A wee lesson in Scottish culture, via the medium of song and dance
Note the half 'smile' on the boys face. Nice.
Anyone for Auchinstarry?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scNLfr1EP08
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
Torridon
Just thought id add a few words to go with Andys awesome pictures from our Easter trip
After Wills notoriously unreliable car lost its rear spring as we passed Drummochter we sat around all friday drinking tea and waiting for the mechanics to do there stuff. This let the worst of the weather pass and we arrived in torridon on a glorious evening.
After waking up to a hail storm and horrendous winds we indecisively buggered around and eventually decided on a walk up Sgur Ruath (below) and Fuar Tholl from Glen Carron. A long day with broken sunshine and some ace bumsliding! also scoped out some sweet looking ice lines for another year
The weather then tricked us into camping another night but by the time we got back to the tents it was the normal mix of rain, hail, snow all on the back of 40mph winds - perfect camping weather! But morale held on (somehow!) and the next day started the same but we were determined not to let indecision creep in and by the time we had gainned the Horns of Alligin the snow had stopped and an Eagle flew by to tell us the weather was gonna be fine!
After Wills notoriously unreliable car lost its rear spring as we passed Drummochter we sat around all friday drinking tea and waiting for the mechanics to do there stuff. This let the worst of the weather pass and we arrived in torridon on a glorious evening.
After waking up to a hail storm and horrendous winds we indecisively buggered around and eventually decided on a walk up Sgur Ruath (below) and Fuar Tholl from Glen Carron. A long day with broken sunshine and some ace bumsliding! also scoped out some sweet looking ice lines for another year
The weather then tricked us into camping another night but by the time we got back to the tents it was the normal mix of rain, hail, snow all on the back of 40mph winds - perfect camping weather! But morale held on (somehow!) and the next day started the same but we were determined not to let indecision creep in and by the time we had gainned the Horns of Alligin the snow had stopped and an Eagle flew by to tell us the weather was gonna be fine!
The Aonach Eagach
A great route with stunning views in as good a nick as you could get it and perfect weather! Made for a hell of a day out, much easier but just as long as I thought it would be; a big tick after years of building it up.
I'll let the pictures do the talking...
I'll let the pictures do the talking...
The Austrian who went up a hill but came down a mountain
This is the long story of how an Austrian set out to learn the art of rather unprotected climbing in the country of unspoilt manhood, where longhaired and bluefaced Australians shout “freedom” whilst being gutted, where people have blood for breakfast, sheep intestines for lunch and battered, deep fried Mars bars for dinner – don´t ask me which one is the worst - and where pub locals kiss you more less gently with their forehead after grunting “Freckin´ staring at me, pal, aye?”
So you might want to grab a pint (“a” meaning ONE, Ecky) and follow the catharsis from the wasted years of sportsclimbing to the adherence to the pure ethics of trad climbing. But why leave the Holy Land (Austria, for those infidels amongst you, who only attend church for indoor climbing), birthplace of prophets like Hermann Buhl and Kurt Diemberger, in the first place? As in any classical epic, the call of a beautiful Siren was involved, coming from the distant shores of Portugal, this time, casting me away from the home of jodling and alpine skiing. Happily spending the days riding giants in Europe´s westend, it was the irresistible offer of having a look at inbred mice (yep, Inverness is not far…) for a fistful of pounds sterling that showed the way towards north of Hadrian´s wall more clearly than did the comet to the 3 kings towards the cradle (well, being dumped by the siren helped…). Neglected by the local lords of the boards (fear of skilled competition, I dare to bet) and put off by the steaming hot northern waters it was the Dirty Dozen of trad climbing who kindly adopted and showed great courtesy towards a potential fellow punter (the first and last THANK YOU in this place). After a quick introductory course in trading in one of the most shady quarries from here to John o’Groats (do not ask me about the original name of this hamlet), almost soiling myself in a very down to earth Severe, things improved and a trip to the winter climbing Mekka of Lochnagar was sound of music to my ears. Setting a new standard in Scottish (if not worldwide) mountaineering, the Perseverance rib
was attacked, the void was touched several times, but under skilful guidance of a local Mackenzie clan member (who later chucked himself down the Hawcraigs –
– because he couldn´t face life after this traumatic experience) Dr Mark and I made it back to the local chippie. Several more or less successful trad excursions followed, some even leading to England (do not worry, we bolted all rocks within reach there!). Along the way, Simon the younger became an avid disciple of the only true religion. 
Then came E-day (also called the longest day) in Auchinstary quarry, another outstanding jewel in the collection of picturesque climbing venues, beautifully situated at the shores of a lake and a place of worship for the local population, who sacrifice to the gods whatever in their households they may spare. Severely psyched up (or freaked out?) by Tim´s description of different ways Glaswegian pals smile, even if they don´t feel that happy, I was glad to leave the ground in order to avoid being stabbed, slit and/or circumcised and to have a go at the formidable Gold Rush. Golden it was and Tim nailed the thinly protected Midas Touch the same day, a mere cake walk for someone who had studied in Glasgow and survived without (visible) scars. Thus our children and grandchildren (if ever any unfortunate bird…) will sing about the day the E´s were conquered by their ancestors, and there are yet more to follow. The first verse has already been lain down otherwise:
The sounding cataract
Haunted them like a passion: the tall rock
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to them
An appetite, a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrow’d from the eye.
Still reading? Man, you must be truly bored! Well in the end of this chapter, let me express my hope to share some soon days on the green(er?) pastures on the other side of the channel, be it to kiss the tides of the Atlantic Ocean or to climb rock with a view near a Schutzhűtte. A word must be spent here about Scottish bothy “culture”. I don´t mean to insult anyone, but I never came across more hopeless sheds, reminding me of abandoned pigsties in the Alps. But what would the true Scottish mountain experience be without having spent at least a night in one of them, what could represent the Scottish winter better, than the gloom of a rollie against the Aurora Borealis before reaching a pile of stones with the windows blown out, being the shelter for the night (that night, though, lack of sleep should be attributed to the really insane volume that can be reached by vodka fuelled snoring)? However, I´m looking forward to the day I can introduce you to the amenities of alpine huts, with mattresses, Bergsteigeressen and freshly tapped pints. But til then, may we have hell of a time in the hills and crags of the commonwealth’s finest country.
So you might want to grab a pint (“a” meaning ONE, Ecky) and follow the catharsis from the wasted years of sportsclimbing to the adherence to the pure ethics of trad climbing. But why leave the Holy Land (Austria, for those infidels amongst you, who only attend church for indoor climbing), birthplace of prophets like Hermann Buhl and Kurt Diemberger, in the first place? As in any classical epic, the call of a beautiful Siren was involved, coming from the distant shores of Portugal, this time, casting me away from the home of jodling and alpine skiing. Happily spending the days riding giants in Europe´s westend, it was the irresistible offer of having a look at inbred mice (yep, Inverness is not far…) for a fistful of pounds sterling that showed the way towards north of Hadrian´s wall more clearly than did the comet to the 3 kings towards the cradle (well, being dumped by the siren helped…). Neglected by the local lords of the boards (fear of skilled competition, I dare to bet) and put off by the steaming hot northern waters it was the Dirty Dozen of trad climbing who kindly adopted and showed great courtesy towards a potential fellow punter (the first and last THANK YOU in this place). After a quick introductory course in trading in one of the most shady quarries from here to John o’Groats (do not ask me about the original name of this hamlet), almost soiling myself in a very down to earth Severe, things improved and a trip to the winter climbing Mekka of Lochnagar was sound of music to my ears. Setting a new standard in Scottish (if not worldwide) mountaineering, the Perseverance rib
was attacked, the void was touched several times, but under skilful guidance of a local Mackenzie clan member (who later chucked himself down the Hawcraigs –
– because he couldn´t face life after this traumatic experience) Dr Mark and I made it back to the local chippie. Several more or less successful trad excursions followed, some even leading to England (do not worry, we bolted all rocks within reach there!). Along the way, Simon the younger became an avid disciple of the only true religion. 
Then came E-day (also called the longest day) in Auchinstary quarry, another outstanding jewel in the collection of picturesque climbing venues, beautifully situated at the shores of a lake and a place of worship for the local population, who sacrifice to the gods whatever in their households they may spare. Severely psyched up (or freaked out?) by Tim´s description of different ways Glaswegian pals smile, even if they don´t feel that happy, I was glad to leave the ground in order to avoid being stabbed, slit and/or circumcised and to have a go at the formidable Gold Rush. Golden it was and Tim nailed the thinly protected Midas Touch the same day, a mere cake walk for someone who had studied in Glasgow and survived without (visible) scars. Thus our children and grandchildren (if ever any unfortunate bird…) will sing about the day the E´s were conquered by their ancestors, and there are yet more to follow. The first verse has already been lain down otherwise:
The sounding cataract
Haunted them like a passion: the tall rock
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to them
An appetite, a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrow’d from the eye.
Still reading? Man, you must be truly bored! Well in the end of this chapter, let me express my hope to share some soon days on the green(er?) pastures on the other side of the channel, be it to kiss the tides of the Atlantic Ocean or to climb rock with a view near a Schutzhűtte. A word must be spent here about Scottish bothy “culture”. I don´t mean to insult anyone, but I never came across more hopeless sheds, reminding me of abandoned pigsties in the Alps. But what would the true Scottish mountain experience be without having spent at least a night in one of them, what could represent the Scottish winter better, than the gloom of a rollie against the Aurora Borealis before reaching a pile of stones with the windows blown out, being the shelter for the night (that night, though, lack of sleep should be attributed to the really insane volume that can be reached by vodka fuelled snoring)? However, I´m looking forward to the day I can introduce you to the amenities of alpine huts, with mattresses, Bergsteigeressen and freshly tapped pints. But til then, may we have hell of a time in the hills and crags of the commonwealth’s finest country.
Sunday, 16 March 2008
Skeletor Rib
Phew, that was a close shave!!!!!!!! Had to quickly conjure up a cure to rid myself of the rotten Dog Soldier infected flesh before the undead could haul me into a life of savage eternity! I found the antidote in a mixture of human stem cells, a rare biological form of liquid silver and a smattering of microscopic crucifixes which, upon intravenous injection, appeared to revive the blighted tissue. (This is why I could not come to Auchinstarry on Sunday!)
Now, I shall begin the story on a blustery evening where the full moon illuminated the snow covered peaks and an eerie wind raced through the glens. Two eager punters set out for a lonely bivvy and a long mountaineering day with the Lower and Upper Couloirs of Stob Ghabhar in their sights as a gentle introduction to winter mountaineering for the Munro enthusiast Willie ‘pencilheed’ Rowell. But there was a chill in the air and a disturbing congregation of police as we passed by en route to the Inn, ‘what the feck are they upto?’ says I. Didn’t really bother us ‘til we had feverishly devoured our dinner at the Inn and were about to be on our way when a large wolf like creature flashed passed the window. This was followed by the cheery Landlady waltzing in to announce that the police activity was due to the fact that a body had been found in the woods. ‘Have a nice night boys!’ she whines as she sends us away into the murky night….
Ice axes in hand we set off, ears pricked and vision doubled by several beverages, every creek of the bushes or crunch underfoot brought fear to our hearts as we hurriedly marched into the wilderness. Upon reaching a suitable spot for a bivy, we established that my stove was broken (but could be put to good use as a petrol bomb against any invading evil spirits!) so we had to satisfy ourselves with a bottle of malt and a few rollies. The whisky further dulled our senses to any impending danger but we made sure to have any available weapons near to hand as we hunkered down for a broken, but not too cold, nights sleep.
Morning brought blue skies, sunshine and memories of the fear from the previous night were replaced by the beauty of the views in front of us. But still no functioning stove. Another rollie and some fruit and nut set us on our way, with two hours walk in ahead and the cold of the night still in our bones we were in no mood to hang around! Soon we gained the Col and traversed round to the Lochain. The lower couloir lay ahead of us, easy angled deep snow stretching as far as the eye could see, steps were easily kicked and before we knew it we were committed without a harness to tie onto or crampons to secure our foot placements! Fear returned once again; Will for his life, me for the trouble id get in if I came back without him!
It was clear that the upper couloir was going to be too soft (and another team ahead of us confirmed this) so we looked to the NW spur which was mentioned in the guide book as providing an entertaining scramble but no mention of its winter potential. It proved lovely climbing, and as the rib narrowed the situation became more exciting – although technically easy – before topping out just below the summit. Not to mention the views over to Glencoe and the Ben in the north were superb and a glimpse of Ben Mhor on Mull and Ben Lui in the south completed a fine West Highland panorama! We decided, in view of the previous evenings scares, that in our book the route would be known as Sketetor Rib even though I’m sure it will have been climbed before.
Now, I shall begin the story on a blustery evening where the full moon illuminated the snow covered peaks and an eerie wind raced through the glens. Two eager punters set out for a lonely bivvy and a long mountaineering day with the Lower and Upper Couloirs of Stob Ghabhar in their sights as a gentle introduction to winter mountaineering for the Munro enthusiast Willie ‘pencilheed’ Rowell. But there was a chill in the air and a disturbing congregation of police as we passed by en route to the Inn, ‘what the feck are they upto?’ says I. Didn’t really bother us ‘til we had feverishly devoured our dinner at the Inn and were about to be on our way when a large wolf like creature flashed passed the window. This was followed by the cheery Landlady waltzing in to announce that the police activity was due to the fact that a body had been found in the woods. ‘Have a nice night boys!’ she whines as she sends us away into the murky night….
Ice axes in hand we set off, ears pricked and vision doubled by several beverages, every creek of the bushes or crunch underfoot brought fear to our hearts as we hurriedly marched into the wilderness. Upon reaching a suitable spot for a bivy, we established that my stove was broken (but could be put to good use as a petrol bomb against any invading evil spirits!) so we had to satisfy ourselves with a bottle of malt and a few rollies. The whisky further dulled our senses to any impending danger but we made sure to have any available weapons near to hand as we hunkered down for a broken, but not too cold, nights sleep.
Morning brought blue skies, sunshine and memories of the fear from the previous night were replaced by the beauty of the views in front of us. But still no functioning stove. Another rollie and some fruit and nut set us on our way, with two hours walk in ahead and the cold of the night still in our bones we were in no mood to hang around! Soon we gained the Col and traversed round to the Lochain. The lower couloir lay ahead of us, easy angled deep snow stretching as far as the eye could see, steps were easily kicked and before we knew it we were committed without a harness to tie onto or crampons to secure our foot placements! Fear returned once again; Will for his life, me for the trouble id get in if I came back without him!
It was clear that the upper couloir was going to be too soft (and another team ahead of us confirmed this) so we looked to the NW spur which was mentioned in the guide book as providing an entertaining scramble but no mention of its winter potential. It proved lovely climbing, and as the rib narrowed the situation became more exciting – although technically easy – before topping out just below the summit. Not to mention the views over to Glencoe and the Ben in the north were superb and a glimpse of Ben Mhor on Mull and Ben Lui in the south completed a fine West Highland panorama! We decided, in view of the previous evenings scares, that in our book the route would be known as Sketetor Rib even though I’m sure it will have been climbed before. The day was finished by an easy traverse of the Aonach Eagach Ridge of Stob Ghabhar that took us back down to where we stashed our gear, and with all the problems in the world forgotten, we headed back for a pint. We ordered our rehydratiion and i noticed a great big friendly dog lying on the hearth, without a thought I went to pat him the and the bugger bit my arm, instantly I remembered the fearsome sight as its wolf like figure flashed by the window the previous night and i knew in my heart that I was doomed!!!
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