Four Days in the Cairngorm Mountains

Thursday night it was decided. I was off to the Cairngorms for 4 days in the wilderness. Life was getting too much, my head had clogged up with too many things, and I needed escape. I wasn’t sure how I’d cope. I felt mentally drained and emotionally weak. I wasn’t sure whether this trip was a good idea, whether it would sort me out or make me worse, but the beautiful invention of the ML Logbook, gave me a motive to go, so I did. This time I made the effort to pack well. My experience in wild camping is that your day is made much better by being comfortable at night. Alongside the essentials my rucksack consisted of stuff like, an iPod, a book (The Plague Dogs), coffee, tea, and milk powder, all the things I would often leave behind in order to move that extra bit quicker and go that extra bit further. 

The journey up felt long. I didn’t think the weather was going to be good for the next few days, but I didn’t bother checking the forecast. I was going regardless and wind and rain is good for the soul. The 6 cd changer in my car was playing its usual tracks. Tracks that I hadn’t changed for the last couple of months, tracks that I would listen to, when I felt down and in return would get some comfort from them. But then the problem wass, these tracks had now become associated with those negative feelings. They’d become worn out and ruined and the sound of them was sparking of bad memories and pitiful feelings. My mind span, the music only making it more bearable.

It was 4pm by the time I arrived at the Ski Station. I wrote a quick note to leave in my car window and then shouldered my rucksack before heading off into the cairngorms for what lay ahead. A slog up windy ridge on the way up to the Ptarmigan (top ski station) allowed for time to get used to the weight of a heavy pack again. When arriving at the Ptarmigan I then continued onto Cairngorm, passing a couple on the way up to the summit. These would be the last people I saw for the next 2 days. I took a bearing and slogged down through the mist towards the saddle that connects Cairngorm to Bynack More. It was at this point I had entered the heart of the mountain range. Loch Avon and its mighty river that journeys along the uninhabited Avon valley for miles on end, lay below me. This was what I had come for. It was these massive long valleys unscarred by man that make the cairngorms look so attractive on an OS 1:50 000 Landranger map, but when you’re actually there, something special connects with you. Nothing in the world effects you and the land in front of you. No problems. Not world problems, not money problems, not relationship problems. At this point I could feel my head clearing. I and a similar feeling to that when the automatic car wash lifts its mechanical arms and away from your windscreen letting you once again see the daylight you’d been missing since entering the booth. I journey further onto Bynack Mor in thick fog. I soon found my first introduction to the granite pinnacles which seem to be iconic of this area. They were like the gritstone outcrops of the Peak District, similar in formation, beaten into submission by years of weathering, yet somehow still standing strong, proudly towering above the rest of the landscape - refusing to except defeat. 

Just before the summit, loneliness started to hit. The wind and rain had picked up, and I could feel my hands slightly numbing. Out here your head is effected only too easily by your body. Warmth is of vital importance on a trip like this. When you subject yourself to four days in this environment, there are no prizes for being uncomfortable. It isn’t like at home, where you walk the dog for 20 minutes in a t-shirt despite the winter temps. That is training. That is feeling that uncomfortableness because it’s wanted after a day in a centrally heated home. Out here uncomfortableness is given in bagfuls. And you definitely don’t want it in bagfuls. 

After working my way onto the summit, I dropped down towards the valley below. As I lost height I lost the fog. I started to see further. I saw the tarns below me and the lesser hills of the national park rolling on for miles on end. I also saw the track. This track would take me back to Glenmore, from where a quick hitch would get me back up to my car the next day. I had probably experienced my lowest point on this trip right now. I decided then and there, that I would do the planned route. I remembered once again about the drops and climbs in moral levels I always experience on trips out into the hill like this. It’s all about knowing when and where your moral is likely to dive down, and being prepared for it. This was amplified on the final section. On the way to camp, in the rain. Knowing that despite being alone in this place and all its cruelty that I would be feeling comfort and dryness within the next hour. I started talking to myself. Something I admittedly do quite often when no one’s around. I’m pretty good at it. I generally talk to myself about climbing, and goings on in my personal life. Sometimes even my troubles. But when you’re at a point that talking doesn’t help, you need to sort this out. I was now at a thorough high right now. The hills can perhaps give a similar (though less harsh) experience of bipolar. Sudden lows and sudden highs are given out here - but rarely anything in between. 

Camp 1

I pitched my tent and followed the routine I had planned for myself over the next 3 nights. The first litre of water I fetched would be enough for a cup of tea and some pasta, whilst the second would do for semolina and an additional cup after for pudding. Then I would need to refill in the morning for coffee and breakfast, that was three trips to my water source. By the end of these 3 days I had cut this down to only 2 trips per camp. I hung my head torch from the top of my tent. It lit up the place. The rain tapped in different strengths throughout the night as I read further about the gap in the pens of Snitter and Rowf, and the error of their careless kennel hand that evening when he left one of the gates unlocked. 

I awoke that morning having slept like a log. I’d spent so many nights in this sleeping bag over the last 3 years that it was practically like my bed. The planned day wasn’t a massive one and the rain was hitting hard outside. I decided to wait and see if it dropped at all. Also I was enjoying this tent. It was bigger than my others, yet still lightweight. It had a colour to it that allowed light to enter more easily. I left at 1:30pm. And ventured off passing the Avon refuge and the river, before venturing up the Avon Valley and all it’s emptiness of human life. I realised at this point that it was all in my head. If Morale can dip from high to low and back again that easily, surely I could keep it at the same level. I predicted that potentially the worst point in the day for my morale would be on the summit of North Top. Where wind, rain and fog were likely to hit the hardest. I knew perhaps my highest point would be when I pitched camp. I then had a new outlook. My tent was my permanent home. As far as it mattered I didn’t have another home made of bricks and mortar back in Cumbria, but just this one of lightweight siliconised nylon and titanium pegs. Morale wasn’t an issue. This was now my life, a new one and I liked it. A lot. After all I had a motive for being out here. 

On the North Top

I continued up the valley until I came to my turn off, a series of streams running along a drop in slope angle. I followed this up and made my way onto the plateaux where from there I could see my summits for the day, partly cloud covered. I had already been walking for over 3 hours, but it didn’t matter. I hadn’t had to work too hard on nav, things were obvious, I let my mind wonder. It wondered about my future, where I had come from, the first step I ever took on a fell at 14 and the first step I took on a rock face at 16. I then linked back to the problems that had filled my head right up until stepping out of my car at the ski centre. But they were in a new light. An almost irrelevance. As if watching a soap opera, where all kinds of shit goes on, but all it takes is a glance to the edge of your TV screen to remember it’s not reality. I was out in the mountains making proper decisions that actually do effect your day. That’s as real as it can get! I summited North Top on Beinn A’ Bhuird, with very little in the way of views to write home about. I had felt the cold in my hands again as the wind hit them, this time though I stopped it at my body, and didn’t let it effect my head. I had dealt with it, and I was now perhaps at my most remote point on the trip. Paths didn’t exist here, despite what the map might say, but that didn’t matter I felt bombproof, I could cope with anything out here. I continued down along the long plateaux on the way to Beinn a’ Chaorainn. The cloud wasn’t low enough to effect me and I could see right across to the cloud on Ben Macdui, the king of the range and the second highest mountain in the UK. I had stood on it about a month before. I continued, only thinking about getting to camp and summiting some hills along the way.  I let out a whoop - just because no-one was around and I could do whatever I liked. I then heard a whooping reply about a second later. The initial noise had bounced around the hill side and travelled back to me. That somehow was a moment I knew would stick in my head when I got back. I continued on and after a water stop by the stream I topped out on Beinn a’ Chaorainn Bheag, before dropping down onto the col between that and the main summit and then heading up for the last bit of ascent for the day. On which the wind picked up and the clag went thick. I continued through it to the main summit, and then took a bearing off down into Lairig an Laoigh my camp for the night. And when arriving I felt the heart of the Cairngorms beneath my feet. This was true UK hillwalking. 

I followed the same routine as the night before, eating my pasta and pesto, having a couple of brews and semolina whilst continuing to read about Rowf and Snitter as they broke there way through the building and journeyed out into Coniston, unfamiliar with the world around them - wondering what kind of a man could destroy all the buildings and leave the natural landscape looking how it was supposed to be. No doubt a similar approach many school kids from the heart of the city have when they come up to the Lakes for the first time in their lives. Morning came before I knew it. I decided to lie in until 12, I had the feeling that the weather would clear, and I felt that actually a clear, dry day would be quite nice. A day off from constant pacing and the taking of bearings. I set of up Beinn Mheadhoin, at a leisurely pace. 

Stob Coire Etchachan

Beinn Mheadhoin summit

And then stopped for bite to eat and some water on the top above Stob Coire Etchachan, looking down onto the amazing rock faces in the coire below. After that I strolled up to the summit of Mheadhoin, a 12 metre high granite outcrop. It reminded me of Higgar Tor in the Peak District, where I’m sure I’ll make the effort to climb at one day. Clearly some good quality climbs lay on the front of it, but an easier approach can be made from the northern side for the hillwalker looking to ‘claim’ the summit. It was here I saw my first person since leaving the Ski Station at Cairngorm. And I was actually a bit upset. I knew it would happen, and in fact at the start of the first day I was almost looking forward to it but now it just seemed a shame. I’d actually enjoyed my own company over the past 40 hours. After a few lines with the fellow Englishman about not having a clue how to pronounce the name of the munro we were on, I set off down the hill towards the Loch. The weather still glorious with views all around - everywhere looked amazing. Cairngorm Derry would be my final summit of the day, and at a laid back pace I made my way onto it, before dropping down its western side into the valley below. It was here I began to flag. I had probably been burning more calories than I was consuming over the past few days and now I could feel my body eating into my reserves. Camp was another 7km away but it was all down hill or flat ground. I just needed to keep going and resist the temptation to took into tomorrow food, after all tomorrow I’d need it and today I didn’t really. And on realising that I actually had an extra meal of pasta left over that I could have for seconds that night, I found a new drive on getting to my proposed camp near the Corrour bothy just below the Devil’s Point on Cairn Toul.

I arrived by River Dee to see a group further up the valley by the bothy. It was strange how when first setting out on this mini adventure I would have liked nothing better than to go into a packed bothy on the first night and engage in the company and comfort of like minded people. This time however it was the last thing I wanted. I deliberately camped half a kilometre away from anyone else. I wanted to be alone, I was now in my element out here and I didn’t need anyone else. After two helpings of pasta and some semolina the adventures of Snitter and Rowf were continued, as they found their way onto the open fell and in a bit of bother with the farmer and his sheep dogs. It was soon time to go to sleep however. It would be a long day tomorrow. I wanted to be at the car by 4pm, and I had the third highest mountain in the british isles to ascend in the morning.

Camp 3

I awoke in my own time at 6am, keen to get up. Porridge and two cups of coffee were consumed whilst listening to my iPod. I was away by 7:30am ready for the day ahead. I past the morning campers outside the bothy and made my way up to the top of Coire Odhar in good time, where I found three bivouacers cooking breakfast, all well into there 60s. I was most impressed by this effort, and if I’m getting out like they are at their age then I’ll be a happy man. After a few friendly words I continued up into the 1200 metre zone. The flag was thick and it would be throughout the day. I timed, paced

The Cairngorm Reindeer

and took bearings from one summit to the next and in this manner made my way onto Carn Toul, and Sgor an Lochain Uaine. The Cliff edge constantly below me giving the route an airy atmosphere as the cloud filled void lingered below. I worked my across the plateaux and two minor summits on the way to Braeriach the second highest mountain in the range and as I said third in the UK. I was busy sticking to a bearing and timing through the mist when I heard a rumble coming through the ground. It was then I looked round to see the Cairngorm Reindeer running through the clouds right next to me. They stopped and stared and I looked back at them. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen something so beautiful. There eyes were huge and inviting and there fur-lined antlers stood proud and mighty, though they seemed so humble about the fact they were there, as if they’d never seen there reflection before and therefor didn’t have all the arrogance that would be sure to come with it. We spent a couple of minutes just staring at each other, I even took a couple of photos and then apologetically put my camera back in my pack, before picking it up and moving on up to my final summit of the trip. I stood on top and howled into the mist like I sometimes feel compelled to do when experiencing magical moments I know will turn into magical memories. I felt free. I slogged off the hill and back below the cloud. Heading down to Lairig Grhu. I sat by the river, finishing of my large bag of dry roasted peanuts I’d rationed over the trip. I took my top off and sunk my tired head into the stream, water running up my nose instantly connected my brain with feeling of rolling a kayak, which I’d been perfecting over the last few weeks. After a quick wash - a vein attempt to get rid of the stench of body odour that had accumulated over the last few days, I picked up my rucksack and put in a final push to get back to the Ski Station where I had left my car 4 days earlier. And on arriving I crashed out next to my car. 

Gave myself an extra day just in case

To be honest I wasn’t sure why I came to the Cairngorms. I didn’t really need the days for my ML Logbook, and to be honest I didn’t go because I particularly wanted to. Perhaps I felt I needed it. Maybe as consolidation for the nights of navigation I’d been doing on the hills over the last few months, maybe just to feel the cold and rain and the contrast of a warm dry sleeping bag at the end of the day, maybe I went because I needed an escape. In a way I got all of them. 4 quality mountain days in the Cairngorms looks great in any ML Logbook. It creates a good story to speak of after. It requires good nav skills, an ability to cope with hours subject to wind and rain and a strong passion for the landscape around you. But most of all 4 days in the Cairngorms requires Mental Robustness. I’m not sure I had that driving up in the car, but I found it out on the hill. And in return for all this I came back with the foundations to success and happiness essential to anything worth having in this life - a clear head.

I drove back down south. The four and a half hour drive spent yet again listening to those CD’s I’d grown to resent, the ones that provoked sadness, and gave great opportunity to dwell. Only I didn’t think of anything along those lines this time. In fact I was enjoying them once more. I’d lost my troubles, they’d been buried under the mist, wind, rain and rock that lies deep in the heart of the Cairngorms. Now all I could think of whilst listening to that music was how lucky I was to have experiences like this. All I could feel was a burning desire to get back out and do it all again somewhere else. And that is the best thing the Cairngorms could have given me.

Mountain Life

It's felt great, over the last few months getting out on the hill as much as I have. I’d forgotten what it was like to be standing on the fells every week. A lot of this sudden explosion in hill going is down to doing my ML. It puts a new leash of life on things. Every step I make seems to be one step closer to the rest of my life, and it feels fantastic. 3 years ago I would head out on the sunniest of days, and roam around the Lakeland fells with a map in hand always able to see the outlying peaks, it got to a point where I knew the outlying areas and would spend a 12 hour day with the map at the bottom of my bag. At that point I think I felt an acceptance from the hills, I knew them from every angle and would show my face on a regular basis, visiting them on my days off, like I would with my Grandma as a small child.

But this time it’s slightly different. I go out looking for poor visibility and tricky nav situations, where I can’t see my outlying area. I rome the hills at night finding small features way off the beaten track. Life in the hills again, has come back better than ever before. In the past; a week has been measure by how far I’d ran or how many pull ups I’d done. This time it’s measured on where I’ve been and the adventures I’ve had. It fills me with pride when I can tell someone how much I’ve been out and can speak of big adventures like they’re standard everyday aspects of my life. The colder and wetter I am, the warmer I feel when I come through the front door.

Though one thing I must get into the habit of is taking more photos....

Back to the roots

Back to my roots

It was in the heart of the langdale valley nessled high up on the slopes of side pike that i first found my roots. They were hidden in the choss and debry of the rocky ledges that guarded the summit. It was like greeting my best friend for the first time. Every step closer to the summit felt new and exciting. I felt a feeling of rebellion. I didn't know where I was or what I was doing, but I had an urge to keep on going, until I had an end result. Throughout the summer I kept hold of my roots, not paying them particularly close attention, but never letting them get too far out of site. Winter was a time I did my research and learned what could be done with these roots. It was around spring time, when I got into reading. Edmund Hillary's autobiography 'Nothing Venture, Nothing Win', inspired me. It was a story of just how far one man could take his roots. So the following summer I planted mine deep and spent the season backpacking around the hills, allowing my roots to extend firmly into the ground, It was towards the end of this period I went to the Picos de Europa, and when I sat on the summit of Pena Vieja looking across the mountain range and the cloud thousands of feet below me that I realised how far with my roots I had already gone, I was ready to grow. The last few years of my life I have never felt so much purpose. There is always so much to learn and I was eager to absorb it all. Last summer felt like a milestone, my roots had taken me from the classroom of my local fells to the mountains of the alps. I had truly found a direction in life like I'd never felt before. 

So my focus over the next few months is to continue growing as always. But to go back to my roots. Recent times I have focused further up the tree reaching higher and higher, growing further and further. This is all part of life. Some people spend to long on they're roots, in the safety of learning, but don't take it any further. I like to think my approach is more at the other end of the spectrum, always expanding my personal limit. But the higher a tree can grow, the further its roots need to spread, to prevent it toppling over, when the winds get too strong. I want to return to the alps next summer and embark on the rest of my life from then on, ready to branch out in different places. But in the mean time the hills of Britain hold many doors, and I'm going to go through them.

With eyes wide open

Recently I've seen things slightly different.
I've looked at myself and others in a much more outgoing way. Maybe I needed 2 weeks of none stop climbing to realise that maybe it isn't in itself the most important thing in my life. There have been times where climbing has made me hopelessly unhappy for days on end. Times when I just couldn't except defeat. In those times my life was only as good as the last climb I did, which regardless of how well you climb will lead to misery.

Chamonix changed my life. It was a different world for me. As if someone had opened a door to a magic world, that only existed in my head, and let me walk through it. It didn't matter where I was climbing, or what I was climbing, or how hard I was climbing, it only mattered that I was climbing.
There were times out there when I truly believed I was the luckiest person in the world. But that in itself meant very little.

What mattered was whether I could take that home with me. Even then I doubted it very much.

And so I returned....

Top of Telli two weeks before the lead

I tried hard, I climbed hard, I succeeded and failed, I discovered my strengths and weaknesses with an open mind. The Summer concluded with a high point of climbing Telli a Steve Bancroft route at E3 6a. After having toproped it a few weeks early I returned to stanage and hopped on it on the lead early morning, first falling before pulling the ropes through on the second go I committed to the crux and continued to the top. Perhaps that was the happiest I had felt topping out on a route since leading my first VS at the very same crag. But to me the real milestone happened 30 minutes later when climbing The Left Unconquerable, at E1 5b it was 2 grades easier. Yet I couldn't climb it cleanly. I had to hang on the ropes and dog my way up it. I had come to stanage, I had climbed an E3, in two days time it would be my 18th Birthday, a new chapter of my life was right at the top of that crag and I no longer cared how I got to it. I suddenly wasn't prepared to fight for it. Perhaps there was more to life than this very route I was on right now. And so I reached the top. I didn't know where to put myself, I had climbed an E3 and failed on an E1.

And so I consolidated it. And dwelled for the following day. So badly I didn't know who I was anymore. The following day was my 18th. I allowed myself to forget about it for one day only. And in doing so realised that my dwelling was the only thing holding me back. From it I saw my weaknesses as a climber and as a person. And I had new found strength in knowing that I could now go through life with the same attitude. Everyday was a new one, and everyday can always be better than the last. Any climb can defeat you if you let it, and that isn't down to whether you top out on it or lower down to the ground, or get up cleanly or hang on the ropes to take a rest. It's down to how you deal with it. I realised that when at the crag it doesn't matter how you climb at it, but how you walk away from it, back down to the car park and onwards to the pub.

I discovered that the happiness I felt in Chamonix was simply down to looking at the future and not dwelling on the past.

I'd done some fantastic routes in the last few months, regardless of grade or style of ascent.

Black Slab - Burbage Edge

Agony - Crack Stanage Edge

Castration Crack - Gouther Crag

Rusty Crack - Stanage Edge

Retrieving Gear off The Sentinel - Burbage Edge

Boundless Horizons

“Cheers, for that” I said to the lad keeping an eye on my bags.

“No problem, where did you come from?”

“Carlisle” I replied

“Long way”

“It bloody felt like it, it took 7 hours in the coach just to get to Birmingham” I said looking down at my watch, wondering how on earth that was correct when I was sat here in Paris at 10am in the morning having departed from Carlisle at 2 am.

I looked outside to see the darkness, revealing it was in fact 10 pm and I’d been travelling non stop for 19 hours. In another 10 hours I would finally have made it. I would be in that place I had heard so much about and imagined in so many different ways. I’d yet to read a bad word about it. Campsites, bars, cafés bursting with climbers all eager to get out the following day straight after the last, a chance to play on some of the best boulders, crags and mountains in the world. Everyone from Rebuffatt to Bonnington had walked its streets as a young ambitious lad like me ready to embark on a lifetime of adventure.

The bus pulled up, time to get on. We boarded and scrounged around for a good seat. The lights of the coach flicked off and we started moving.  Off we went. The coach weaved along France in the night. Sleep was hard to come by. At 4 am we were awoken by Swiss guards. We had to clear our bags off the coach while a youthful Alsatian walked along sniffing them, every so often halting to scratch its ear with its hind leg. I wondered whether it was looking for a place to wee rather than checking for drugs.... 

2 hours wasted and 2 passengers removed (obviously not expecting the use of passports to cross into Switzerland, when the coach only stopped in France), we finally pulled up outside a train station, mountains shooting up into the sky higher than I could ever remember. The usual crackle of whitenoise came through the speakers above me, shortly followed by the call I’d been waiting to hear for the past 31 hours  “………Chamonix”.

                                    **************************************

I went into the Vagabond to find Bill. I knew little about him. He had put up a forum post on ukc about getting partners out here and we had kept in touch loosely over emails. Bill didn’t have a phone that worked in Europe so we had made contact out here by leaving messages for each other at the bar.

Tired from his ascent of Mont Blanc the previous day Bill suggested we meet up the following day for some easy rock climbing at Les Gaillands, a crag down the road.

“Just to check we were on the same ground” was the kind of way Bill put it.

This was the polite way of saying “To check you’re not a nutter.”

This had always occurred to me as a good idea, but I wouldn’t have insisted on it myself, Bill seemed a nice guy and had I died in the mountains because of him cocking up I wouldn’t have held it against him too much. But at the same time I was kind of pleased that this would be one day of my trip where I wouldn’t have to fork out for a cable car.

I left Bill to sip his coffee in peace while I went over to Pierre D’orthaz, a boulder just outside of Chamonix a short walk via a river. I was content. I had come out to this place half expecting to be drinking tea in my tent the whole time with no-one to climb with, I'd learned to be pessimistic when it came to getting partners.

This Boulder was the perfect place to get fit again. I had an aim to onsight 7a out here. This felt well within my grasp having just fallen off on the final crux move of a 7a at Coudy Rock a few weeks before. I wasn’t even feeling strong then having not climbed for a couple of weeks due to having little time on my hands. I knew that a little bit of ‘training’ before hand would put me in good stead for it. The problem was I hadn’t had time for that either, so I’d come to Chamonix having not climbed hard for over a month. I needed to get fit again and this boulder would help. Most days throughout the trip I would come back to this place at the end of each day, feeling slightly stronger every time, yet having a slightly bigger hole in my finger to go with it.

                        **************************************************

“Hurry Up!” I grunted to myself as Bill disappeared round the corner.

I needed to move. I’d come up here in the wrong clothes. A pair of thin trekking pants with a hole in the knee was perhaps the first problem. Having left my primaloft jacket in someone’s van back in England a day before I went to Chamonix, I was forced to scroung around the shops for the cheapest thing I could find to replace it. A £12.99 Tresspass Gilet would do. That was my second problem.

‘Its boiling out there most of the time’ I thought.

This time it wasn’t. I was on the Cosmiques arête of the Augille du Midi. A classic easy route. It couldn’t really get much simpler. But the cold had come in. It was hovering just above freezing and it was soaking wet, snow falling from the sky saturating everything it fell on. The two previous abseils I’d done had somehow caused my harness to slip under my jacket causing my bare skin around my core to be exposed to the elements. I had just led up the easy rock pitch. 6 metres of easy climbing, a pitch everyone makes a big deal of when talking about it back in the bars. I was shivering below the base of it, and then gone on to climb it in thick gloves with no feeling in my hands. It felt surprisingly tricky, but I knew it wasn’t. My body had been succumbing to the cold. But after all it wasn’t even cold. It was a self inflicted cold. This was my doing. No one else on the mountain was in this state but me.

“Climb!” Shouted Bill

“Finally!"

I followed Bill, shivering along, glad that my body was starting to get some warmth back after standing around belaying for so long.

“We don’t need to pitch here we could move together and both stay warm” I thought to myself.

We had left too long a rope length between us though. Both being to wet and cold to care with another party waiting behind us impatiently, neither of us said anything so we just pitched up the ridge bit by bit.

I lead on, thankful for movement. Swearing at my body as I went. Trying to get my bare hips tucked away from the cold. I threw the rope around a spike leaning my face into the rock.

“Climb when ready.” I shouted.

Using all my mental focus to take the rope in while keeping it round the spike. The only relief I had was knowing that once we reached the top of the mountain the cable car station would be there, we wouldn’t have the massive descent you’d usually have to face after reaching a summit. I was just focused now on getting to the top. That was the easiest way down. 

Bill came round the corner. My head still resting against the rock, I was breathing fast and heavily, just stood still doing nothing. Bill took control.

“Come on, wave your hands around. Just take a minute or two to warm up.”

I just did as he said. I swung my arms around as hard as I could and slapped my knees repeatedly. The blood returned. Burning my fingers like I’d stuck them in hot coals. My mind started to think properly again. I was good to go.

“I’m good now,” I said thankfully

I had a new lease of life, all I ever needed to do was wave my hands around yet I needed someone else to get me to do it.

Bill who’d been up this ridge before, gave me the pleasure of topping out on the final ice pitch. I set off. Not that there was enough ice to call it an ice pitch. I left my axe tucked away in my harness and scrambled up, excited that this was the last pitch and that a warm cable car station was waiting for me at the top.

“That was an experience.” I said to Bill as we sat in the café of the station drinking hot chocolate. “I loved every second of that.”

“Shame about the weather, the view round here can be amazing” he replied.

“That’s alright, I saw the view remember?” The Tourist office had kindly put up a board on the edge of the platform, with a labelled photo of the Mont Blanc Massif  from where you stood on a good day.

After all it wasn’t the views that I’d remember about this route and it certainly wasn’t its technicality. It wasn’t difficult. It was one of the easiest routes in the whole Mont Blanc Massif. What I would remember were those few moments when I had my head into the rock swearing at Bill to hurry up. When I wondered if I could fight off the cold from creeping further through my body long enough to reach the top.

At that point reflecting back on it in that cafe I was glad I had gone up in a crap pair of trousers and a crap gillet jacket and that my harness had exposed the bare skin of my core to the cold. All the other people on the ridge that day had bought themselves warmth well before they had set foot into the thin air, in a shop down in the valley. In doing so they had missed out on something I didn't.

I went down in the cable car, appreciating the whole ‘Chamonix Style’ of things. Warmth, food and beer were waiting for me just a 10 minute cable car ride away.

Chilling in the valley

The rest of the days with Bill were spent chilling out in Chamonix. He had been here for about a month now and he’d been climbing most days. I could see he was tired and what he wanted most of all was rest. I had been climbing with him over the past 5 days. We never did anything particularly big or challenging but I was grateful to have a partner to climb with and a friend in the evenings.

                            ***************************************************

Andy arrived on the 20^th and he immediately picked me up in his car and whisked me off to the col du montet, where boulders lay around with lots of problems (routes) to climb. I had climbed with Andy quite a bit over the last few months in the Lakes, he’s one of those climbers with a wealth of experience and someone I naturally trusted. I probably wouldn’t have been out here if it wasn’t for Andy convincing me how much I’d enjoy it. He was right.

 It wasn’t long before the sky turned dark. The evening thunderstorm, which I had become quite familiar with in Chamonix, was clearly on its way. Andy dropped me off back at the campsite, feeling tired having driven for 18 hours with little sleep. Tomorrow we would climb ‘L’Index’, to warm Andy up to the thin air.

I awoke nice and early and put a brew on. The cheap pan au chocolates that I had been living on tasted better dunked in tea and having only discovered this yesterday I was excited for this morning's breakfast. Holding my Pan au Chocolate up excitedly I prepared it for the plunge when mid dive Andy sat on the bench next to me 15 minutes early encouraging me to get a move on to beat the guides. The plan was to do the Chapelle de la Gliere and then hop on the index, but we needed to get a move on and if we missed the first cable car that would be it.

“Andy…………I err…..forgot my helmet.” I announced half way to the cable car station.

Below the Index

Andy on the second pitch

We took the roundabout back to the campsite, drove back and hopped on the 2^nd cable car me now with my helmet. We decided we should just do the index as the Chappelle was now covered with climbers, guides and clients. Slowly but surely we worked our way up the Index pitch by pitch behind clients and guides out in front and at the back. A 60 metre abseil dropped us off at the bottom of the gully where a short walk down lead us back to the station. We had a whole day to play with, being only 12pm. We decided to head down the telesiege back to the car where a trip to Coupeau, the crag above les houches, was the end to the climbing day. It had been a blast.

The following day I introduced Andy to Bill. We all went up to the Mer de Glace to have a play on the ice. I was due to have a masterclass in ice climbing.

On the way up it occurred to me Bill and Andy were getting on very well indeed. I remembered a conversation I’d had with Bill earlier in the week.

“Andy….” I enquired innocently “Have you ever fallen on ice?”  Having a fairly good idea what the answer would be.

“Nothing too big” he replied indicating that he had.

On the Mer de Glace

“It’s just……Bill says only assholes fall on ice.” I left it there.

The day was taken up practising my ice climbing technique with advice from both Andy and Bill. We never put a rope up finding it more convenient to traverse along the ice at the bottom. By mid afternoon it was agreed we would go down to the bar for happy hour, where beer was half price. I was beginning to fall into the Chamonix ways. This inevitably starts with the problem that the last cable car down is 4pm and happy hour starts at 4:30pm suddenly making a day’s worth of climbing half a day’s worth and often encouraging a laid back approach to your day up high. This felt great at the time but when I reflect now I don’t think of the times I spent at the bar or lounging around in the sun outside, I think of the times I spent out in the mountains when I was in my element.

Looking across the glacier to the Grand Jorrasses

Perhaps objectives were the best way to do things out here. The problem with them is that when I set myself something to do I make sure I give it a good go, regardless of how convenient it is. I’ve spent many evenings out on crags where I’ve spent my whole time working a 10 metre route pushing my limits and coming away with nothing. I’d started to view this as a bad trait of mine. There’s that thing people will always tell you about trying something achievable and not over stretching yourself. But if you know it’s achievable before it’s been done there really isn’t much pride in the outcome. Chamonix is truly an amazing town but it isn’t the paving slabs or the bars or the campsites full of alcohol and climbing talk that you truly enjoy. 

There’s nothing like two ends of a rope to start a friendship off. That was something I realised when climbing with Bill. I’d only just met the guy but within 5 days I felt I could trust him with my life. It was Bill’s last night that night so we went for a pizza.

                    ******************************************************

Yet again I awoke early. I was just about sick of this tent, riddled with ants and empty food packets. Greeted every morning with drips of condensation and a soggy sleeping bag. Today was to be a big one. We would climb the Augille du Peigne. My one big wall of the trip. An easy route up it was the plan for the first part of the day, then we would have a play on the harder stuff later on to the left of the easier route, making use of the bolted belays for a quick rappel down if we needed it to catch the lift back to Chamonix. This would be the biggest day of the whole trip. I met Andy at the Bus Station. I immediately felt stupid seeing him in approach shoes while I was in mountaineering boots with an ice axe and a pair of crampons packed ready for the walk in. Andy then went on to explain the problem……. The problem being that due to the abnormal amount of snow below the face he would need boots, crampons and an ice axe for the walk in. All of which he’d left back in Les Houches where he was staying. I took this very well actually. I seem to remember thinking that we would just go back and get his boots etc. then hop on the Peigne an hour later. The only thing was it would be about 10am by the time we would have all that sorted. An ascent of the Peigne was not on the agenda for today or this trip.

We went up to Le Brevente, a sport climbing venue just below 2000 metres where we climbed with a leisurely laid back approach throughout the afternoon. Both having been beaming with energy to get on the Peigne, I could tell Andy just like myself wasn’t too excited about being up here. We were just making the most of the day. Needless to say it was a good reccy of the area and the crag held some fantastic routes on it, but I had finally lost my energy. I knew the trip was coming to a close. Tomorrow couldn’t be spent up high. I was due to be catching a bus that evening and if we missed the cable car back down that would be it.

Tonight was my last night in Chamonix for this trip. I walked into the town revisiting the places I’d been to at the start of the week, now much wiser. I went to the park and lay there below the Dru. 2 weeks ago I sat here unsure of how my time here would go. I wondered whether I would just be spending my first week here in loneliness with no one to even to talk to. I had actually had one of the most sociable 2 weeks of my life. I’d felt so at ease round here with like minded people. I had found a place where I could fit in with the crowd. I’d never felt like that before. It was good to know that with £112 and a lot of patience I could return here and feel this way again.

Packing to go home with mixed emotions

I awoke feeling tired. A trip around all the crags in chamonix was the plan. Or something like that. We went to Les Pierre d’orthaz Boulder. I had been working on a 7b traverse all week. It was in my grasps but I was to tired to reach out for that last hold and pull over that final move. I knew when to call it a day. It wasn’t giving up, it was making the most of the time I had. We drove up to the Col de Montets again for some final bouldering. I was finished. I stood at the bottom of a line and started to climb. I couldn’t, it felt almost impossible at that point. I could feel my body doing the move in front of me but just couldn’t get it to do it. I had two nasty cuts on my fingers and a hole going right through my rock boots, the skin of my big toe protruding out from them, starting to get sore. My arms were tired and my fingers were tired. I’d come to Chamonix two weeks ago feeling weak and low. This time I hadn’t gained back my strength and confidence through doing pull ups on a fingerboard or circuits at a climbing wall. It was the rock that had given me back my strength and that was something I was proud of. But at the same time as giving me strength it had worn my body out. 10 days of climbing on the rock around the valley had finally paid its toll. I was throbbing and ready to rest.

I boarded the coach at 9pm. I looked up all around the peaks of the Mont Blanc Massif for the final time this year. I knew for sure I would be coming back here. I thought of all the things I didn’t do this trip. That was fine. They were still there to do. I thought back to a conversation with Andy the day before at Le Brevente. I was feeling slightly low having fallen on a climb I should have found easy. He explained to me what should have been obvious to me. He pointed out what was staring me in the face. I had years of my life to come back to places like this, each time I’d be better than the last. I could go wherever I liked, climb whenever I wanted. At that point I began to realise who I was and how glad I was to be me. My whole life spread out in front of me like an ocean. I was 17, I had found what I loved so early on and I was only just at the beginning of it. I looked out across the mountains and beyond, now seeing boundless horizons like never before. 

Abseiling down Le Brevente's hardest route with Boundless Horizons.......

Failures on Grit

It's hard to write that title out. And I think I'll find it even harder to write this blog post. Right now I would be traveling around the Peak District armed with a couple of bouldering pads and a rucksack full of camping gear. It was going to be my holiday. A holiday I felt I deserved and needed. After a week on the amazing lines of Stanage, Burbage, Froggatt and so on, connecting with the history and culture of the Gritstone climbing scene and most importantly connecting with the rock, perhaps right now as I strolled through the moors of the peak and slept amongst the boulders and caves I would no that true meaning of freedom I have only ever felt glimpses of.

After months on end of that lack in confidence, of seeing my dreams in front of me seeming further and further out of reach, I thought it would be about time that changed and the answer would lie in the Gritstone Edges of the Peak District. The place where I discovered who I was in the middle of a time of loneliness and self-doubt. I needed that place again, perhaps now more than ever. It had done so much for me and I was asking for a whole lot more. I was going to the gritstone to find a motive, some inspiration, some self confidence again, and most of all success. Perhaps that was where I went wrong with it all. Months of trolling through the guidebooks, looking for the right routes and lines. I could see myself on them, and I could feel myself climbing them. I could already feel that connection with the rock just from the photos and I could feel the success of topping out. But thats the only thing, with the goals I have in mind, success is achieved through many more failures, and my problem was I feared failure.

           It came some what of a shock to me when on the morning of leaving for Hathersage, I found a public post on Evan's facebook page, announcing to anyone who stumbled across it how he would be going down to the Peak District for '2 nights'. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. This couldn't be the case. We had jokingly called it 'Gritfest' through texts and facebook messages. It all seemed amazing; a week (at one point 12 days) of living amongst the grit, climbing and chilling. My head could maybe reach the place I wanted it go, and I could climb to my full potential. All self-doubt and anxiety would be a thing of past in just a weeks time. But reading that facebook status was like having a double decker bus thrown on me from a tall building. I couldn't describe to Evan what this time on the rock meant to me. It didn't to him and that was that. I wanted to plead with him even beg him to stay for longer, but my pride wouldn't allow it. After all it wouldn't have worked anyway. Climbing was climbing to Evan, something that brought adventure, joy, fear. Perhaps that’s the best way to have it, but to me that was just the bit on the surface, and whether it's healthy for it to or not, to me it meant everything. It was where I could learn the true meaning of happiness, achieve total freedom, it was my drug, maybe even my faith, it has become the only thing I think about and the only subject of conversation I can concentrate on and have genuine interest for. All together how much time on the actual rock had I spent? It surely would only amount to a week or two if all the bits in between were taken out. Perhaps that’s why I'd gotten so low this winter. Those precious hours of my life I'd spent on the rock were all I had to cling onto over the season. I was scraping the dregs of the barrel for the left over bits of happy emotions which remained from the autumn.

I needed proof. Proof that the feelings existed and wasn't all made up in my head, proof that I was actually a good climber and had any potential at all. I was willing to put my all into it, all I needed was time. Time I all of a sudden didn't have. I felt anger, rage, and so much sadness. I couldn't believe how selfish Evan was for taking all this away from me, but he wasn't, truth be told all he was doing was going mountain biking at the weekend. It was me who had blown it all out of proportion. I tried to describe what this trip meant to me, but he just said that it shouldn't. Perhaps he was right. Then again whether he was right or wrong it really didn't matter the fact was that it really did mean so much.

We showed up late on in the afternoon at Stanage, to find the place covered in snow. Whole sections of the crag buried, quick easy paths along the bottom of the crag now turned into thigh deep powder. The routes that weren't covered now had water dripping down them. Only a few remained climbable. Evan's morale was almost as low as mine. He didn't see the point in hanging around with all the snow. "Don't get all pessimistic just yet, we haven't seen the crag." I said

But he mimicked me in an exasperated tone and had a go at my optimism. He was in a bad mood because he'd driven down a long way. Was that all that bothered him? He was talking about going back up to the Lakes and doing some stuff in the mountains. It would achieve nothing as far as I was concerned, I would still be walking away with the dreadful self-doubt I came with, but then with a new lack of hope on top of it all. I seemed stupid to him for wanting to stay. I knew then and there he had nothing to prove like I did, being here seemed like all I had left quite frankly, I couldn’t leave. In reality he just wanted to make the most of his time off. To him it was just a case of making the most of the weather conditions. To me it would be admitting defeat and I couldn't cope with that. If he even had the slightest idea of how I was feeling he wouldn't be mocking me for my optimism.

Thankfully one route I wanted to do was dry. Flying Buttress Direct, a fearsome overhang. It looked harder here than it did in the guide. I was a bit concerned as to how I’d do. I just needed to hop on it. If there is one bit I don't like about climbing routes it is the whole, silent anticipation you get before the climb, when the unknown lies ahead, and success is on the other side of a thick brick wall. I would be ok once on the rock. I tied in and set off. I made my way up the unprotected question mark slab placed some gear at the break and went onto the overhang, sticking the heel hook on. I had seen so many photos and videos and read so much literature about the position I was in. It was comfortable and easy. I placed a cam, it looked a bit dodgy, but I went on up before the pump got to be too much. I moved up onto the second step, and then reached for the third. What!? I couldn't reach it. How was this? ‘I’ couldn't reach it? I made two or three lunges, but my arms gave out, I hung onto the cam. 

"I've lost the flash!"

Evan thought this was a stupid thing to say. It was the kind of bollocks you here on ukclimbing.com and that was all. He was wrong, it meant much more. Climbing a route first time, shows you have the skill, the focus, the strength and most of all the ability to get it done then and there. I was upset I didn't have that. 

"I'm F**king useless and pathetic. I'm just s**t!"

I let a glimpse of all the doubt that had been filling my head over the last few months blurt out of my mouth in front of Evan. I felt sorry for him, having to listen to it. It must have been sickening to hear, and most of all made such little sense to him. I had already admitted defeat. Thankfully the joy of being on the route spoke out soon after.

"I tell you what though Evan, it's beautiful!"

I gave it another go, placing my heel on the second step, but pulling up I popped the cam.

"Shit!"

And what a ball ache it was. My next bit of gear was at the break, I was now having to hang off my arms, lowering down to the first step, so Evan could take the rope in to avoid a violent swing onto the question mark slab below. Another attempt after that led to yet another fail, the 4th attempt, led higher up to wet rock, above the worst cam placement I've ever placed. It was the kind of placement you see in the text books as a bad example of a cam placement! I started to freak out a bit, as I tried to get another bit of gear in, on my already pumped arms. I remember wondering if that was it. The climb was well protected, just I hadn't protected it well. Was I going to be another statistic? I decided against the gear placement and realized I'd just have to risk the cam. I lowered onto it with anticipation........ it held. I backed it up while hanging on the rope. I lowered down. I was full of self doubt. After all it was only a HVS and how much of a mini epic had I just had on it. It was now protected to near the top. It seemed ridiculous, if there was an easy way of taking all those bits of gear out the rock and placing them again on the way up I'd have done it, that way I wouldn't feel like such a cheat. I was now going to give it another go. I climbed up onto the second step and reached for the third, I missed it, I was thinking about failing again, I was going to lean back on the rope, when I heard Evan shout. "Go on, try again!" This is exactly why I like climbing with Evan. He drives me on while I'm on the rock. He encourages me, he gives a confidence I often lack and he rates my climbing ability at times I don't. I gave it another lunge, and my hand stuck. I made my way on up. After that I couldn't remember what happened I just remember topping out. I then abseiled down to retrieve the gear. 

Evan got a lead in and his optimism soon rose again. But neither of us were in the mood to find Robin Hoods Cave as planned. We went down to Hathersage and booked into the Youth Hostel for a further 2 nights.

After receiving a tip that Froggat, might be a better bet for less snow, we went down there on the Wednesday. The walk up was nice. It went through trees and bushes and paths with roots cutting across them at unsuspected interludes. It reminded me of the path up to my Grandma's front door. But now it didn't stop and stretched on and on. I let my mind wonder deep into the Past, as I strolled on up the hill, sweating in the morning sun. Froggatt was beautiful. It was an escape from the busy road below. A small crag in comparison to Stanage. It was about quality not quantity. It had lines put up by generations of climbers. From Joe Brown’s Era to Jerry Moffatt’s. We strolled along the crag looking for lines. I found one that crawled up the pinnacle. Ouepidus Direct E4 6a. Well within my technical capabilities, but a huge step into the unknown. The climb consisted of an 8 metre section of unprotected technical climbing until a break, which will take the right cam easily (a cam we didn't have). Once the climber reaches this spot they no longer have the concern of the ankle snapping drop below them. Easier climbing on safer ground leads to the top of the pinnacle. I looked up at it. I had two crash pads laid out below. This would obviously reduce the seriousness of the ascent but to what extent. It would reduce the impact of a fall but would it make it safe. I spent the morning bouldering it up to just above half way, it then started to seem like a long fall to take, so would jump off before it got too much. I was nervous about the climb. It seemed out of my league. Then some other guys came along with an interest in the route too. We put a top rope on it. I fell just above the flake, due to the wrong choice in sequence, but got it after a rest. I never did string all the moves together on the top rope, as they had left before I came back. I didn’t give it a second thought after. It seemed very doable and that was all I needed to know. I went of to do a climb called Bacteria Cafeteria graded E1 5b, an incorrect start, missing out possibly what was the mental crux (I found out later), and a couple of falls due to getting pumped, wondering off route, didn’t give me any of the proof I was looking to get from the week. But there were two gains to be had from it. I had no fear about falling on it. And although I fell twice, the climbing felt really easy, though what route I did I do not know. I had gained confidence on the lead and that was all that mattered. The day was rounded up with a tricky, wet HS led by Evan. We then went to the Little John for tea.

The next day we went to Stanage. It was my last day to prove myself to myself. I’d had no successes over the week and perhaps doubted myself even more now than when I came. I had the wrong attitude. I chose a climb called Black Hawk Bastion E2/3 5c. I spent the morning on it trying to psyche myself up to do the crux move, which would have lead to a nasty fall against the rock. I didn’t commit and bailed out. Looking back on it I don’t know why I did. I could have probably done the move quite easily and the fall although not very nice wouldn’t have been too bad. Perhaps I was looking at the statistics, the failures of my week. The evidence would suggest I wasn’t ready for this climb yet, so I didn't climb it.

It was then off to look at the Right Unconquerable. The first 6 feet buried under snow I was reluctant to climb it as it wasn’t the whole route. I then decided that the first 6 feet probably wasn’t a particularly challenging part anyway and I liked the look of the route. At HVS 5a it would be the easiest climb of the week. It looked so easy. I got on it. I had seen Geoff Birtles climb it on a video. I knew how it should be done and that was how I did it. It flowed so easily, the moves felt so natural and at ease. It was one of those climbs that had the elegance and rhythm of a dance. Before long I was up below the final ‘Belly flop finish’ I started to place my last piece of gear before the top. It took longer than expected. I was trying a few nuts, when I dropped my set. I then got the other set of nuts off my harness and tried to fit one. I got one in, but it was at a weird angle. I was already starting to feel the pump before hand but now it was getting bad. I finally managed to fit a better nut in but I was now ridiculously pumped. Lactic acid was filling up in my arms and I was struggling to stay on. I looked down at Evan who was attentively belaying. I mouthed to him “PUMPED”, as if I didn't want to say it a loud, revealing my weakness to the route. I was trying to shake off. Switching hands, hanging on one while giving the other a rest. It wasn’t working I would just have to go for it. I knew I didn’t have the strength, but all I knew was if I was going to fail on this route I wanted to fall, rather than hang. I moved my hands up onto the top ready to pull up, they slipped off. I couldn’t believe it. This had beaten me too. I ignored the dreaded feeling of failure. It was a beautiful route. I’d climbed with not one thought of fear and all the moves were well within my capabilities. At one time (though very long ago) this climb was one of the hardest around. Attempted by many, it was the legendary Joe Brown who climbed it finally in 1949. Having got up it with no gear in. Perhaps that was my problem, hanging around placing gear. Well it saved me then anyway it was worth it most the time. I waited till the pump went before executing the final top out move with the belly flop. It was a beautiful route and I was glad to have climbed it. I would move here one day. And I’d climb it again and again, it was that beautiful. How could that have been a failure it felt so good. It felt so right. Is it possible to fail on a route you found really easy? It seemed so. I was confident that I could have climbed it again better. If I could just do the Left Unconquerable perhaps I could go home having gained something. But we were out of time, I couldn’t. That was that. We racked up, and walked down off the crag. Evan went home.

With out any further thought I booked another night at the Youth Hostel. I couldn’t leave. I would leave with nothing. But there was nothing to stay for. I had no one to climb with. The next night the hostel would be booked up and I would have to spend the weekend in Robin Hood’s Cave on my own. I’d made my decision to go back tomorrow.

I walked up to Millstone Edge alone. I gazed at some of those classic hard routes, as water pored down them. I looked across the valley as the sun set, just about holding back from tears. The results were in. I had failed. But it was how I chose to cope with it that really mattered. I started to contemplate it. “Failure.” I let thoughts of failure fill my head, I stopped fighting them, I just let them role in from every direction. I started rubbing noses with it, I began accepting it as a friend of mine, I held out my hand with dignity welcoming it further into my life. I would have to get to know it well, so when we cross paths we greet with a smile, and I feel no fear. It can help me if I let it, for it takes me to my other friend every once in a while who perhaps I don’t know quite as well …… “Success”.

Helvellyn - The Hard Way

There was something mystical about the Catsty Cam looked in the snow. The futher away you were from it the more Himalayan like it looked. It was one of those sights that would always look awe inspiring in these conditions.
The protruding rock on its right hand side, the pointy summit and the gully which wound its way up the slope like Ivy up the wall of a house. You could be forgiven for expecting an epic ascent when you first saw it, Perhaps that was what Evan was expecting when he saw it for the first time? I had assured him I had seen a man making his way up it in what appeared to be a walking position and it certainly wouldn't be too much of a problem for us. But at the point I took this photo I was starting to wonder if this man was Jesus Christ. For it looked steep. And I was even more excited now than I was the night before. But as we neared the gully its angle relented and so did my excitement.

It was the first time I had seen Evan in about three months, now he was working up at Castle Toward Outdoor Centre up in Dunoon. He had come down to fulfil his promise of going back to Stanage with me this spring. But he had insisted on some time in the Lakes before hand which is why we were here. This time his friend Susan had come down to join him in the Lakes before Evan and I venture on down to the Gritstone Edges this Tuesday.

Evan 'pretending' to pull an exhausted face

We set on up the gully un roped. The angle wasn't as steep as I expected. The resulting climb was a walk, but none the less a steep one. Calf muscles burning as if someone had poked a hot knife through the back of them, we pushed on and it wasn't long before we found ourselves on the summit of Catsty Cam looking down onto Swirral Edge and a Red Tarn Cove with a tarn, frozen over and buried deep beneath the snow. We then plodded on down to Swirral Edge where we were to stop in a sheltered part for a spot of lunch.

It was then on along Swirral, where a worrying amount of people were making there way off the mountain without crampons or ice axes simply pointing out why this mountain had claimed so many lives. We then went on up the final slope to the summit, where we stopped for a break under in the wind shelter.

As for the final section of the day the descent of Striding Edge. A must tick for serious winter walkers. I was made to wonder how serious when seeing people slipping and sliding along it in trainers, though looking well out of their comfort zone and thankfully taking the advise to go back quite readily. I was expecting the ridge to be more challenging in winter, but realised a lot of this is down to the fact that after every ascent another 'Touching the Void' story is added to its fearsome reputation by the tipsy Hill Walker in the pub. And why shouldn't it? Although unintentionally that tipsy hillwalker in the pub is sending out a further caution to all those careless people about to ascend it in trainers on a windy day and because of that maybe save a life. Which is why I have added to its notorious nature by calling this blog post 'Helvellyn - The Hard Way'. A familiar sounding title to those who have read Bonnington's books, and are maybe considering a winter ascent of the edges in trainers themselves. It was then a down hill slog back to Glenridding, where a quick stop off at the Traveller's Rest (watch your head btw) was the last activity of the day.

Thanks for Reading,

Comments welcome as always,

Ethan