UKC

Yes, it's a bit on the long side. You don't have to read it if you don't want to! :
Apologies in advance for the inevitable spelling mistakes in the local place names.

Wednesday.

Red lorry. Yellow lorry. Blue lorry. At least they paint the things different colours. The M6 would be even more boring if they were all the same.

The proposed early start didn’t happen, needless to say. A combination of a long-drawn-out late-night phone call, the consequent late awakening and my own olympic-standard procrastination meant it was lunchtime before I was running up the road to fetch the car round to the flat and late afternoon before we hit the interesting end of the M6 and the long swirling descent off Shap summit. The Fester wanted to run away and play and it was most miffed when I told it not to.
“Listen, rustbucket, you behave or that lorry’ll be having your manky little bum for dinner.”
“Don’t care! Wanna play!”
“Quit being so bloody embarrassing! Look, even that van on that bridge’s looking at you.”

It was, too. But as we were ostentatiously Being Good as we passed its eagle-eyed lens the worst it could do was glare balefully.

Glasgow. Yuck. Whose idea was it to run a major route through the middle of a congested city? We stopped at a Little Chef on the outskirts for quite possibly the worst coffee I have ever paid actual money for. Apparently the petrol from the neighbouring filling station tasted similarly vile.
“Bleugh! What *is* this stuff?”
“It’s unleaded, and will you stop trying to spit it into my shoes and f*cking drink it?!”
“Yuck!”
“Welcome to Scotland. Try to think of it as whisky-flavoured.”

The campsite was deserted, desolate and depressing. The Clachaig, on the other hand, already had a thriving colony of Rocktalkers well-established in the scruffy end. Hugs. Beer. Bullshit. Routes done. Routes failed on. Routes planned. Beerandclimbingandbeerandclimbingandbeerandclimbing.

Sorted.

In reply to Wingnut:
Thursday.

“Morning! Anyone awake?”
“Wha’?”

I hate mornings. Especially when they involve aggressively cheerful campsite staff informing you that last night reached a pleasantly balmy minus ten. I paid over my six-fifty and tried to unfreeze the water from the tap and the baked beans from the tin.

I am an organised and competent camper, honest. I like to greet visitors ready to go with a neatly packed rucksack and a cup of tea. This probably explains why Mark turned up while I was still sorting my life out in the bog.

Long slog up Am Bodach. Stonking view from the top. Mark did the first dozen feet of the Aonach Eagach and posed for the photos. Down. Tea at the cottages. The people needing keys aren’t here yet so go for a swift trot round the grannies’ exercise track at Glencoe Lochan, from which the view is an absolute cracker.

Still the only Rocktalker on the campsite that night. Wander up to pub feeling lonely and fed up. Fish and chips for tea, but no beer as have to drive back to the cottages to find out what’s happening tomorrow.

The what-are-we-doing-tomorrow meeting adjourns to the pub. Beerandclimbingandbeer . . .

In reply to Wingnut:
Friday.

Early start, arrgh. Back to the cottages, people cram into cars. We de-bus at Mamore Lodge to be welcomed by a strong contender for the world’s thickest dog. Fortunately it didn’t follow us up the hill. Follow the path until it peters out and then just keep going up, up and steeply up. Crampons on at the snowline and up onto a spur leading onto a small lump on the ridge just south-west of Stob Coire a’ Chairn. Scawf Vu breaks trail and is going like steam, zigzagging across steep soft snow like a demented yeti.

The view from Stob Coire a’ Chairn was amazing – mountains, snow, sky, and Tiggs grinning like a mad thing on reaching the top. A stunning example of the very reasons for doing this sort of thing, imho – jaw-dropping secenery and a sense of achievement for getting there. Big grins all round.

In reply to Wingnut:
Saturday

Apparently it reached –12 on the campsite. I have to say that I didn’t notice anything. Pick up Swirly and head into the village. The cottagers all appear to be suffering somewhat – must be either too much wine or too many hills. Mike and Lesley are heading to the Lost Valley. Haven’t got a clue where the Lost Valley actually is, not seen it on the map so possibly the OS have lost it, although managing to lose an entire valley does sound rather careless. Tag along anyway because it sounds interesting.

It turns out that it isn’t lost at all, but merely hiding sheepishly behind another mountain. Getting there necessitates the inevitable long uphill slog and it very quickly becomes apparent that three successive hill days is at least one too many. Up. Up. More up. I am starting to lose the will to live. More up. Then the valley finally materialises. Big. Stony. At least it flattens out a bit. Crampons on and up to the headwall. More up. My little legs are suffering and any energy I may once have had has run away and hid. Tomorrow is going to be a tourism and teashops day, honest, regardless of how good the conditions are. Pose, panting, at the notch in the cornice, clamber over the lip and collapse in the snow. Dried fruit. Water. Admire the view. Then up the ridge to the summit of Sgreamhach.

The whole world and his dog seemes to be up here. A good couple of dozen people on the top, and only four of us from Rocktalk. Some of the kit up here could work well as a display of the evolution of ice-axes throughout the last forty years or so. Some of the people up here could work well as a display of the evolution of climbers over the last eighty years or so.

The route off was the same as the route up. Soloing down the steep section below the lip was interesting. Getting a faceful of loose snow from the bloke six inches above was . . . interesting, maybe. Having my glasses steam up and completing the rest of the descent in my own personal white-out was . . . no, not interesting, more sort of mad gibbering terror. Fortunately once the angle eased off it was possible to bum-slide the rest of it which was both far more fun and nowhere near as tiring. I can say for the record that Swirly’s bum makes an excellent piste-basher.

Why, oh why could they not put the car park at the bottom of the hill. Just when you think you’ve finally finished some more uphill sneaks round the corner and ambushes you. Not fair.

Back to the cottages. “Did you know your radiator’s leaking?”
I glared at the Fester and it stopped trying to snog someone’s hire car and looked vaguely embarrassed. It hadn’t peed itself – the puddle was there when I parked it – but I wouldn’t have been exactly surprised if it had. More of Judith’s hill soup – she really should get herself a van and set up in business on the A82 somewhere, she’d make a mint. More people arrive off more hills. “Hello, did you have a good day? Say again? No, it isn’t leaking, the puddle was there when we arrived.”

Even walking up to the pub felt knackering. Tomorow would definitely be tourism and teashops.

In reply to Wingnut:
Sunday

I meant it about the tourism and teashops. Really, I did. This probably explains why I ended up walking up towards Stob Coire Nan Beith with a pack full of spiky things. More uphill slog. Suffering, but at least I wasn’t alone this time as Rob appeared to be suffering likewise. Fortunately our target icefall wasn’t too far up. Unfortunately it was decidedly on the liquid side so we had to carry on up. The next icefull up looked rather more solid, at least so long as one avoided the more obviously runny bits. Sarah and I lead, Scawf and Rob seconded, and Horse soloed around like a mad thing offering constructive criticism on our total lack of ice technique.
I definitely need more work on the head games. Tiredness may have had something to do with it, but I couldn’t get comfortable with run-out steep bits and placing ice screws appeared to require three arms and prehensile nostrils. The belay consisted of a boulder with what was discovered on thigh-deep investigation by Horse to be a semi-frozen pond behind it. Yuck.

Monday

Bacon-and-egg sandwich in the caff in the village. Petrol stop. A last look round at the mountains.

Roll on next year.

In reply to Wingnut: Excellent stuff - liked the Swirly piste reference - must wind him up about that!

In reply to Wingnut: Brilliant! I've got CaptP's photos to prove the loony grinning at the summit. In fact I'm still grinning every time I think about it!

In reply to Tiggs:

You gonna email them to me or what?

In reply to Wingnut:

Nice one Liz. You submitted nything to the rags yet? You should.

In reply to Wingnut:

Dear Wingnut

Agreed, so, did you enjoy the hillwalking?

Norrie

In reply to Rob Naylor: Just about to - have been on the road this afternoon - will do it now - sorry

In reply to Glyn Jones: Of course you'd have known about that ... if you got to the top of anything

In reply to Swirly: I got to the top of the stairs in the shed! And I was capable of repeat ascents over the whole weekend!

In reply to Rob Naylor: Sent them to your hotmail addy

In reply to Norrie Muir:
Dear Norrie,
The hills were excellent. I am going to get into training for next year as I think I need a better standard of hill fitness to enjoy them fully.

-Wingnut

In reply to Wingnut:

Aye cos you were too busy snoring when we were partying ;oP We could hear you from over where we were, hehe

In reply to Wingnut:

Wow, beats the epic report I wrote out on email today.

I protest at being called a cottager though :p

I like your description of Horse's dip in the stream. My further investigation clarified the location of the wet stuff!

In reply to lasonj:

hehehehe

In reply to Wingnut:

It was good to have you & Swirly tag along, if only because your previous days out made my lack of fitness seem less obvious. Sorry about your lack of visibility coming down the headwall, I could see you ) Still, going back up to check on you WITHOUT my sack was "almost" a pleasure, at least it gave me another excuse for barely in control bumsliding. Methinks you have sussed out a new way of descending!

Thanks for the great report, always a pleasure to read what you write.

Mike

In reply to Tiggs:

Got them thanks. Good shots, especially the one of Sherpa Norgay Tiggsing!

In reply to Wingnut:


Scawf broke trail in a very sensible straight line. I was the one doing the demented yeti thing...