Fraser McKechnie charts his evolution from bouldering newbie to keen trad and alpine climber, a journey made possible through his membership of a University club.

For the majority of my three year climbing career I have considered myself a 'boulderer'. I would spend endless hours sitting on a muddy pad under graffitied basalt at Dumbarton Rock, trying and failing at moves, scrolling UKB during my rests, and trying to figure out if Gaskins ever did anything north of Bowden. While climbing was what I enjoyed, I didn't actually do very much of it. Every month or so I would scrape up a five-move classic after weeks of trying to link the first two moves. I became mildly disillusioned with the sport, longing for, well, longer climbs.

Then I came to Glasgow University and joined the mountaineering club. At first this was mainly for the purpose of competing in The British University Championships (BUCS); but I soon found myself using my harness as much more than just a weight belt for hangboarding. And so, after a number of months single-pitch trad climbing, a three-week trip ticking Scottish Rock North's finest multi pitches, and a brief stint of crevasse rescue practice using a heavy rucksack and the open window of my top floor flat, I found myself sleeping on the floor of Milan Airport, bound for the home of lift access alpinism: Chamonix.

That short walk down to the Vallée Blanche felt like the culmination of everything I had done in the mountains up to that point. There I was at 19, doing what 17 year old me thought was impossible to achieve

My journey into climbing was largely guided by my brother Jack, who took me to St Bees Head on a bouldering trip in 2019. Each morning I'd wake up tired, pack my shoes (a rental pair my brother 'borrowed' from our local wall) into my rucksack and pile into the car psyched to join my brother in his hobby. Well, a mixture of psych and the dread of descending the fixed lines down the cliff face. At the crag I tried a number of problems and had no clue about the grades. I just looked at a feature that I liked and tried to link some moves together. It was a pleasant way of climbing, guided not by a book or a Youtube video, but by a desire to move on the rock. I can confidently say that the three days we spent at the crag were some of my favourite days climbing. I went home from that trip with stripped fingertips, a UKC account and some very fond memories. After that I began joining my brother on his sessions at the wall and local Glasgow crags. Climbing outside became all I wanted to do, and living so close to a number of crags meant I could do just that.

For a long time, outdoor bouldering was my principal focus in life. However, the week before BUCS, whilst staying in Kingussie Village Hall, I had the opportunity to go out trad climbing with friends from the club. We drove for over an hour to reach Cummingston, seemingly the only dry crag on the Moray Coast that weekend. This was the day my focus in climbing switched completely.

I never would have gone to Chamonix, let alone got into trad climbing, had it not been for the Glasgow University Mountaineering Club

Having learned the basics of trad climbing over a few outings in the months prior, I felt confident and set my sights on a VS called Flying Groove. It was a steep, juggy line up the side of a small sea stack. I climbed it carefully, stuffing every crack I could find with gear until I was happy making another move. I reached the top, out of breath and stunned at what I had just done. I felt a sense of accomplishment which matched any hard boulder I had ticked previously. It was the start of my 'affair' with trad climbing. Whilst it felt as if I was turning my back on the whole reason I joined the GUMC, I was climbing what I wanted to climb and having a brilliant time while doing it.

By the time the University year finished, trad climbing around Scotland had become my main focus. While I still spent a large amount of time sitting underneath steep crimps at Dumbarton Rock, I interspersed it with trips to local single pitch crags, most of which were new to me as they were not included in the J.S Watson Glasgow Bouldering Guide (a book I still consider to have a somewhat spiritual allure). I had my first experience of a walk-in longer than 20 minutes when visiting The Cobbler, where I completed my first multi pitch route with friends Oscar and Albert. Sitting on a ledge high up off the ground watching the sun beat down over the rock was all the confirmation I needed that I was making the right decisions. I went on to share a rope with Oscar for most of the summer - particularly during a three-week stint of camping and climbing around the Highlands, Outer Hebrides, and North Wales - sampling some of the best routes I've done to date.

I loved every second of it. Climbing became much less stressful - moves just came one after the other with no pressure to perform. I never left a crag dissatisfied like I would after a bad session on a bouldering project. I cannot however say the same for my parents who unfortunately became increasingly stressed as I sent them videos of me abseiling off sea cliffs at Gogarth and eating my lunch at small belay ledges on the Cioch. I quickly learned only to tell them about routes afterwards, when I was back on solid ground.

The first time I encountered any sort of alpine environment was my first trip to Chamonix in 2022. During a day trip with our family, Jack and I packed into the Aiguille du Midi lift not with crampons and ice axes, but with a bouldering pad. While the bouldering at the Plan du l'Aiguille was excellent and we had a brilliant day, I couldn't help but look up at the vast walls of granite topped with snow and feel a longing for something bigger. The insignificance of climbing three-metre shards of granite at the base of the towering spurs of the Mont Blanc Massif was not lost on me. Yet in my mind, the idea of being up there was so far removed from the realms of possibility. 

I now climb for the experience of moving on rock, whether it be 260 metres above a glacier in Chamonix, 80 metres above the sea at Gogarth, or 30 centimetres above a broken bottle at Dumbarton Rock

When the GUMC announced its annual Alps trip would be to Chamonix, I thought back to my brief visit a few years prior and knew that this was an opportunity I could not miss. After booking my flights I set out to research as much as I could about alpine climbing and the history of Chamonix alpinism. I borrowed Gaston Rebuffat's '100 best routes in the Mont Blanc Massif' from a colleague and read it over breakfast every morning for a month. I chatted to everyone in Glasgow who had ever uttered the words 'alpine climbing' about layering, gear, sun protection and glacier travel. My search history was filled with blogs written by Colin Haley and Tom Livingstone. I practised alpine coils in front of a mirror in my pyjamas. I was unbelievably psyched on the whole trip, and sincerely hope I didn't annoy anyone too much with my incessant questions about rope ascension and ramblings about micro traxions. 

Before I knew it I was emerging from the Mont Blanc tunnel, following a restless night's 'sleep' on the floor of Milan Bergamo airport and a nausea-inducing metro ride to the bus station. Despite the 30 sleepless hours of travel, my psych for the trip was still high and I arrived at the Argentiere Campsite with a stiff neck from looking up at the white peaks.

Following a successful first day climbing at Le Brévent, my sights were set on the snowy tops I had gazed upon in between attempts on stiff 6Cs at the Plan du l'Aiguille boulders. And just like every other person on their first trip to Chamonix, I was keen to do the Arete Des Cosmiques. Walking down the Midi Ridge for the first time was an experience I doubt I will ever forget. That short walk down onto the Vallée Blanche felt like the culmination of everything I had done in the mountains up until that point. There I was at 19, doing what 17 year old me thought was impossible to achieve.

Once on the route, the exposure felt serious and the environment was a far cry from any winter walking or summer scrambling I'd done in the past. But I knew the skills were transferable and I felt safe the entire time, allowing me to enjoy the experience to its greatest extent. Engaging in conversation in French with guides earned a few smirks from my climbing partners, but I was just chuffed to be able to understand them. It made for the best possible introduction to alpine climbing, and I was smiling cheek to cheek the whole way. Whilst there was no 'hard' climbing on the route, I felt a strong sense of accomplishment while shaking my way up the final ladder to the lift station. The ladder felt like a rite of passage, each rung polished by thousands of boots before mine. I was at the very beginning of a long and humbling journey and knew next to nothing compared to those who have spent years in the Valley. Not that the tourists at the lift station knew that, stopping to take photos as if our team were the first ascensionists. And the best part of the day? The cable car trip on the way down didn't even make me wince.

Later in the week I met up with my friend Sam, who was in the valley at the same time and keen for a proper rock route. We decided that Contamine Route on Pointe Lachenal would fit the bill - a brilliant line following connecting crack systems high above the Vallée Blanche glacier. I knew it would be a test of my skills but I was ready for the challenge. After an hour of glacier travel we reached the base of the route. I felt rather intimidated by the 260 metres of vertical granite in front of me, but I managed to put those feelings aside as I tied in and set off. Every lead felt better than the last, and the position was like nothing I had experienced before. Reaching the anchor after leading the crux pitch, I looked down in awe at the sea of plumb-straight cracks; I felt an immense sense of satisfaction. This was the climbing that I wanted to do. What I used to see as impossible had been realised over the short space of a year. My fingers may not be as strong as they were before, but my relationship with the sport is stronger than ever. Each time I pull onto rock I feel as though I'm back at St Bees, discovering my love for climbing all over again.

I firmly believe that I never would have gone to Chamonix, let alone got into trad climbing, had it not been for the Glasgow University Mountaineering Club. If anyone reading this feels even the slightest bit encouraged to join a local or university mountaineering club, I strongly advise them to do it. It has given me the chance to climb with such brilliant people - many of whom I now consider close friends. Whilst I do still plan on relentlessly falling off hard boulders in the Central Belt of Scotland, my motivations for doing so will be different. I now climb for the experience of moving on rock, whether it be 260 metres above a glacier in Chamonix, 80 metres above the sea at Gogarth, or 30 centimetres above a broken bottle at Dumbarton Rock.