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Winter climbing around Cairngorm. (Photos)
To the west of Cairngorm mountain are three valleys (or coires). The nearest is suitable for skiing and has lifts and a railway, with a carpark and (importantly) a pub at the bottom of the valley. The other two have steep dead ends with rocks and snow and so - apparently - is suitable for practicing winter climbing.
Stew and Guy and Rob and Steve did some climbing.
Muesli??
Went shopping. "I normally wear shorts climbing but I'm told that's not sensible around here". The attendant didn't really understand...
Steve
took the 'less experienced' for a walk up the right side of Coire Sneachda;
basically a snowbank right to the top with enough of a runoff at the bottom
that you don't have to worry about hitting the rocks at the bottom if you fail
to brake with your ice axe. Well, you don't have to, but I do.
The wind was fairly strong, and although it was from behind us and so pushed us onto the snow, it was quite gusty and so unbalancing. At the top it was tremendously wind and despite a steeper slope I stood up and walked. I'm glad it didn't stop.
At the top I thought I'd go back and look over the edge and wave to show where the top was. But it was very scary wind. Paula got to the top and was pushed over - her hat disappeared off into the spindthrift haze at a stupid speed. Then stopped, so I got it. (one hat rescue!)
Icy blasts at top, full skin treatment. Not really shorts weather.
Long walk back along the plateau to SW of Cairngorm, into the ski bowl, and paused at the pub for a pint. Maybe there's a better way of getting back...
The rest
were in Coire an Lochaine, the next valley along with a steeper end face.
Mark, Wayne, Stew approached the Vent, looked at it, and traversed across and up a snow patch.
Guy and Rob climbed the Fucharine Coloire (sp?) apparently a 'scramble' but with 'malleable protection' in the blizzard.
Killer pixies with little pointy hats live in my smoked sausage.
Bacon sandwiches!
Up the Central
Channel, which is obviously the left hand route of the trident. Only a few points
of scariness this time. Must be getting used to crampons. Or blasé.
Icy Rocks that Mark belayed over (lots of waiting for rope - it was too close to me - reached in his bag and pulled out a badly knitted aaran jumper.
Further up in a snow ledge under a rock (not much protection available and facing downslope does things to my insides), finally got an ice axe in to anchor, set up belay (with verification from Wayne!) and finally ready to belay Mark up - and he's already on his way. Oh well, bundle up rope.
Then another slippery icy rock bit where Mark had to come back and left, with me carving footsteps into the hard ice just below Marks very pointy very close crampons...
I could have done with some stiff boots for the shallow footholes. Erm.
Finally the last very very steep bit, with the spinthrift filling up the footholes almost as fast as you could clear them. We went alpine. Which is a nice way of saying we just got up it without rope or protection. Looking at it the next day that may have been... bad.
Again at the top a hard icy wind very abrasive. Though according to Mark, "It's nice when the sun comes out" as the picture, er, shows. Still not shorts weather.
Long walk back... We're passed by a snowboarder and two skiiers... Martin has an idea...
Guy and Rob and Stew went up Paties (sp?) route - no visibility and no navigation. They met two experienced men and got a direction from them - up Central Couloire. At the top Rob was keen on more grade 2/3 vertical, but Guy had run out of sandwiches. ("He's a very nice chap, but... [awed] he does eat a lot")
Mysteriously, the leash on Wayne's ice axe was missing by the time it got to the room... must be those little pixies with pointy hats.
An audience (poor things) Learned four things: A trailer over 750kg should have brakes, some history of the Dodge brothers, Black holes can't form event horizons, and shooting a shotgun from inside a tractor cab is very noisy
More
bacon!
A walk around the Loch Molech. At last, shorts weather! And a post office sold some little plastic skiis! Wayne and I bought some, strapped them on, and practiced on a little snow slope. Well, Wayne practiced skiing and I practiced falling over
So back in town I bought some proper skiis (and some climbing trousers - I'm converted - from a salesman who was much more attuned to my, er, sense of humour), but don't seem to have the right stiff boots for them with me...
Very pleasant long afternoon shopping, a few pleasant drinks, a jolly nice evening buffet with some not so jolly nice wine and some more but different not so perfect wine and some more but even more different not quite brilliant wine...
Hungover. Bacon.
"You know, in the old days people used to do this in hobnail boots and tweed jackets." Paula: "Yes but they had nothing to live for in those days"
Those
of us left went for a walk up Coire Sneachda to see what we might do. We had
a bite to it and looked at the beautiful range of interesting routes laid out
in front of us. And the hangovers permeating our systems.
More uses of the versatile word 'fuck':
So we went for a walk up the snow bank on the left of the valley head. Making our way to the base we fell down holes. A lot. Very funny for some reason; probably hangover recovery.
Some of the more keen managed a 20 meter climb over some rocks at the end.
It turns out that skiing is not quicker than walking. If it's me skiing.
