabbit’s head at about mile 68, who turned out to be a tree. I’ve never moved so agonisingly slowly in my life, or felt more helpless.

I genuinely considered collapsing and waiting for someone to find me, and thought that if I died first I’d be happy that I put in 100% and the pain would stop. Then I felt light-headed, sick and dizzy, wondered if I was going into shock, and dug around in my bag for my emergency energy gel. I couldn’t find it (later on I found it easily) so stuffed a handful of salted cashews and dried fruit into my mouth and forced myself to carry on.

I don’t know how I got through that forest, but after what felt like a lifetime I dragged myself out and found myself overlooking Inverness. The Proclaimers were playing right next to the stadium at the finish line (where the bus left from the previous night) and I could hear them. Encouraged, I carried on and descended unbelievably slowly to the town, resisting the urge to beg the 70-something year old runner who jogged past me for help.

I’ve never been so relieved to see concrete and tarmac, but was soon devastated by the realisation that the finish was still a mile away. I peeled off shoes, socks and (inadvertently) skin and shuffled into the flipflops I’d been carrying since Drumnadrochit. Garmin died. Another runner caught me up and I could see the pity in his eyes as he stopped and talked to me as I shuffled along the pavement, inch by inch. I dramatically insisted that he leave me, and as he went off a pedestrian actually offered to get his car and drive me to the finish line – that’s how near-death I looked (and felt).

I think some more runners passed me but I can’t really remember, and eventually the last one caught me up, accompanied by the two “sweepers” appointed to run with the last runner. One sweeper stayed with me as I shuffled along pavement, hedge-lined path and along the final, impossibly painful section of straight, flat, boring canal, while the other overtook.

After yet another lifetime we reached the stadium. I was relieved beyond words, in unbearable pain and incredibly embarrassed by all the people waiting to cheer the last runner round the three-quarter lap of the running track – compulsory and something to do with Scottish ultra rules. Somehow I made it round, moving like someone who’d never walked before and fuelled by desperation for the embarrassment and the pain to stop, and stumbled agonisingly over the finish line. In last place.

I’m probably the most competitive person on the planet (thanks to my wind-up merchant of a father) and I didn’t even care. I’d felt such extreme pain, frustration, hopelessness, desperation, loneliness and exhaustion that I was just numb; I felt a vague sense of happiness and relief, but I was too physically, mentally and emotionally tired to really feel anything.

Conclusion

This couldn’t have been more different from last year’s 50-mile Peak District ultra. The terrain was more even, less undulating and less twisty. The weather was overwhelmingly grey, unpleasantly humid and occasionally drizzly. I didn’t really make friends to run with – last year I was convinced that was what got me over the finish line. I’ve never seen so few people over such a long distance or felt such crushing loneliness. There were fewer checkpoints, lots of dark forest, hideously long, straight flat sections and the infamous Scottish midges. I got blisters quite quickly, whereas last year I somehow avoided them. Running always come with peaks and troughs, but the peaks made up 5% of the race and the troughs 95%. Basically, every aspect of the race was shit. Apart from the jelly snakes.

Yet somehow I don’t think it’ll be the last race in my remarkably un-illustrious ultrarunning career.

Three Peaks Challenge – Write up

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Last weekend I experienced a new type of euphoria. There’s no feeling like standing on top of the highest pinnacle of an entire country (or three) with a group of wonderful, strong, determined friends. It took months of organising, training and fundraising, hours of sleepless contortionism in a sardine tin of a minibus, blood, sweat, tears, countless injuries and a copious amount of tape, but the team summited all three mountains and returned home with stupid grins and lovely memories.

We didn’t quite make the 24-hour goal, but that’s not the point. I’ve never seen such incredible determination, selflessness, teamwork, positivity and inexhaustible humour in a group of people. Several of the team had never climbed a mountain before but didn’t think twice about taking on the brutal ascents (and arguably more brutal descents) of Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon.

Injuries included but were not limited to a slipped spinal disc, an immovable leg (Charley wins already), a post-stag do knee injury, an agitated previously broken foot, a sprained/stress fractured toe and Lee’s mangled feet.

Pre-Challenge

We quickly realised that the child-sized minibus seats were not conducive to sleeping or being even close to comfortable, but the bus banter was excellent. We left Winchester about 10.30am and arrived at our Fort William hostel around midnight, via a handful of service stations and a pub.

I was up and exploring by 7am on Saturday; I went down to Loch Linnhe and read all the history boards, then headed up the hill that stands over Fort William. I found a wild moor area overlooking the loch and its mountainy backdrop, which was full of birds and wildflowers, bright with yellow gorse and deep purple wild orchids. I explored this impossibly peaceful hillside, then headed back and met the others for breakfast in town before leaving for Glen Nevis.

Ben Nevis

We set off from the youth hostel at 3pm and the mountain hit us at approximately 3:02pm. It was a steep, uneven, rocky start, and as we puffed our way along the busy mountain track we soon realised the scale of the challenge. The group became strung out fairly quickly and I was amazed by the hordes of people on the path, most of whom also seemed to be doing the Three Peaks.

We strode, heaved and shuffled ourselves up the long mountain track, which took us along the monstrous side of a wide, green valley. I flitted between the group at the back and the front, passing messages about various injuries, and we realised fairly early on that we’d struggle to complete the challenge in 24 hours. The decision was made to focus on getting as many of the team up as many of the mountains as possible, taking decent group pictures at the summits and not getting hung up over the time taken.

The zigzag near the top was relentless, but not as bad as when I last climbed Nevis in thick, wet fog. The widening view of the surrounding mountains made up for the loose, rocky path and seemingly never-ending switchback turns, and the group’s pace picked up as injuries were numbed by painkillers, willpower and the pull of the summit.

The cairns began, the zigzag ended and we followed the path through a barren, grey rock-field towards the top, past sheets of snow and the deadly drop of five-finger gulley. This section was also long, and when the observatory came into view I felt the unmistakable spike of elation that always coincides with the sudden appearance of a summit.

All twelve of the group congregated by the trig point for a photo, glad that the time pressure had eased as it meant we could mull around for a few minutes. We enjoyed the panoramic views, taking in layer upon layer of hazy blue mountains, and I nosed around the little sticker-covered shelter (which would have been lovely if it didn’t smell of wee).

Delighted to have made the summit as a team and in clear, sunny weather, we headed back down and made it back to the bus just half an hour or so off schedule.

Scafell Pike

Pain, adrenaline and the miniscule, hard and immovably upright minibus seats meant that the drive to the Lake District was sleepless, and the windy roads leading to Wasdale left us queasy (and Bertie actually sick out the window). Riyad did a great job of driving, and despite the 60mph limiter, accidental turn down one of the narrowest roads on Earth and bus full of sweaty, whiney, grumpy people, got us to Wasdale Head in enough time to set off about 3am.

A few of the boys stayed behind due to actual and/or very likely injuries while the rest of us shuffled off towards the imposing black silhouette of a mountain, following the light of our headtorches and the rustle of sweet packets. Charley’s body was falling apart but she refused to stop and some of the group were keen to power on, so once again we strung out fairly quickly. I hung around at the back for a while, then realised that I might catch the sunrise if I picked the pace up. I left the group at the back, joined the three at the front, then puffed my way up to the summit alone.

Scafell Pike isn’t as high as the other two but a lot of people consider it the most difficult. I see why – the route feels very long and the climb is sustained, without any flat sections for relief. Eventually the uneven, rocky path forks off to the left (on a previous ascent I turned right and ended up scrambling up a loose, precipitous ridge, then had to blind-navigate the featureless top section), then turns right towards the summit; it’s one of those where you think you’re there, then another exasperating brow of grey shingle appears from nowhere.

Unfortunately the spectacular sunrise I’d hoped for was mostly obscured by blue-grey haze, but the view was breath-taking nonetheless. Again I was on a barren, rocky plateau surrounded by layers of mountains. I swapped my sweaty t-shirt for warm clothes and nestled down for a nap on the sheltered side of the summit memorial.

I’d just managed to drift off when I was woken by my 5.30 alarm, 40 minutes after reaching the top. Five of the others had joined me in 10-20 minute intervals so we took a photo and headed back down, passing Dave and Siobhan shortly afterwards. We strung out again and collected Charley on the way back, who had to turn around after pushing her injured leg so far that she couldn’t lift it over even the smallest rocks. (Somehow she later attempted Snowdon too…)

We traipsed back along the path along the side of the lush, green valley, now visible in the early morning light, enjoying the view over Wast Water. Eventually it curved round to the right and took us back down to the car park. Reunited and tired, we had some hot food in the car park, looking like we hadn’t slept for weeks. Matt had sourced some self-heating packet meals which looked a bit suspect but went down well – I had my jetboil so stuck to porridge and tinned fruit. Fed and watered, we flopped back into the bus and semi-slept our way to Snowdon.

Snowdon

We arrived at Pen y Pass after a couple of stop offs to wee (mainly Mia) and organise kit. We bundled out the bus and watched the cloud come in over the mountain as we plodded along the easy-going Miner’s track, past the still, black lakes. After the long, flat stretch we reached the steep, scrambley bit where the “path” ascends up the side of the ridge to meet the Pyg track.

Once again the group had spread out, and as the fog thickened I stayed at the back to supply sweets and make sure we didn’t lose anyone. It was cold, wet and miserable but spirits remained high. Eventually we pulled up over the last steep bit and joined the track along the ridge to the summit, which runs parallel to the train. This section is always deceptively long. At last we joined the rest of the group for a wet, windy summit photo, then Matt and Mia charmed their way onto the train down to Llanberis and I ran off to rejoin the others. The people in the café looked at me like I was a lunatic.

By that point we were practically hallucinating about pub food. We made it down the steep bit much quicker than I expected despite the slipperiness, then when Dave and I – the only non-limping ones left – were satisfied that the last three wouldn’t get lost or injured on a steep bit, we went ahead. Cold and wet through, we semi-jogged our way back along the level path, which was much longer than it seemed on the way out as new bends (and even a lake) materialised from nowhere.

The gates of the Pen y Pass car park came into view and as we ran to them I felt a pang of sadness that the challenge was nearly over. It could have been madness induced by hunger, exhaustion and/or sleep deprivation, but it crossed my mind that I could just turn around and happily disappear back into the mountains. But I didn’t, and lured by the pull of the pub, I joined the group in the youth hostel across the road.

Post-challenge

We had a beer, changed into dry clothes (in that order) and waited for the last three to join us. They limped in, Lee’s feet nearly worn down to stumps, and we collapsed into the bus. It had gotten quite late so Lottie grabbed us a table at Y Stabblau in Betws y Coed and we went straight there for food – I inhaled a curry, then set to work on leftover pasta and “three peaks” burgers. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

The most telling sign of utter exhaustion is when this particular group of friends doesn’t fancy more than one beer. This is something I’ve never experienced before and I wasn’t sure how to deal with it, but fortunately I was too excited at the thought of being horizontal that I didn’t care. We bundled back to the bus for the two-minute drive to the hostel and practically fell into our bunks.

The next morning I hoovered up half-eaten breakfasts, then we stumbled round the hostel, losing and finding various belongings, attempting to conquer stairs and watching bemused as someone else attempted to conquer stairs. A few of us wandered round Betwys y Coed, admiring the pretty buildings and eating ice cream, before dragging our reluctant selves back to the lovingly despised minibus to head home.

To conclude

Undertaking this challenge made us realise that it was never really about finishing in 24 hours. Our goal was to make £2,500 for Friends of PICU (read the story here) by climbing some mountains. In the process we actually raised over £3,000, got the entire group up the highest mountain and a majority up the other two, strengthened twelve friendships each and just generally had an amazing time. I feel extremely lucky to have experienced some of my favourite places with some of my favourite people and seen faces light up at the landscapes I love. Until next time…

Endnote – our group chat name has been changed to “K2 2022”, so watch this space 😉

A massive thank you to the mountain team, Charley, Dave, Matt, Lee, Mia, Tom, Chris, Dan, Siobhan, Mark and Bertie…

The hero designated driver, Riyad…

The we’ll-do-it-next-timers, Lottie and Theresa…

And everyone who supported us by donating to our worthy cause.

Snowdonia, Feb ’19: Llangollen, Tryfan and the Glyders

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Sat 2nd Feb – Llangollen56664564_2300276663626783_9008059420726263808_n

I woke in the snow-coated Shropshire Hills and slipped out of the van in time to catch a beautiful sunrise over Shrewsbury. We got to Go Outdoors for when it opened, spent way more money than intended and enjoyed a sunny drive across the Welsh border into Llangollen, where we met our friend Mike.

Llangollen didn’t look anything special as we approached it, but it grew on me after a walk around and a stop in a quirky little coffee shop. My favourite part was the [over-photographed] river Dee seen from Llangollen Bridge; the channel is wide and fast-flowing, and it took half a short conversation with Mike for me to add white water kayaking to my “priorities” list.

Then we went to Mike’s cottage, which is a country mile from phone signal and nestled deep in an ancient woodland whose silence is broken only by the rushing of the stream that runs past the front door. It’s even more idyllic than it sounds. We walked around the wood, which seemed suspended in time with its frost-covered moss, fern, hazel and oak, and breathed in the crisp air of the Llangollen Valley.

It was the first day of the Six Nations, so we reluctantly left Mike’s and not-so-reluctantly went to a Betwys-y-Coed pub in time to see England destroy Ireland. We practically reached across the Irish Sea and capsized the whole country. As a natural consequence I got drunk and friendly (Bertie drove), and by the time I was kicked out I’d befriended (to Bert’s eye-rolling exasperation/bemusement, and to the point of exchanging numbers) a pair of West Midlanders and a group of Bristolians.

Sun 3rd Feb – Tryfan, Glyder Fach, Glyder Fawr

I woke a little “dehydrated” in a car park by Llyn Ogwen. We set off bright and early, all kitted up and super keen to summit Tryfan before seeing the Mordor-like rocks at Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach.

It was suspiciously clear and dry. We headed east towards Tryfan, and it was obvious from the beginning that the “footpath” was actually more of a “foot, hand, knee and elbow-path”. We hauled our cumbersome selves up the rocks, laden with rucksacks, layers, ice axes (thanks Mike) and cheap crampons.

The path was next to impossible to follow, so as the snow thickened we followed the crampon tracks in roughly the right direction (up). The scrambling got more extreme – we had to de-bag and take it in turns, pulling off some technical-ish climbing moves as we jammed and hauled ourselves up the rock. As the more confident (not necessarily competent) climber I ended up carrying two backpacks, and I pretty much forced Bertie onwards (upwards) when he threatened to turn around; he knew I’d have carried on anyway.

We finally got to Adam and Eve, the two rocks that stand at the summit. It was windy, foggy and sub-freezing by this point, and we indulged in a (butterless, stale, sad) jam sandwich before half scrambling, half sliding down the south side of the mountain towards the Glyders.

We argued about which way to go and ended up tramping grumpily down, along and up a snowy, wet valley. There were hikers dotted about for a while, then – as we got higher – there weren’t hikers. We followed the curving ridge up to the right as visibility worsened, until the gradient (eventually) became slightly less steep. Which was still quite steep.

As the ground levelled out a little more we knew we were on the right track – the Glyder ridge. That felt like possibly the longest stretch of my life, save for the ultramarathon and maybe Lochnagar. My trousers and boots were soaked through but luckily my top half only reached “damp” status thanks to my lovely [men’s] Mammut Kento waterproof.

This ridge took more mental strength than physical. It was a very lonely place; the wind whipped every inch of bare skin and made it impossible to talk, and all I could see for a long, long time was thick cloud, jagged rock and my own eyelashes as I squinted against the cold, hard sleet. I remember thinking about how people sometimes say “I don’t know how you can do things like that” [eg. scrambling/hiking for miles in horrible mountain conditions]. To answer – I throw myself into various silly/uncomfortable/dangerous situations, which is easy to do, then realise that my only choice is to push through and finish the job or curl up in a ball and die there. It’s literally that simple. I also remember thinking “why am I like this”, “do I even like doing this”, “is there something wrong with me”… etc.

Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach were ominously, toweringly impressive as they loomed jaggedly out of the fog – I could have been in Mordor. Usually I’d get super excited about the cool rock formations, but I was busy thinking of pubs and warm fires; I’d love to go back in better weather.

Eventually we “completed” the ridge and headed down. Even with crampons on I managed to end up off my feet and accelerating down the mega steep, icy slope – imagine a seal on a waterslide – before somehow executing an ice axe arrest and coming to an undignified stop.

The next problem was the unpredictable terrain. One step would be on solid ice, the next into ankle-deep mud concealed by knee-deep snow. Wet, grumpy and tired (but secretly kind of exhilarated), we were relieved to see the curved sides and rugged terrain of the beautiful Ogwen valley emerge from under the cloud, and we lumbered eagerly down towards the still, black waters of Llyn Idwal.

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The snow cleared, crampons came off and we were suddenly on the clear, slabby path along the east bank of Llyn Idwal. Wellie-wearing, handbag-clutching humans appeared, and the thought of turning round and heading back up the ridge crossed my mind. But I didn’t, and we made it back to the van after a long, squelchy plod. Most of the gear we took stayed at least damp for the rest of the trip, and it took a long time to thaw our saturated bodies. I still don’t think I’ve dried properly.

Anyone who knows me knows what happened next. Ty Gwyn just outside Betws-y-Coed is a lovely firelit, wood-beamed, wonky-floored pub. I was drunk as soon as I breathed in the air.

Two Wet Climbers

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Great days usually have three things in common: a remote location, a risk of death and a pub finish. Exhibit A – last Saturday…55576787_766649270376210_9170423551180668928_n

We got to West Lulworth earlyish and lugged our gear to Stair Hole, a small cove just round the corner from the more well-known Lulworth Cove. It’s a stunning place, with a secluded beach surrounded by zebra cliffs and could-be-caribbean turquoise water.

We dumped bags on the stony beach and waded across the knee-high water to the big lump of very climbable-looking rock. We scrambled up to the top like kids in a playground, searching unsuccessfully for a route before setting up an anchor and making one up.

Bored of messing around, we scrambled back to sea level. I went an awkward way and had to backtrack, but not before watching a handful of melon-sized rocks tumble past where I’d been standing just a few moments before. A sobering reality check.

We kitted up and committed to The Maypole, a circular trad traverse which should have been a doable HVS 5b. I enjoyed leading the second, third and fourth pitches; the gradient was mostly okay, there were some decent holds and it was super grippy, although it was weird rock – sharp and “horny”, with very few cracks for jamming or placing gear.

The route can be done as a deep water solo, which I would love on a warmer, sunnier day as it would mean less faffing and more climbing. I enjoyed traversing but I was aware of the need to place loads of gear so we wouldn’t swing too much if we fell. I’m glad we didn’t fall as I didn’t place much.

At belay point five (after a quick backtrack to retrieve a stuck nut) we looked at the next section and commented on how straightforward it looked. As if I’d never learnt that lesson before. I lowered down towards the water from the bolted belay, suddenly realising how much the rock leaned over me and how few foot placements there were.

There were two potential ways to get through the cave: up the only crack in the rock or practically touching the water along the coming-out-at-you slab. I tried both and learnt a formula: awkward belay angle + lack of placement + pumped forearms – elevation above water = wet climber. I could feel my partner laughing at me as I flapped about, searching for purchase on the rock and whinging about wet socks.

Then it was his turn, which was pretty much a carbon copy of mine. Being the safer climber and all-round better person, he decided it was his job to get us out. He employed the unconventional method of lassoing a horn of rock past the nasty coming-out-at-you slab, which – when I suggested tying a nut to the sling for a bit of weight (not just a pretty face) – actually worked.

By this time he was out of sight round the corner, so I just responded to his muffled grunts of “slack” and “take”. Eventually he decided that the only way back involved swimming, so I fed him the rope and hoped his drowning noises were for dramatic effect. Fortunately he made it to the beach, and I later found out that he was nearly pulled down by the weight of his jacket and harness.56177033_395067664380598_8633818574965702656_n

Knowing you’re going to get wet and cold when you really don’t want to is horrible. I climbed down as much as I could, struggling to remove the nuts, and resigned myself to the water after fumbling around trying to put my phone in my helmet so it could float safely back to shore. Which didn’t work, as I got tired holding onto the rock and dropped (luckily) my helmet.

Going in was terrible. I was desperate to not ruin my phone and lose all my pictures, so I’d stuffed it as high up in the front of my top as I could manage. I tried staying on my back and failed – I probably looked like I was drowning. The weight of my down jacket and a harness full of metal really dragged me down, and the “swim” back was unpleasant – although I managed to collect my floating helmet.

Back on the shore my partner was shaking and I was distraught at the fact we’d left a load of gear in the wall. Being poor and stingy, I insisted on swimming back to get it; again, mega unpleasant, but well worth it for the sake of a handful of nuts, slings and draws. Meanwhile, onlookers enjoyed the show – not one person seemed concerned!

Wet, cold, hungry and in dire need of hydration (by tea and cider), we shivered back to the van. But it could have been worse – we could have lost a lot of stuff, or died. Just like all other great days, this one finished happily ever after… in the pub.

I can’t wait to climb again.

Scotland, Day 4: The Cairngorms – Lochnagar

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Lord Byron eulogised this mountain in 1807:

England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved o’er the  mountains afar:

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.

In contrast, Queen Victoria wrote of Lochnagar in September 1848:

“But alas! Nothing whatever to be seen; and it was cold, and wet, and cheerless. At about twenty minutes after two we set off on our way downwards, the wind blowing a hurricane, and the mist being like rain, and everything quite dark with it”.

After experiencing Lochnagar on a bleak day in December, I agree with the poet’s “wild”, “steep” and “dark” but otherwise I’m with Queen Vic. We woke bright and early in the Spittal of Glenmuick and met our friend Mike at the Lochnagar car park before sunrise. We set off on the 10ish-mile hike in a mix of fog, drizzle and gloom, disappointed with the weather but glad for the company.

The first section took us across a flat, heather-covered plain, with Loch Muick away to the south and a dark line of trees to the north. We couldn’t see much through the fog, but I knew that Loch Muick was cradled on three sides by steep ridges; I expect it’s stunning on a clear day. Lochnagar is within a few miles of the Balmoral estate, and I could just imagine the Queen (maybe a few years ago) tearing round the track in a Landrover, or a shotgun-wielding Philip bumbling after some grouse.

It was an easygoing route  for about three miles, along a wide, stony track up a gradual incline. We branched off left about a mile east of Meikle Pap, where the track turned into a slabbed stone path. I got overexcited at catching a glimpse of a few startled red grouse, then we hit the snow and the hike got a bit more complicated.

Just as the path started getting scrambley, patches of snow appeared. Snow does a great job of concealing paths, especially when the landscape is strewn with rocks, covered in wild, tufty vegetation and bereft of other summit-seeking humans. We followed it as best we could but did a lot of guessing, aiming in the direction of “up” and “west-ish”.

The vegetation disappeared, and after scrambling up a formless sea of steep, slippery rocks, keeping close to avoid losing each other, we hit real trouble – just as I got excited at a flock of winter-white ptarmigans. Mulling over why on earth anything would choose to live up there, we struggled through an annoying mix of soft, calf-deep snow and hard, unyielding ice. As we reached a kind of plateau, the rocks grew sparse, the climb became less steep, and the already hurricane-like conditions worsened.

Lochnagar stands at a lofty 1,156m above sea level and curves around a beautiful northern corrie (I know it’s pretty thanks to Google images). The path follows the ridge along the top edge of the corrie, so the exposure is huge and complacency could result in a massive fall. This was problematic as by this time visibility was non-existent, we were ill-equipped (no crampons or axes – terrible foresight) and we didn’t know exactly where the summit was. Or where we were.

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White-out

As we pushed on, I truly understood the term “white-out” for the first time. The only way to distinguish “up” and “down” was by looking at the other two and seeing where their feet were in relation to their heads. Ice, snow, cloud and sky all merged into one disorienting, blinding, infinite nothingness, like in a dream in a film, until little dark specks appeared and I tried to blink them away. Communication was limited to shouting in each others’ ears, and any exposed inch of skin was beaten raw by the strong, bitterly icy winds.

Just when it couldn’t get any worse, it did. We reached a false summit and the ground became sheet ice. Literally like an ice rink, only harder and less flat. I’m sure we went round in circles for a bit, slipping over constantly, resorting to bum-shuffling and actually laughing at our own ridiculousness while remaining acutely aware of our proximity to the deadly edge of the ridge. Still determined to reach the summit, we paused for a painfully cold moment to check the map and decided simply to follow the compass north to where we thought it was.

This decisiveness saved the day, and as the towering pile of rocks loomed through the whiteness I almost collapsed with relief – I’ve never been so delighted to reach a trigpoint. I slipped onto my trusty old compass and snapped it, fortunately without stabbing myself, but it had done what it needed to do. We fumbled about for a quick photo, then practically flew back down the mountain, eyebrows, eyelashes and beards (even mine) heavy with ice.

I would have liked to make it a circular route and gone back along the north side of Loch Muick, but given the conditions we decided the way we came was the quickest and most certain way to the pub, and it’d look the same anyway. The fog had cleared slightly once we were back on the wide, stony track, revealing a rugged, heathery landscape. From there, the walk back was made a drag by our cold, wet-through clothes and desperation for a drink, but we reached the car park eventually. Lochnagar is definitely one to come back to on a better day, but I was glad for the adventure we had.

Semi-thawed, we drove to find a pub before heading to Perth for the night. We ended up collapsing on the sofas in the Deeside Inn at Ballater. It couldn’t have stood in starker contrast to the bleakness of a few hours earlier; the lounge was a huge room with deep red walls, thick curtains and dark wood beams, lit softly and warmed by a roaring fire. It had tartan sofas with pheasant-patterned cushions, a big Christmas tree, books, boardgames, a piano, complimentary crisps and (most importantly) cider. I think my life peaked at that moment – in there, the world was perfect.

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