Category: climbing

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.

Scotland, Feb ’23: Climbing Aladdin’s Couloir

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Friday 3 February

Waking up amongst the great, wild hills of the western Cairngorms never gets any less special, particularly with the view we had over the vast, dark forests of Rothiemurcus and Glenmore. Our plan for the day was to park at the nearby Cairn Gorm ski centre, hike into Coire an t-Sneachda and climb Aladdins Couloir, a Grade I winter route. We’d ticked off our first winter climb at Sneachda last year (Jacobs Ladder) and had really enjoyed it, so we were keen to develop our experience on snow and ice.

Walk in to Coire an t-Sneachda

We packed our bags, drove a couple of minutes up the hill and set off from the ski centre car park. I was slightly ratty at the fact it was approaching 10am as I’d have liked to start earlier, partly because I was worried about getting stuck behind another group on Aladdins Couloir (as we had on Jacobs Ladder) and partly because I’d quietly considered attempting to climb two routes in the corrie that day, or “nip up” a nearby mountain (Braeriach, 1296m) “on our way back” to the van. It wasn’t long before Ryan expressed concern that he might develop a blister, but – perhaps a little sensitive to my delay-induced mild irritability – he refused my offer of compeed. Unfortunately that is not the end of the story.

The hike into Coire an t-Sneachda is, as approaches to winter climbing routes go, short and easy, being only a couple of straight-ish miles. We followed the clear path south to the corrie, which climbed gradually up a sweeping, heathery valley. Behind us, the Cairngorm plateau dropped away to reveal the misty swathes of forest, loch and valley around Aviemore, backed by faint rolling hills that were now shrouded in cloud. We rounded a corner and Sneachda appeared ahead, a dead-end, three-sided bowl, its dark, jagged face streaked with the bright white seams of icy gullies and irregular snow patches.

From a distance we eyed up Aladdins Couloir, which follows a wide, kinked gully wrapped around the left side of Aladdin’s Buttress, a distinctive, triangular mass of rock. Along with Jacobs Ladder it’s one of the most obvious lines up the corrie face, and probably the most central. The path ended and we scrambled across a large, awkward boulderfield at the base of the wall, stopped on the last bit of flat ground and prepared to climb. This involved pulling on harnesses, crampons and helmets, selecting an arsenal of climbing nuts and slings to use as rock protection, attaching ourselves together by a short length of rope, extracting our ice axes and – on Ryan’s part – finally affixing a blister plaster.

Aladdin’s Couloir

We’d passed several groups on the hike in, so I wasn’t surprised that we found ourselves behind four other people heading up this popular, low grade route. From the boulderfield, the approach to the gully is a snow slope which, although steep and unprotected, was firm and reliable underfoot, and we caught up with the group quite quickly. Three of them had stopped on reaching the first proper belay position, which was on the left wall at the base of the gully about 100 metres up the snow slope. With that belay spot unavailable, we checked they were happy for us to climb past and continued on, moving across the wide gully to the right wall to avoid sending any loose rocks or ice chunks down onto them.

Two factors contributed to our spontaneous decision to solo the route: firstly there were no obvious placements in the rock to set up a belay, and secondly (and more importantly) we immediately felt so comfortable moving on the firm snow that we simply didn’t feel it necessary to use the rope we’d brought. The gully looks intimidating face-on, but it’s actually far from sheer – much more of a steep slide than a vertical wall, and the gradient was consistent. Decision made, we traversed from the right wall into the middle, carefully climbed over the other group’s rope (which was draped across the width of the gully), passed the fourth climber and headed upwards.

I settled into a steady rhythm of foot-foot-hand-hand, kicking the front points of each crampon into the ground, burying the tip of my single axe with a flick of my right wrist, planting my left fist for stability and repeating. If I wasn’t happy with a foot or axe placement I’d pause and reposition, although it felt so solid that this was probably unnecessary – two constant points of contact would have been plenty. Although it was steep – an unarrested fall would have sent me and perhaps Ryan, who was below me, careening down towards the rocks below – the movement felt natural and the position stable, so we were quite happy working our way up the firm but yielding snow, occasionally resting by angling our knees into the slope and leaning in.

When we were halfway up, the gully veered right and steepened slightly. We passed what looked like a small, frozen waterfall and continued all the way up to the lip at the top, which we pulled over at 12:15, 40 minutes after setting off up the snow slope. On our right the towering, rocky spire of Aladdin’s Seat teetered over the sheer wall of Aladdin’s Buttress, as if threatening to fall all the way down into the corrie, and two friendly climbers rested below it.

Hike back

On emerging from the gully, the Cairngorm plateau appeared in its usual character: a barren, wide, foggy wilderness strewn with small, grey boulders and a strange, soil-like covering of fine, reddish stones. I pulled off my crampons and put away my unused climbing gear, feeling a little victorious. However, although we were thrilled with the Couloir, Ryan’s heel blisters had become quite established during the climb, which dampened both our moods as we moved through the Mars-like landscape – Ryan’s because he was in pain, and mine because my secret scheme (to climb Braeriach or another route in the corrie) had been thwarted.

Fortunately the dramatic, dark face of Sneachda dropped away steeply to our right and made for easy navigation – we followed the edge for a mile or so up a gentle gradient to Cairn Lochan (1215m) , then around  and down the long, sweeping ridge that forms the corrie’s west side. Interestingly Ryan and I had picked different battles: mine, without crampons, was ice, and his, with crampons, was rock. I’m still not sure who was right – there was a lot more rock, but the icy patches were so slippery that at one point I held my arms out and the strong southwesterly  wind caught me like a sail, sending me sliding slowly backwards. I had a couple of minor slips coming down the ridge, one necessitating a fairly casual ice axe arrest, and I quietly wondered if I should have left the crampons on, although with hindsight I still think they would have been more hassle on rock than my boots were on ice – and I didn’t want to blunt them.

The combination of blisters, fog, wind and frustrating terrain rendered the four miles back from Aladdin’s Couloir bleak and relatively miserable, save for Ryan’s sighting of a couple of ptarmigans. Nevertheless we made it down from the plateau in fairly good time and returned to the van along the easy Ben Macdui path. Unfortunately I don’t have many photos of the way back because I managed to lock myself out of my phone for an hour, having left it in a damp pocket.

Loch Morlich

From Cairngorm ski centre we drove for 20 minutes into Aviemore for a few supplies, then back to Loch Morlich for a scenic late lunch. The loch is about a kilometre square, conveniently located on the Glenmore road and nestled between the immense, merging forests of Glenmore and Rothiemurcus. We pulled off the road and parked on the north bank, where a few camera-wielding birdwatchers were keenly eyeing something through large telescopes. The little car park afforded lovely views across the water and above the trees to the edge of the Cairngorm plateau, and our moods were lifted further at the prospect of some hot soup and bread.

I scrambled into the back of the van, assembled the dubious kitchen setup, heated some tinned Scotch broth for Ryan and made myself a much-anticipated peanut butter sandwich. Hunger and associated irritability dissipated, and I grabbed my binoculars and approached the water in search of whatever the birdwatchers had spotted. I returned shortly with a humble report on a few lethargic mallard ducks.

Evening

The blister-gate scandal meant that further physical activity was off the cards for the rest of the afternoon, so after a brief excursion back to Aviemore to post a house key to Ryan’s brother – who, in the process of feeding Ryan’s fish, had locked his key inside the house – we drove back up to our favourite overnight spot below the ski centre and did some planning. I cooked gnocchi in a tomato sauce with miscellaneous leftovers for dinner and we spent the evening in the usual way, scattering the van with an assortment of maps and books and checking the weather forecast at far-too-regular intervals. Contentment manifest.

Lake District, June 2022: 9 – Needle Ridge, Great Gable, Kirk Fell

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Sunday 19 June

We packed up, had one last breakfast with mum, dad and Angus and left the campsite at 8.30am. Saying goodbye to them always puts a little lump in my throat because I’m secretly a bit soft, particularly when we’d just spent such an amazing week together, so we hastened to plunge ourselves into the mountains for one last day of adventure. They were to drive home that day but we’d booked the following day off work, so the plan was to return to Napes Needle – the iconic rock pinnacle on Great Gable where we’d climbed a couple of days previously – this time to climb the classic trad route “Needle Ridge”, summit the mountain, hike across to tick off its neighbour Kirk Fell, then drive home that evening.

Hike up Great Gable (899m)

We drove deep into the dramatic Wasdale valley one last time and parked again at Wasdale Head. Great Gable loomed ahead in all its distinctive pyramidal glory, its dark, jagged upper reaches calling to us with the siren song unique to high and distant horizons. Loaded with rucksacks full of metal and rope, we hiked the easy, flat mile to its base, then started up its steep southwestern face.

Having already hiked up to Napes Needle, we were prepared for what was coming: a long, steady march up a steep grassy path to gain 450m of elevation in just one kilometre. Green fells surrounded us like towering, frozen, rolling waves, their sweeping, curved edges pitted with rocks, scrub and streams that cut across the surface like long scars. Kirk Fell loomed to the left beyond an impassably steep ravine of grass and scree, which actualised the scale of our undertaking – in terms of vertical elevation gain/loss our first 450m would be followed by a five pitch rock climb for another 350m to the summit of Great Gable, then a descent of 300m to a col between the mountains, then a climb of another 200m to summit Kirk Fell, then a loss of 700m to return to Wasdale. That’s a lot of up and down.

We reached the scree slopes two thirds of the way up the mountain after an hour’s walk, keeping a keen eye out for the practically non-existent path towards Napes Needle. We were eager to take a less treacherous route than we had done previously but I’m not sure if we actually found it. Paths can’t easily be spotted where they run across loose, steep, uneven rocks, changeable terrain where boots leave no mark, so our scrabble along the mountainside was no less perilous and awkward than before. Thankfully we were now vaguely familiar with the triangular pinnacles and seemingly endless grey rock faces of Great Gable’s southern face, so finding Napes Needle was more straightforward than last time and we breathed a sigh of relief as its distinctive form came into view.

Needle Ridge

We scrambled up to the base of the Needle, geared up and as is typical of fickle mountain weather, it started raining – that light but cold and deceptively wet kind of rain. It had been cloudy and dry until then, and we willed it to stop – climbing slippery rock is unpleasant at best. Deciding to push on before it got too wet, Ryan led the first pitch at his own request, which was probably the trickiest due to its polished, slabby nature and seeping rock. Thankfully the rain stopped as he clung to the marginally less slippery left hand side of the slab, struggling a little to find a good gear placement, then pulled through the crux to both our relief. While belaying I chatted to another couple of climbers who had turned up, then I followed up the first pitch, which was easy but admittedly a fairly bold lead due to the polished, damp surface.

The climb was graded a comfortable VDiff so we didn’t bother changing into climbing shoes – our comfy, grippy approach shoes were fine. Rather than belaying at the points shown in the climbing guide, we lengthened the pitches for the sake of speed and ease, choosing the ledges and flat sections (of which there were plenty) that seemed most sensible to us. This made the climbing more natural and allowed us to get way ahead of the other two climbers, reducing the risk of sending rocks tumbling towards them and ensuring we didn’t hold them up. I led the second pitch, an enjoyable venture up a steep crack followed by a scramble over blocky rock, and we continued in this way, alternating leads all the way up the ridge.

We absolutely love classic climbing routes due to their long, adventurous, committing nature, inspiring history, exciting exposure and exclusive views only attainable by those who love the mountains enough to truly immerse themselves. Wasdale sprawled below us, the far reaches of glassy Wast Water almost touching the horizon, and the rugged, hulking Scafell Pike range sat across the steep, deep valley of Lingmell Beck beyond the crinkly, green shoulders of Lingmell. We were so immersed in the landscape that we barely noticed the pitches going by, and before we knew it we were at what is described in the book as pitch 5, a 40m scramble along the final part of the ridge. This last section didn’t really involve any climbing so we de-harnessed, flagged the rope and effectively free soloed along a long, narrow stretch of rock and grass, moving quickly along the undulating ridgeline. It was easy but exposed, with a serious drop off either side, and lots of fun.

We pulled up onto Great Gable, whose summit is a sea of loose boulders, and walked a short way to the top, marked by a cairn and a plaque commemorating local mountaineers lost in the First World War. We sat and stared at the panoramic view of rolling fells, chatted to some hikers, then made our way down the mountain’s east side. The path was steep, awkward and almost indistinguishable among the litany of unhelpful rocks, and our knees were relieved when we reached the relatively flat col between Great Gable and Kirk Fell. We stopped here to talk to a 70+ year old solo hiker with an astoundingly long, difficult-sounding itinerary, passed the nearly-empty Beckhead Tarn, and started up the side of Kirk Fell.

Kirk Fell (802m)

It was a grassy, minimally rocky ascent up an easy but steep path to the top of Kirk Fell, a shapely mountain with smooth, regular slopes in comparison with its jagged neighbour. We made it up in about 30 minutes and stopped at the plateau on top to munch some Grasmere gingerbread, chat to a friendly northerner assessing a small mountain leader group and admire the breathtaking rolling landscape from our last summit of the trip. We looked down on the tiny buildings and patchwork fields of Wasdale Head directly below and reluctantly gathered ourselves for the final descent.

The path led us straight down the south face of the mountain in one sustained line and was long, very steep and at times quite awkward for our well-worked legs. It involved a combination of grassy “steps” and loose rocks, which required careful route-picking to avoid starting mini rockfalls, and was only a mile long but with over 700m elevation loss. Wasdale Head seemed not to get any bigger until the gradient eased slightly and the cricket-to-football-sized boulders were replaced by a sea of ferns split by a wide, grassy path – the home straight. We went through a gate at the bottom, trees rose up around us and suddenly we were back at the Wasdale Head Inn, where the babbling of an idyllic, picture-postcard stream signified the end of our time in the high fells.

We returned to the car feeling quite wistful and started for home about 4pm. It was a lovely drive out of the Lakes across the undulating eastern moors, followed by a brief stop at Broughton-in-Furness (won’t rush back) for fuel and a commiseratory McDonalds to mark the end of a wonderful trip. The drive home was mercifully uneventful once Scabbers (the beaten up old Yaris) stopped making dubious squealing noises, and we made it back in just over 7 hours.

A relatively big mountain day was the most fitting way to conclude a lovely holiday, which is something I struggle to do in words. We had such a good time exploring the Lake District with my family and managed to squeeze in a great mix of activities across the whole National Park, although as always we could have stayed there for a good deal longer – probably in perpetuity. Doubtless it won’t be too long before we’re back.

Lake District, June 2022 – 9/10 overall. Minus one for the fact we had to leave so soon.

Lake District, June 2022: 6 – Climbing Napes Needle

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Thursday 16 June

Our appetite for climbing had been whetted by the previous day’s excursion in the Eskdale Valley and the weather looked dry, so after breakfast and red squirrel watching at the campsite Ryan and I left the others for an attempt at a particularly special rock climbing route. Mum, dad and Angus would spend the day catching the train from Dalegarth, the cute station we’d walked to a couple of evenings before, to explore Ravenglass on the coast. Angus thought about coming with us but decided that he was happy to have hiked up Helvellyn and climbed already at Hare Crags, so he decided to commit some time to steam trains, historical places and other Angus-like stuff.

Napes Needle

Napes Needle is one of the UK’s most iconic climbing destinations. Set halfway up the south face of Great Gable at the end of dramatic Wasdale valley, the popular starting point for Scafell Pike, it is a distinctive, upright pinnacle of igneous rock about 18m high at an elevation of 680m. Ryan’s dad had been to see it in his mountaineering days and it was detailed in all of his old climbing books, so we felt obliged to go and stand on top of it – for me, classic routes of such rich historical calibre have a special kind of allure.

We bought lunch from a tiny shop in Eskdale village and drove along little roads to Wasdale. As we reached the banks of the wild, black Wast Water, the deepest of England’s lakes, we seemed to shrink into a landscape that grew upwards all around us all the way to Wasdale Head, the dead-end hamlet nestled in the heart of the long, three-sided valley. Each mountain merged into the next in a vast mass of green and grey, and I felt that spine-tingling anticipation that I only ever seem to encounter in wild, whispering places that seem as old as time.

Approach

The weather was cloudy but clear, and Great Gable – along with its nearly-as-gargantuan sister Kirk Fell – blocked the head of the valley like a sleeping guard dog. Named for its recognisable pyramidal outline when seen from Wasdale, its southern aspect has a distinctly serious look about it: loose, grey scree sweeps down into the valley, dominating over scrubby grass that grows patchily wherever it can take hold, for about three quarters of the way up its steep face until turning to huge, vertical blocks of grey rock that form cracked, triangular ridges all the way to the 899m summit. Although the walk-in is barely two miles as the crow flies, it involves hiking up about 650m of steep elevation gain on awkward terrain, as we would soon discover.

The first mile took us through a farm and along Lingmell Beck, a suspiciously flat, pleasant walk between the hulking sides of Lingmell and Wasdale Fell. Ryan decided that he felt unwell after crossing a little bridge just before the ascent began, so we sat down and he ate a pasty while I masked my concern that he might get ill on the mountain. He perked up a little and we began the climb up to the climb. It was an unforgivingly steep and direct route up a rocky, grassy path, and I kept an eye on Ryan while making a concerted effort not to go too far ahead. Luckily he seemed to recover just as the going got really tough, when we calculated (using an OS map) that it was time to turn off the path and seek the Needle high up on a steep scree slope spanning the face of the mountain.

There was no obvious path that branched off, so we found ourselves scrabbling sideways across tight clumps of grass and loose, slippery scree on the most-path like course, which wasn’t path-like at all. This continued for what felt like an age, and was really quite treacherous – most of the scree chunks qualified as small boulders, which we desperately didn’t want to send toppling down the side of the mountain, and neither did we want to go that way. As well as unstable the ground was very uneven, with boulders of all shapes, sizes and jaunty angles jabbing into legs and doing their best to roll ankles. We also had to keep our eyes peeled to the left, as Napes Needle was marked on the map (such is its significance) along the ridge of sheer grey, samey-looking cliffs and ridges that we’d seen from the car park.

The Needle

After a couple of false identifications, a lot of staring at seemingly identical pinnacles of grey rock and even more frustration at the ongoing struggle over tricky ground, we suddenly looked straight up at the unmistakeable Napes Needle. We approached up a deep, rocky, grassy gulley and, on seeing a couple of climbers already on it, scrambled up the rocks opposite and perched on a grassy ledge overlooking the Needle and its mind-blowing backdrop.

Seeing Napes Needle in person made me appreciate why it has its own name, position on the map and place in mountaineering history. Its undeniably phallic form stands independent from the rocky ridge behind it, a proud pinnacle watching over the valley beneath Great Gable. A skyward-pointing arrowhead forms its right hand side, split neatly into large triangles and diamonds by large, geometric cracks. The wildly undulating slopes of Lingmell rose up across the other side of the valley, looming over grassy Wasdale to the right, and just behind the Needle the immense form of Scafell Pike sat neatly between the rugged shoulders of Lingmell and Great End. To our left hulked the intimidating southern face of the top of Great Gable, a vertical maze of sheer ridges, slabs and gulleys, the blocky, brown-grey rock punctuated by grass wherever it could set root. There aren’t many climbs I’d queue for, but this is one of them.

One pair of climbers was on the second of the two pitches and another pair was gearing up ready to climb, so we sat across the gulley and watched. It was mild, sunny, still and clear, perfect conditions, and we happily ate snacks and photographed the other groups. Another pair scrambled up and onto Needle Ridge, the long route we’d complete in a few days time (and a later blog post) that began in the V between the Needle and the exciting-looking ridge behind it, so they were added to my “give me your email address and I’ll send you the photos” list, which I made by calling across the gulley.

The first pair abseiled off, which was helpful to see as we’d read mixed reviews of the abseil online, and later confirmed that the in-situ gear is good. We had to wait a while for the second pair to climb but we didn’t mind – we took photos and encouraged them from across the gulley. When they started abseiling down we crossed to the base of the Needle, geared up and discussed who would lead each of the two pitches of the classic 18m HS climb “Wasdale Crack”.

The first pitch was a 13m diagonal climb up the large crack between the arrowhead and the needle to the “shoulder”, a ledge just below the bulbous tip of the needle. The second was a short 5m up the back of the tip, but is famously polished and supposedly the crux move. We decided that I should lead the longer, crackier pitch due to Ryan’s injured toe (see previous post for an explanation) and he would do the short move to the top, so I chose some nuts and cams and started up the crack.

It was a straightforward, easy crack climb and the gear was solid, but its polished surfaces worn shiny by thousands of climbing shoes added a layer of uncertainty and excitement. I reached the belay without much difficulty, clipped into the five in-situ slings thrown around an overhang under the back of the rock, added a couple of nuts for extra protection and brought Ryan up from a very comfortable anchor. He tiptoed around the bulbous, exposed end of the “needle” and after some minor reluctance, pulled himself up and over the summit. He made an anchor by draping the rope under the overhanging rock and brought me up, at which point I understood his hesitation – the holds were polished, the moves were awkward and the position was extremely exposed.

Standing on top of that pinnacle was a surreal experience. We were on a tiny island just big enough for two people to squeeze onto, surrounded by a sheer 15-20m drop on all sides. The dramatic panorama I’ve already described stretched around us, the valleys seemingly even deeper, the mountains even wilder and the horizons even further than they had been before. It was isolated, extremely exposed and somehow serene.

After a long, quiet moment of appreciation, I downclimbed to my belay point and Ryan followed my instructions, boldly downclimbing while removing the gear he’d placed. He nearly failed to dislodge a nut, later joking that he could have been “that guy that placed the big silver nut in Napes Needle”, but managed to get it back and return safely to the ledge. We clipped into the five slings, noting that at least two looked new, and took it in turns to abseil down the first pitch. Back on the ground, we packed up our stuff, vowed to come back to do Needle Ridge, and scrabbled out of the gulley and away from the Needle.

Descent

We headed east along more treacherous scree for about a kilometre, following an extremely vague path through the rocky rubble. At one point I kicked a rock (thankfully I had my stiff approach shoes on so no further toes were injured), stumbled and nearly toppled sideways down the steep slope – I caught myself just in time and when I turned around, saw that Ryan had also grabbed my rucksack. By the time we reached the main path through Lingmell we were quite bored of the awkward ground, where every step necessitated precise planning and execution, and it was nice to be back in amongst the ferns.

We walked back to the car along the base of Great Gable’s intimidating southern face, surrounded by high, unforgiving fells and pleased with the day’s adventure. Back in the idyllic agriculture sliver that is Wasdale Head, a tiny green paradise wedged between the monstrous hills, we nosed around the miniscule St Olaf’s Church, but later returned with mum, dad and Angus so I’ll save writing about it until then. It had just gone 6pm and we were due to meet the others at the Woolpack Inn in Eskdale for dinner, so we shot back to the campsite, changed and walked the short distance along the road to the pub.

The Woolpack Inn

The Woolpack is a historic inn nestled deep in the Eskdale Valley, miles from any major town, let alone phone signal, yet somehow it always seems to have a nice, quiet buzz – I’d visited years before and we’d been in for a drink the previous day. Painted white with black-framed windows, high-ceilinged and timeless, it feels very welcoming after a day in the mountains. We sat out the front in the large, grassy garden and Angus and I argued for a while about something or other until it turned too political and dad issued a telling off – at least it had taken us until Thursday. I had a lovely stonebaked veggie pizza from the simple but varied menu and the others had various forms of pizza, pie and salad, then we walked back along the quiet, bucolic road and had Ovaltine in the awning. A relaxing end to an eventful day.

Lake District, June 2022: 5 – Climbing at Hare Crags

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Wednesday 15 June

Hare Crags

The weather looked dry so Ryan, Angus and I decided to go off and do some climbing while mum and dad explored Eskdale on foot. We’d looked at the climbing guide the previous evening and set our sights on Hare Crags, a southwest facing area set high in the valley just a short drive up the road with a mix of low grade routes. Our first choice was Brantrake Crag as it has a greater variety of routes, but we’d read that climbing is prohibited in June due to nesting peregrine falcons.

We had breakfast, watched delightedly as a red squirrel ran along the drystone wall behind the tents, packed our bags and set off in Scabbers. We drove east for 5 minutes along the narrow road through the scenic Eskdale valley, parked in a little roadside car park and hiked towards the crag through waist-high ferns, following the vaguest of paths. It took us about 20 minutes to find the first area, a huge slab of low-angled granite set high up in the valley in a wild area dominated by bracken, boulders and hardy grass.

The Slab

The low-angled rock was fittingly called “The Slab” and contained four routes from Diff to VS 4B. Ryan and I soloed the Diff, an easy but occasionally exposed scramble up and down the top side of “The Rib”, then Ryan led a combination of the adjacent, poorly protected “Celebration” (VS 4b) and “Easy Slab” (VDiff). While seconding the route Angus somehow dropped his belay device, so while waiting at the bottom I went to look for it among the thick ferns without much hope. Thankfully I caught a glimpse of blue and picked it up. Angus abseiled down and went off to search the thicket while I toproped the climb. At the top I took pity on him and revealed the device, then abseiled down, which took just long enough for him to see the funny side. He’ll never be too old to be taught a lesson by his big sister.

We hadn’t trad climbed for a while and were happy to take the day slowly, so after warming up on the Slab we sat at the bottom and had some lunch – some of those cheap, slightly dubious hot dogs, heated in the tin and stuffed into buns. The weather was warm and sunny and the view was stunning – we were halfway up the northern side of the wide, green Eskdale valley, which was filled with broadleaf woodlands and fields divided up by drystone walls. As we sat there some fighter jets soared overhead, their deafening roar resonating between the rugged ridges of the lumpy southwestern fells on either side of the valley. We hadn’t seen another person since leaving the car, not even from a distance, and it was one of those moments in which time stood still and everything was perfect.

Lower Buttress

Lunch over, we traipsed our gear up to the next section of the crag, Lower Buttress, which involved more bushwhacking and some careful bog avoidance. I geared up and started leading “Fireball XL5”, an interesting-looking VS 4b that started up a crack and was given two stars (meaning it’s a worthwhile climb) and a pumpy symbol by our Rockfax book.

I led the first section without difficulty, but halfway up I came to an awkward bit which involved a committing move away from a pinnacle on tiny holds and little to nothing in the way of good gear. I chickened out of the move once, returning to the relative safety of the solid pinnacle, hovered there for a bit, then gave myself a strict talking to and tried again, this time pulling myself up via a different (but still very small) hold, executing a rockover and finding a good nut placement with relative ease. Relieved but annoyed that I’d fannied around with it, I continued up a high-angled slab, probably not placing quite enough gear, to the top, a grassy ledge 20m up and out of view of Ryan and Angus at the bottom. Ryan seconded, then scrambled down the walk-off and Angus toproped up. Thankfully the others (and later the UKC forum logbook) agreed that it was bold for the grade and “a good lead”.

Our climbing was limited that day – and indeed the whole trip – by the Toegate Scandal, an incident that happened a couple of weeks before the trip whereby Ryan injured his big toe. How? By kicking the toilet while flicking his boxers off his foot while attempting to undress for a shower. Life is chaotic sometimes. The result was a persistent sore toe and accompanying whinge, not ideal for climbing shoes or relatively unsympathetic belayers.

I was keen to carry on climbing but on top of Toegate, the other two were satisfied and ready for a drink at the pub, so I conceded without much persuasion and we packed up. We scrambled back down to the car through the ferns, boulders and undulations, and headed to the well-known Woolpack Inn, only two minutes back down the road towards the campsite.

Lazy evenings in Eskdale

We had a cider in the garden and headed back to the campsite about 5pm. Mum and dad cooked a nice barbecue and we all went for a lovely evening walk, this time heading up the hill behind the campsite, past a little waterfall, and through some rugged moor-like farmland along a drystone wall. We came to an orchard, walked through a farm, watched lots of lambs chase each other round a field then returned to the campsite along the little road that splits the valley in two. As usual we finished the day talking and planning over some drinks in the awning.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Steall Falls, indoor climbing at Kinlochleven

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Saturday 12 February

The weather was not on our side, so we planned some rest day activities. We left our little Fort William hotel room at 10am and drove southeast for 20 minutes to the car park for Steall waterfall and wire bridge, which we’d found in the Wild Guide. The drive took us on a winding road through high-sided, picturesque Glen Nevis, with Ben Nevis towering over our left side and the thickly forested slopes of lower, but no less wild, peaks on our right. We arrived at the small, dead-end car park and set off along the well-walked, rocky path for the waterfall.

An Steall waterfall walk

The path ran above and parallel to the Water of Nevis, which flowed fast and relentless along its rocky course. Little waterfalls fed it from all around, some flowing under wooden bridges built into the path. Our 150-200m elevation gave wonderful views over the rushing white river and the deep, dramatic glen, whose high, undulating sides were a colourful patchwork of yellow grass, green pines, lilac-pink birches and orange heather under a thick grey sky, which absorbed the snowy upper reaches of the steep slopes and made the valley feel very self-contained. The path ran for a mile through leafless trees connected by lush green mosses, then curved with the river and dropped down to just above river level, where the valley floor widened slightly into a grassy plain set in a long, steep-sided basin.

We turned a corner and An Steall waterfall, the third highest in Scotland, burst from the huge, craggy valley side ahead of us, a 30 foot high, furious deluge of charging white horses. A few minor falls sat thinly either side of it like veins, but An Steall was the queen of the valley, the magnificent, roaring centrepiece. She fed the Water of Nevis with an endless torrent, giving it the energy to push its way over the rocks and around the twists of Glen Nevis.

Steall wire bridge

Steall wire bridge was on our right just before the waterfall, suspended 10 feet over the river. We waited for a couple of others to cross, then approached the pebble river bank. The bridge consists of three thick steel cables about 20 feet long, two for hands and one for feet, held across the water by a sturdy metal frame at each end. We took turns to walk out over the bridge and back, placing our feet very carefully on the wobbly metal tightrope. It was more nerve-wracking than I expected as the wires move quite a lot and there is nothing below other than a substantial fall, the rushing white river and a lot of cold, hard, wet, uncomfortable-looking rocks, but that meant it was also a lot more fun than I expected.

More people turned up so we left the bridge and retraced our steps back to the van, through that almost lower Himalayan valley. We left Glen Nevis and went back to Fort William for fuel and snacks. At the petrol station the clouds unleashed a sudden deluge of rain, possibly the most savage I’ve ever seen, and we had to wait a few moments for it to ease as it was heavy enough to obliterate all visibility. Once we could see again (only just), we decided to head towards Glencoe via Kinlochleven to climb at Ice Factor, the National Ice Climbing centre. The ice wall was fully booked but we were quite happy to squeeze some indoor rock climbing into the trip and avoid the weather.

Ice Factor, Kinlochleven

The journey south along the bank of Loch Linnhe, then east along Loch Leven, took about 40 minutes, and although the clag obscured the mountains it was nice to get a good view of the lochs. Ice Factor is oddly situated in the quirky, remote village of Kinlochleven, nestled cosily at the head of Loch Leven and closely surrounded by mountains, in a high-ceilinged, old stone aluminium works building. It’s a buzzing, modern, warm place with an indoor ice wall, climbing and bouldering wall, outdoorsey shop, cosy café and soft play area.

The climbing area wasn’t huge but it was plenty big enough, and we led (up to 6b, notably on which I slipped off above a bolt and took a pleasant little fall), toproped and autobelayed some interesting routes. The natural, rock type feature walls were particularly fun as they enabled us to practise crack climbing, which is difficult to replicate with bolt-on holds. We stayed a good couple of hours, had a coffee in the café, snuck into the small bouldering room and left before we lingered long enough in the shop to buy something unnecessary.

Glencoe

We drove west along the south bank of Loch Leven and into Glencoe, my favourite place. Sandwiched between the distinctive, imposing Three Sisters to the south and the hulking ridge of Aonach Eagach to the north, the Pass of Glencoe snakes through the dramatic valley next to the rocky River Coe. Yellowish grass grows up the lower swathes of the mountains either side but the higher reaches deny it access, their harsh, dark faces being too steep and inhospitable for anything but bare rock and snow. As usual in that vast, wild place, I felt incredibly small.

We continued east, took a turn onto the small road to Glen Etive and parked in a quiet pull-in by a wooded stream below the impossibly triangular east face of Buachaille Etive Mor, whose four colossal summits we planned to take on the following day. Ryan cooked vegan burgers for tea (delicious) and we did some planning then had an early night, buzzing for the hike.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Ice climbing at Coire an t-Sneachda – Jacobs Ladder route

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Monday 7 February

True to form, I was up at the crack of dawn while Ryan remained dead to the world. I went for a little walk down the valley to enjoy the extraordinary solitude of an early Scottish morning, whose sky glowed pink to lilac to clear, pale blue over the snow-capped peaks and dark forests nestled below. I found some strange animal tracks in the snow, possibly a fox and hare:

Back at the van I woke Ryan, made breakfast, packed rucksacks for winter climbing and drove up the hill to the Cairn Gorm ski centre car park where we’d been the previous day. Our plan was to hike up to Coire an t-Sneachda corrie, a huge bowl carved out of the Cairngorm plateau by a glacier, and try a low grade ice climbing route – our first – up one of the three steep, rocky, icy walls that form the sides of the bowl. We thought about doing the well-known Fiacaill Ridge scramble, but a high crosswind was forecast so we decided against it.

Hiking up

We set off at 10am and headed south along the clear, slabby path from the car park. We climbed steadily uphill towards the high plateau in front of us, and apart from the long, thickly forested Spey Valley behind, everything was vast, glacial ridges, bowls and valleys. The corrie sits two miles up this path, which was long and steady enough for us to regret our warm winter gear and pause to de-layer.

As we approached, the corrie’s intimidating black and white walls rose higher and higher, making us feel smaller and smaller. Vast swathes of snow and rock sprawled under grey clouds which hung low over the ridges ahead, making the sky above seem unusually blue and our winter coats unusually bright. It was a truly wild, unforgiving, beautiful place.

As we approached the high back wall of the corrie the path dissolved into a boulderfield – there’s nowhere to go apart from back the same way unless you’re climbing out of the bowl. We’d eyed up the “Aladdin’s Couloir” route in our guidebook but there was a large group climbing at the base and we didn’t fancy waiting around, so we headed left towards the obvious gully of “Jacobs Ladder”, a well-known classic route (grade I, **) that we’d found on youtube before the trip. After a lot of hopping, clambering and scrabbling across the boulderfield we reached the base of the route, pulled on our crampons and made our way up a steep neve ice slope to the rocky face, a short “hike” which in itself was verging on graded ice climbing territory.

The climb

Jacobs Ladder is effectively a steep ice slide about 2-4 metres wide cut into the vertical face of the corrie. Its gentle (for a climbing route) gradient and sheltered position make it a perfect first-time ice excursion, although that also meant there were a couple of other groups doing the route. We practised a couple of self-arrests, a technique that involves sticking an ice axe into the ground to achieve a controlled stop if you start sliding down the slope, then set up a belay and Ryan led the first pitch.

Once he’d set up the second belay I followed with my single Alpine axe, a lightweight hybrid which is more angled than a straight hiking axe but less aggressive than a technical climbing tool. I followed him up, frontpointing with my crampons (firmly kicking the two front spikes into the slope and standing into the boots, like climbing up steps), hacking the axe into solid ice and pulling up on the handle, and using my free fist against the slope to balance and keep the foot-foot-hand-hand rhythm. I reached the belay, swapped to two technical axes and climbed through to lead the second pitch, placing nuts and throwing slings over horns at quite run-out intervals due to the solid, comfortable feeling of neve-topped ice beneath me. There were enough rock placements on the faces either side that there was no need to use ice screws.

I really enjoyed the feeling of climbing on ice. It was completely different to rock as my focus was on maintaining a steady, rhythmic movement and sinking the contact points into solid ground, rather than searching for abstract little holds with fingers and toes. Moving one limb at a time – foot-foot-hand-hand – just took a little getting used to, as the climb was mostly easy enough to climb like a ladder, and holding my boots at a constant-90 degree angle worked up a good calf burn. I reached the end of our 40m rope surprisingly quickly and set up a belay, but made the silly mistake of sitting on a wet rock and having to endure a cold bum while belaying Ryan up. At this middle section the ice was thin and we had to be very careful not to dislodge any loose rock onto the climbers below – Scottish winters are becoming increasingly fickle.

We had to wait (slightly agonisingly) for the group in front of us to get ahead, then continued in this way to the top, a total of five near rope-length pitches. The gear placements were quite spaced throughout the climb but the ice felt solid – in terms of technicality I’d have been quite comfortable soloing the route, but it was an excellent introduction to ice climbing and I wouldn’t want to climb ropeless with another group below us.

The descent

The wind hit us like a bus as we pulled over the lip at the top, and we realised that our earlier decision not to do Fiacaill Ridge (something else to come back for) was very sensible. We de-cramponned, stuffed our gear into rucksacks and walked north along loose, rocky ground to Fiacaill a’ Coire Chais, the ridge we’d walked down after summiting Cairn Gorm the previous day. It was an entirely different place in the wind, which roared up the steep ridge to the west and across the barren plateau with relentless ferocity. As we approached the descent I was nearly blown off my feet several times. It was funny at first but as it battered us down the uneven slope I got quite bored of it – the rocky terrain meant that every step necessitated good timing and a lot of concentration. Having appreciated almost none of the incredible scenery around us, I was positively cross by the time we reached the bottom of the ridge, having been blown off my feet three times. I was aggrieved that Ryan, at one and a half times my bodyweight, was comparatively stable.

Back safe & sound

After what felt like several calendar weeks we reached the deep snow drift at the bottom, got frustrated at the difficulty of trawling through that, and joined the buggy track back to the car park. Our spirits returned very quickly out of the wind, and we were back in the van by about 5pm. We returned to our favourite car park just down the road for the third and final time, cooked a mighty fine Thai green curry and spent the evening in our usual way, eating, drinking and scheming.

March 2022: Snowdonia Group Trip – Idwal Slabs, Tryfan, Moel Siabod & Coed y Brenin

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Friday 25 March

We were raring to go for a social weekend in North Wales. My old friends Dave and Charley had planned a group trip up with the intention of climbing Tryfan and celebrating Dave’s birthday way back in 2020, which – like most other things in 2020 – was thwarted by covid. Excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion and double excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion in the mountains, we were up and on the road by 04:15.

We collected Lee on our way up, another old friend and (as we soon found out) an excellent travelling companion totally unphased by most things, including waking up at silly o’clock to set off on random activities. We had a clear run of traffic and crossed the border by 9am. Concrete and tarmac turned into steep, forested, river-bellied valleys, and we stopped at picturesque Betws-y-Coed (a lovely little town whose praises I’ve sung previously) for a snack and a leg stretch.

From “Betsy” we drove along the familiar A5 for 20 minutes, already feeling absorbed by the thick forests and rugged valley sides that tower over the sweeping road. The sky was clear and the sun was already warm when we reached the roadside car park opposite vast, dark Llyn Ogwen, backed by the hulking mass of yellow-green Pen Yr Ole Wen (which is quite high on my to do list). We threw on our already-packed rucksacks, walked along the road to Ogwen Cottage and went through the gateway to the Glyderau mountain range.

Climbing at Idwal Slabs

The path up to Llyn Idwal is well-walked and well kept, and we were pleased to pass a big school group enjoying the sunny outdoors. The unmistakeable, stegosaurus-scale form of dark Tryfan dominated the view to our left and the high ridge of Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr loomed ahead, curving round via the wide, black crack of Devil’s Kitchen to the equally intimidating Y Garn and Foel Goch on the right. The dark, high lake sat thus in a huge, rocky, ancient bowl overlooking the stunning Ogwen Valley. I’ve previously written about this area in more detail – see here for more of that kind of waffle.

Idwal slab is a huge rock face that lies at the head of Llyn Idwal and forms part of the south face of the towering Glyder Fach/Fawr ridge. Its sloping angle, grippy rock and solid cracks makes for good, low grade climbing, so as well as wanting to try it ourselves we thought it’d be good for Lee, who hadn’t really climbed before. We planned to do the classic route “Tennis Shoe” (HS 4b) but there were climbers already on it, so we opted for the easier “The Ordinary Route” (Diff), a “classic” that was recorded as a route way back in 1897.

We roped up and Ryan led the first pitch up a wide, easy crack. Lee followed and I cleaned the gear. Having an extra person was nice because the belayer always had someone to talk to, and I was amazed at how quickly and easily Lee picked it up – I’d been a little worried that a big multi-pitch trad route might be a bit ambitious for a new climber, but I’ve never known anyone so unfazed. Ryan and I alternated leading the route and as we climbed higher, the view of Llyn Idwal and the Ogwen Valley became increasingly impressive and the lake seemed to turn from deep black to a cool blue that contrasted with the bright, sandy yellow of the mountain grass. I could drawl on about the scenery and the captivating wilderness for a long time, but I’ll use some photos instead:

The climbing was straightforward all the way up, with the occasional slightly spicier move, and we didn’t bother changing our approach shoes for climbing shoes. It would have been quite a comfortable free solo until reaching the last couple of pitches and looking down the steep face. The gear placements were generally good (sometimes too good – I spent a good few minutes retrieving one nut) with the occasional weird bare bit where the rock seemed to change, and my last belay point was slightly dubious – I’d got to the end of our 40m rope and ended up pinning myself into an outward-facing seat by slings tightly attached to a nut and a horn either side of me. It was interesting having a third person because we had to choose belay points with space for him to sit or lean, which is something I don’t usually think about.

From the last belay point we scrambled left across less steep but rocky, slightly muddy terrain towards the misleadingly named “walk off”, which took a while to find thanks to the unhelpful description in our Rockfax guide. Eventually we spotted a couple of arrows etched into big rocks and I’m glad we did, as we wouldn’t otherwise have guessed that the way they pointed constituted a “walk”. Fortunately Lee was unfazed once again and we downclimbed a short, steep, rocky scramble that the book suggests is often abseiled. Doing so with a prawn sandwich in one hand probably wasn’t my smartest move, but I’d stopped at the top to put the book back in my bag and came across the irresistible, handy snack.

We reached the bottom unscathed and walked down the sloping bank to rejoin the path alongside Llyn Idwal. We traipsed back to the car the way we came, down the hill that climbs up to Idwal (a glacial “hanging lake” set quite high up), past Ogwen Cottage and a short way along the A5, tempted by a dip in the cool, clear water of Llyn Ogwen and once again blown away by the stunning views and the unbelievably lovely March weather.

A Yaris tour along the North Coast

We left the car park to go and find the holiday cottage via a supermarket. It was six and two threes whether we went back the way we came through Betwys-y-Coed or carried along the A5 and followed the coast around, so we opted for some new scenery and went north west along the valley to the greyish town of Bethesda, then around the top of the national park via the North Wales Expressway, a smooth, wide road that runs along the north coast with the calm, blue sea on one side and hills rising hazily on the other. It felt like we were in a foreign country or a car advert, although poor, peeling Scabbers the Yaris would never make it into one of those.

We stopped at an Asda in Conwy, although it had little right to call itself an Asda – it was barely bigger than a Spar. I was more stressed out by the prospect of shopping than I had been halfway up the rock face, so we collected various fajita ingredients and assorted alcoholic refreshments and scarpered. We found the holiday place about 20 minutes south of Conwy in the middle of nowhere (where nowhere is an agricultural paradise of grassy hills, sprawling fields and long hedgerows), reached via some remarkably steep, narrow, twisty, bumpy country roads.

The House and the Reunion

We rolled onto the wide gravel drive and realised that Charley, the friend who planned the trip, had spoilt us all. We were looking at a beautiful, long, stone barn conversion with a lovely wooden extension and a huge porch. It fronted onto a slate-pebbled yard with lovely countryside views, and had its own open barn containing a hot tub, ping pong table and gas barbecue. It had four double rooms with a shower each, two living areas, a large central kitchen, a fancy staircase, lovely stone floors and a curious way of feeling both cosy and spacious. We saved the master bedroom (complete with balcony and en-suite fit for royalty) for Dave and Charley, Lee took one of the upstairs doubles and Ryan and I had the downstairs double, for alcohol and staircase-related safety reasons on my part.

The three of us unpacked the car and relaxed on comfy sofas until the others arrived. Dave, Charley and Cooper the dalmatian turned up after about an hour, Ryan and I cooked fajitas and we agreed not to drink too much that night – we had to climb Tryfan tomorrow, and it’d be better to save ourselves for Saturday night. Then Matt turned up.

He was earlier than expected and having not seen each other for such a long time (Ryan excepted, who met everyone that day), we must have gotten overexcited because everything took a turn for the worse. Drinks flowed (everywhere) as we caught up with each other, and – although my memory is hazy at best, utterly blank at worst – I think it’s probably a good thing we had the hot tub to contain us.

Saturday 26 March

I woke at 5am on a sofa, which is strange considering Ryan had put me to bed. I woke again about 8am thanks to the delightful sound (which I’ve missed for so long) of Matt cleaning the kitchen. I stood up, fell over for no reason, woke and whinged to Ryan about my bleeding knee, wandered out to say hello to Matt and Dave, and promptly returned to bed. I woke more successfully after about an hour and went to try and make myself useful, although the boys had already removed all traces of Friday night. Someone cooked bacon and somehow we were all in Dave’s car around midday.

The drive to Tryfan was harrowing. There was no avoiding the twisty country roads from the house, but after being on the main road for a while sat nav took us off and along the Gwydyr forest track instead of through Betws-y. It was a sorry excuse for a road, especially in a car full of six hungover people. I’m quite sure it’s the twistiest, bumpiest, narrowest, steepest, roughest road in the whole world, and Charley – who was the worst of all of us – looked like she’d perish at any minute. After about four calendar years we reached the Ogwen Valley and were relieved beyond words to bail out of the car.

Tryfan

Sadly poor Charley was a write-off. She made the sensible (if inevitable) decision that she’d consumed far too much gin to be on a mountain, so the five of us left her in the roadside car park with a window cracked open and trudged off towards the steep north ridge of Tryfan.

The first section involved a lot of rock-hopping and scrambling, and our senses began to clear. The summit is barely a kilometre from the car park as the crow flies and the path follows a fairly straight line, but over 600m of ascent meant that the “walk” was very steep and hands-on, requiring very little progress “across” and a lot of progress “up”. Fortunately there’s no hangover cure like cool mountain air and an imminent risk of death, so we were in good spirits before long. We followed the vague path, guessing the way up every time it stopped at bare rock and taking enough breaks to fully appreciate the incredible views up and down the long, pale golden Ogwen Valley, with dark Llyn Ogwen in its belly, the rugged curve of Y Garn and Foel Goch at its head and lofty Pen yr Ole Wen forming the opposite ridge. We couldn’t have hoped for better weather – the clear skies afforded the best views I’ve ever seen of the Glyderau and Carneddau mountain ranges and the gentle breeze kept us cool.

We stopped at the self-explanatory “cannon” for an obligatory photo, rolled eyes at the false summit and scrambled up the steepening rocks, which became a little exposed on the east side. We hauled ourselves up an extremely photogenic gully, traversed some large gaps and discovered a second cannon, which we decided was even better than the first in that the drop off the edge was much more dangerous, therefore much more irresistible. We decided that standing on it ourselves was fine, but watching the others do the same was extremely nerve-wracking as the faller wouldn’t really have to deal with the catastrophe. Once Matt – probably the most giraffe-like of all of us, and the last one to go up – made his way down from that rock, we all breathed a sigh of relief.

From there it was a fairly short but awkward way along and up, and at the top Adam and Eve appeared like effigies on the rocky summit plateau. Suddenly the view was panoramic and we were delighted, not in the least bit hungover. We did the jump between them to gain the “freedom of Tryfan” (again, watching was much worse than doing, and both were much more comfortable than last time Ryan and I did it in climbing gear and claggy weather), fed off Lee’s magic rucksack full of miscellaneous confectionary, debated why there were eggshells on the ground until deciding that hard boiled eggs are actually an excellent mountain snack, and walked the rocky but less steep and more sociable way down the summit’s sunnier south west face, enjoying the new views over to the Glyder ridge, Y Gribin and the lovely tarn of Llyn Bochlwyd.

The rocky terrain became decidedly boggy and we did our best to avoid the worst bits (especially the deep, sudden, ankle-sized holes) until we reached the well-kept path that goes from Ogwen/Idwal Cottage up to that high lake. We amused each other, notably with stories of snakes, pheasants and bits of badger-related law (thanks Dave), and felt fully recovered from Friday. Eventually the descent levelled out and the walk to Ogwen Cottage was very pleasant, except when – to Matt and Lee’s delight – a passing dog kicked a lump of mud in my hair just as I crouched to examine some frogspawn.

Return

We reached the bottom of the path, grabbed some snacks from the kiosk at the little visitor centre and made our way back along the A5 to Charley, not sure what condition we’d find her in. Luckily sleep had revived her, but the 40 minute drive to a big Tesco near-ish the house was enough to return the rest of us to our sluggish, hungover state, and once again I didn’t enjoy the shop one bit.

Back at the house Dave and Charley cooked lasagne and we spent the evening in a more acceptable way than the previous night, although it did feature the most hectic game of beer/ping pong I’ve ever played (involving six people, five bats, a washing up bowl and ball-repellent cups) and another, more chilled dip in the hot tub.

Sunday 27 March

Moel Siabod

After a lie in and breakfast rolls, we set off about midday for Moel Siabod, a mountain known as a lovely hiking destination that has been on my list for a long time. Once again we drove into the A5 valley through Betws-y, this time parking at the Tyn y Coed pub. We walked a short way along the road, then branched off up a very steep track (a substantial warm up) which eventually brought us to a sheep-spangled moorland covered in high yellow grass. The majestic, sweeping slopes of the mountain lay ahead of us and we enjoyed a near-panoramic view over rugged, rolling peaks, which were broken up into a golden-brown-grey-green patchwork of rock, grass, heather and forest.

Thankfully the path was clear and the gradient eased, so we talked our way up to the base of Moel Siabod’s rocky northeast ridge. A large, dark tarn appeared on our left as the land rose above us on our right, and we continued on feeling a bit fellowship-of-the-ring like until we reached some ruined quarry buildings and a small, deep-looking, almost perfectly round tarn with a sheer back wall. We threw a few stones in (we’re only human) before everyone else’s feeble tosses were put to shame by Lee’s rocket launcher arm, and we carried on along the base of Moel Siabod’s long, steep southeast face through grassy, rocky, heathery terrain until we came to another, larger tarn, Llyn y Foel, the hazy blue-peaked landscape opened up in front of us, and the path disappeared.

After some careful bog avoidance we stopped at the base of the Daear Ddu ridge for a snack, then began the technical part of the ascent. We’d planned to go straight up via Daear Ddu, a grade 1 scramble, but decided at the bottom it’d be safer for us all (especially Cooper) to follow what looked like the more trodden path to the left, which was effectively a scramble up a steep boulderfield away from the ridge’s sheer drop. It was awkward in places, particularly with a slightly nervous dalmatian who wasn’t used to hopping from rock to rock across big, dark gaps, but luckily he was very agile and made it up with some persuasion.

After what felt like a long time we pulled up over the edge of the mountain’s rocky south face onto the summit plateau, which was covered in large lumps of scree and dry, hardy grass. Cooper, who was relieved to be back on solid ground, had the cheek to bound off ahead as if he’d just finished the warm up while the rest of us tramped up to the trig point. Dave in particular did a lot of tramping, as I’d spent a portion of the ascent sneaking rocks into his bag (birthday beats are so 2009), which he only discovered right at the summit. He took it like a champ, and we all gawped at the now fully panoramic view until chilled by the breeze, pointing out the distinctive shapes of Tryfan and Snowdon and the uncountable surrounding peaks, which ranged in colour from hazy grey-blue to golden-yellow to brown and dark green.

The way down was more sociable, involving a walk across to the other side of the plateau, a little bit more scrambling and Cooper-herding across rocks, then joining a clear path through rugged grassland that signified the end of the most awkward terrain. As we made our way down Siabod’s less-steep northwest face the huge, dark blue-lilac forms of the Glyderau mountain range dominated our view to the left and the golden-green Dyffryn Mymbyr valley stretched out ahead of us with its random undulations, which were sometimes rocky, sometimes heathery and sometimes foresty.

We reached an evergreen forest after a long, straight “down” section and only one snack/admire-the-view break. It had that surreal, tranquil quality only found the wildest, remotest woods. Trees, birds, shrubs, spring flowers, mosses, even the stream – everything seemed to thrive in a quiet, old, unimposing way. We walked along the forest track until we reached the bottom of the hill, where the Afon Llugwy flowed white over the fascinating rock formations it had carved. We crossed at an old bridge and walked a short distance along the road back to the cars.

Chinese n Chill

The bar at Tyn y Coed was closed but we made up for it with a drink at Y Stabblau pub in Betws-y-Coed, where we’d eaten after completing the Three Peaks Challenge three years ago. Someone had planted the Chinese takeaway seed which meant the matter was not open for negotiation as we all fancied it so much, so we went back to the house, showered and regrouped in the big kitchen. After some faff trying to find a fairly nearby takeaway that was open and answering the phone, we sent Dave and Ryan off to collect the treasure after what felt like a 10-year wait. That Chinese tasted so good.

Before we ate Charley broke the wonderful news that she’d managed to get the following morning off work, so they could stay the night rather than driving back. We had a lovely evening playing ring of fire and cards against humanity (which was particularly memorable thanks to Matt’s unrepeatable answer to the “you can’t put *blank* inside *blank*” card), talking in the kitchen for ages and polishing off an unholy amount of leftover takeaway. Once again I stumbled into bed, but thankfully this time I managed to stay there all night.

Monday 28 March

Dave and Charley left early and again Matt took the lead on cleaning up the house. We had breakfast, packed up, said bye to Matt and left at 10am. Lee, Ryan and I wanted to make the most of the day without getting home too late, so we headed through the heart of the national park to Coed y Brenin forest park and set off on the 4-mile Gain Waterfall hiking trail (but not before a quick visit to the mountain bike shop and an avowal to come back for those trails another time, having only ridden the blue Minotaur trail previously).

Gain Waterfall trail

It was a lovely, well-marked route along a gravel path that took us through high, fragrant pines, across a shrubby, heathery plain overlooking the distinctive Rhinog mountain range, down a twisty valley and along the fairytale-like Afon Gain and Afon Mawddach rivers. We passed the ruins of an old gold mine and some stunning, high waterfalls which tumbled and rushed into copper-coloured plunge pools. Like the woods on the way down from Moel Siabod it was almost absurdly tranquil and timeless, and neither a dinosaur, a medieval vagabond nor a Victorian gold panner would have looked out of place in the old forest.

Home

After a sandwich and a drink in the visitor centre, we set off home. We talked for the full four or five hours, only stopping once in a pretty town with a funny hybrid petrol station/co-op/garden centre place to get petrol and cannonball-sized scotch eggs, and the sunny drive back through the Welsh/English countryside was way better than the motorway.

All in all a top weekend with top weather, top scenery, top accommodation and top people. 10/10 would recommend.

Snowdonia, Sep ’21: Climbing at Dinorwic Quarry

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Tuesday 21st September

Following the previous day’s scramble around the Snowdon Horseshoe, we treated ourselves to a lie in and a cooked breakfast in the van before a day of easy-ish sport climbing at Dinorwic Quarry, near Llanberis. We left the Tyn y Coed pub car park in no particular rush and drove along the scenic road that took us past Capel Curig, through the Dyffryn Mymbyr Valley and down the wild, rugged Llanberis Pass. At Llanberis we followed the road along the west side of Llyn Peris and Llyn Padarn, whose murky waters rippled beneath the  strikingly grey walls of the huge slate quarries behind them.

We turned right at the end of Llyn Padarn and found ourselves coming back along the other side of the lake on a narrow, bumpy road. After a couple of miles we came to the roadside parking described in our climbing guide.  We were trying to fathom how to get to “The Sidings” area of the “Australia” sport crag when a very friendly man who’d just parked behind us saw our van and started talking to us about Mazda Bongos. It turned out that he and his friend (I think their names were Pete and Mike) had come to climb very near Australia, so they offered to show us where it was.

We’re very lucky to have bumped into them because as well as being a short walk from where we parked,  we’d have struggled to match up the pictures in the guide with the corresponding bits of crag. We were blown away by the scale of the huge, grey crater, whose hulking back towered high above a deep, wide bowl of greyer-than-grey slate vertical walls and what must have been millions of tons of rubble.  Occasional stone huts, miscellaneous bits of steel apparatus and rusty old cables hinted at the quarry’s history as a hive of activity and noise, but it seemed to have become quite a serene place in its abandonment.  Looking over to the Llanberis Valley, Llyn Padarn and Llyn Peris took on a kind of cloudy blue colour when viewed from above, and the rugged ridges of the Snowdon mountain range reached towards the sky under a gentle sun that reflected off the land in a blueish haze.

Dinorwic Quarry

Our new friends pointed the way to The Sidings, which was a steep-ish hike up a long, scree-covered ramp. In places the towering quarry walls were divided into several stepped levels, separated by flat platforms which were perfect for belaying. We set up on the second or third level up the  north-western side of the quarry, about halfway between the bottom and the top of the crater. Looking over the slatey bowl I saw that tons of loose rock lingered on the nearly sheer slopes, waiting to be released as a hard, grey avalanche. Several huge vertical slabs refused to hold onto any scree and towered  over the bowl, looking appealing – if imposing – as multi-pitch trad climbing routes.

The Sidings is a platform about 80 metres long that runs below a near-vertical wall 10 metres high. As we were out of the habit of regular outdoor climbing due to lockdown, we chose this area due to the low grade of its 18 routes, which range from 4 to 6a+. I started off by leading “N Gauge” (6a), which was my first ever climb on slate.

Dinorwic Quarry from the start of The Sidings
The Sidings

I was pleasantly surprised how solid the rock felt. As expected of a slate wall, much of the surface was smooth and bare, but where small edges and cracks did appear they were angular, hard and “trustworthy” – if rock can bear such a characteristic – although I’d later revise this conclusion, as I’ll explain shortly. I enjoyed the mix of fingery, balancey moves, some of which were quite technical, and the lack of large ledges reassured us that we could fall without hitting anything.

We worked from left to right, ticking off N Gauge (6a), Side Line (4+), Derailed (4), Thomas the Tank (4), Not Known (6a), Rack and Pin (5+), Sodor (6a), Being a Bob (5a), “Those who climb clearly marked projects are the kind of people who would steal the chocolate bar from a kid’s lunch box – selfish tossers – who owe the bolt fund cash” (5+, well named) and Choo Choo (5+).

Not Known wasn’t marked in our guide book but  was clearly bolted and looked interesting, if tricky, so I led it with trepidation and was secretly very pleased with myself when I made it over the crux move, which involved a very high leg (which defied Ryan on his attempt), a good hip flexor stretch and a lucky high left hand hold. It probably helped that Pete and Mike had joined us at The Sidings, so I had the additional incentive of being watched. Pete suggested that the climb might be graded 7a, so I was quite disappointed to read on the UKClimbing website that it’s only 6a. Regardless, it was good to climb something blind to the grade.

Rack and Pin and Sodor felt quite exposed, but climbing next to a group of 3 or 4 beginners being coached by a guide – again, people to watch us – gave us a reason to ignore any nervousness. Having previously noted the “trustworthiness” of the rock, I was given a shock near the bottom of Rack and Pin when, having only clipped into the first bolt, a tiny handhold broke off suddenly under the pressure of three of my left fingers as I pulled down. I’d climbed above the bolt and was sent sprawling off the rock and swinging awkwardly to the right, but Ryan caught me quickly and I landed against the wall before I’d even processed what had happened. This reminded me that in general, falling isn’t so bad after all.

Once we were satisfied with our day’s climbing, we packed up and walked down into the belly of the quarry for a poke around. We entered through a deep archway cut into a huge slab and stared up at the impossible quantities of slate. Grass, heather and lichen softened the greyness, and we noticed several alluring black openings that suggested that there was plenty of exploring to be done behind the quarry walls.

We entered a ground-level shaft about 8 foot high and 6 foot wide, and walked the length of it up a gradual slope along an old railway track. It was about 100 metres long, damp and very dark, and near the end it forked into two openings. They both came out at the side of the quarry and dropped down steeply.  We decided that climbing aside, we could spend a day just exploring the quarry; Pete had told us about “Snakes and Ladders”, which is a popular excursion on rainy days that involves climbing – preferably with a rope – up rusty old ladders and shafts inside the quarry walls. In short Dinorwic quarry is an excellent, if perilous, playground.

We left the quarry and walked across to the viewpoint that overlooks Llyn Padarn, Llyn Peris and the bottom of the Llanberis Pass, over which the rugged Snowdon peaks provided a lovely backdrop in the afternoon sun. We marvelled at the amount of loose slate and joked that we could find ourselves a lovely set of tablemats and coasters for our new house – and all our friends’ and families’ houses – without making a dent, then wandered back to the van. We drove to the bus terminal at the end of the road to turn around and were amazed to spot Johnny Dawes, the eccentrically-dressed 50-something year old rock climber famous for his bold ascents and ability to climb hands-free, pulling a rope out of a nondescript car ready to take himself off for a climb. I’m embarrassed to say that we gawped like fangirls.

Looking left towards Llanberis Pass and Snowdon…
…and right towards Llyn Padarn and the Menai Strait
Johnny Dawes

Keen to find somewhere for food and a drink, we drove back into Llanberis and found ourselves at a pub in the middle of town, “The Heights”, which was big and cheap and cheerful enough, if a little dated.  We sat on a bench outside and shared a large, very satisfying plate of nachos, then agreed to go back up Llanberis Pass to try the Vaynol Arms. On arrival I was quite disappointed to find that since I’d last been in a couple of years before, its lovely old tartan-patterned ceiling had been painted white and the fascinating old mountaineering paraphernalia that was hung above the cosy fireplace has been dissipated around the now much colder looking pub.

We considered eating in the pub but being mid-week, there wasn’t much of an atmosphere so we had a drink and left. We drove back up the Llanberis Pass, turned left and dipped into the wild Dyffryn Mymbyr valley. We parked in the overnight spot we’d stayed in on Sunday, I cooked a surprisingly tasty improvised dinner of bulgur wheat, tinned soup and whatever-else-I-could-find-in-the-cupboard stew, and we drifted into the blissful kind of sleep that can only be achieved in the wildest places.

The Heights
The Vaynol Arms
The Van

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.