THE necessity for keeping the Long Vac. Term had despatched the last of my hopes for an Alpine holiday. Moreover, a broken toe and various activities at Marlow and Henley had separated the members of a proposed trip to the Lofotens. I determined to have a long climbing holiday in this country instead. So it was that on a wet Sunday morning early in September my rather dangerously overladen Royal Enfield carried Arthur Muirhead and myself north along Loch Lomondside to Glencoe. I had already had three weeks in Wales and Cumberland and my appetite for Scottish climbing had been whetted by a visit to the Cobbler two days before. The long approach over the Rannoch moor seemed dull and gave little indication of the perfect week ahead; as we ran down to Kingshouse the flanks of the Buachaille Etive Mor lay back, dull and uninviting, the summit hidden in thick mist. The road dipped into the Glen and quickly we found ourselves at the Clachaig turning. Of Eric Langmuir there was no sign. It was two o’clock.
Thinking that we might find Eric at Lagangarbh, we unloaded the bike and drove back up the glen; above us the cliffs of Aonach Dubh hung menacingly, water streaming down them. Still the third member failed to appear, and Arthur suggested a look at Crowberry Ridge. The rain had ceased for the latter half of our journey and we were quite dry, but now as we climbed up into the mist it became cold and wet. The step from Abraham’s Ledge refused to yield and we detoured via Greig’s Ledge to the top of Stob Dearg. Nearing the summit the dull wet rock seemed to take on a bluish tinge as patchily the mist shredded in the wind, letting through an eerie half-light. It was my second Munro and as we descended, uncomfortably damp, I felt that this introduction to the Buchaille was not very propitious. However, there was Eric waiting with a hot meal and life immediately took on a brighter aspect.
The morning, bright and clear, presented two problems. What to climb and how to get there. The Buachaille provided the first answer and a spare pillion seat on .html motorcycle answered the second question. We departed rather noisily, finding the crisp morning air combined with the serpentine wriggles of the new road quite exhilarating. The choice fell on the Central Buttress and leaving the bikes a mile or so down the Etive road, we cut straight across the moor and quickly up the lower slopes to the foot of a series of short walls. Eric led off and soon we found ourselves ensconced on a commodious and sunny ledge. We paused for oranges and chocolate.
From the Heather Ledge the North Face Route offers two alternative traverses right. Eric, now stripped to the waist in the broiling sun, chose the higher of the traverses and slowly edged his way out and round a corner. The situation was spectacular and obviously merited a photograph. Arthur followed, and in due course I joined him across a wall at the foot of a rather wet and rotten looking chimney with Eric already a few feet up. We found that with careful handling the rock was sufficiently safe. From the top of the chimney a traverse on small but adequate sloping holds led from a belay out onto an airy ridge providing a delightful final pitch of eighty feet over perfect warm rock. It was barely two o’clock, so with the sun beating on our heads we scrambled down the Curved Ridge. I reflected that my previous feelings toward the Buachaille had been unduly harsh.
Across Easy Gully the Rannoch Wall stood warm and inviting; sharp lines of shadow against the rock glare outlined every feature, making the three hundred and fifty feet seem even more vertical. We sat and gazed – Agag’s was a natural choice. I thought Arthur would lead, and was surprised when Eric thrust the front end of the rope into my hands and observed to Arthur, "John had better lead this, it will make a good introduction to the wall." Arthur had told me often of the charms and "colossal exposure" of Agag’s Groove; also, recent experience had increased my respect for Scottish grading of climbs.
I found myself embarked on the first pitch and remembered the photograph of the route in W. H. Murray’s "Mountaineering in Scotland." A pronounced groove with good holds for ninety feet almost straight up, then, curving slightly left across the wall, arrived at a belay. The scree in the Gully dropped quickly below and unnecessarily I split the first pitch in two. Across the moor Kingshouse Inn shone white in the sun. The angle of the groove eased and the line moved convexly leftward and up over red rock for a full run out until a squeeze behind a large block brought me to a small platform. The others arrived quickly – too quickly, for I enjoyed my position and the next pitch held the crux. The groove continued at the same angle for some fifteen feet, then suddenly and awkwardly, it steepened. A scratched hold indicated a line out to the left and the effect of forsaking the subtle shelter of the groove for the open face was quite startling. In spite of the feeling that this was no place to loiter, it was impossible not to resist a glance between my boots at the foot of the wall. I put on a runner and after inspection found that convenient foot holds, a jam and a pull brought me over the nose. More easily I reached a belay. The sun was off the wall now and the triangular shadow of the mountain was already creeping across the moor to Cupal Bridge. Arthur appeared and I went on, sometimes back in the groove and sometimes on the face, for a further seventy feet to the top of the wall and an abrupt landing on the broad crest of Crowberry Ridge. The others arrived, Eric almost "butterflying" up the wall, and we munched chocolate. A feeling of singular satisfaction, obviously shared by the others, spread through me. I liked this mountain.
It was cool in the shadow on the ridge, and it was not long before we were traversing the base of the Crowberry Tower and then down the gully and out, racing across the heather in the sun till we dropped exhausted by the road; but not for long: a vicious swarm of midges descended and sent us helter-skelter as fast as the bumpy surface and my springs permitted. We returned to the Glen, to food, and two days of doubtful weather.
Thursday morning was beautiful though, and again we fixed on Rannoch Wall; Eric wanted to look at January Jigsaw. We had found a ready solution to the transport problem with the discovery that the Enfield was quite capable of carrying three up and even maintaining a steady fifty for most of the way up the Glen. Later we were to try it with four up, but found that this somewhat diminished the speed.
Standing at the foot of the cliff, we looked up. We had noticed before that the Curved Ridge offered an excellent view- point from which to watch parties on the wall, so I scrambled up with my camera while Eric and Arthur climbed the first pitch of the Jigsaw. Whereas Agag’s Groove starts well to the right and trends left to a finish above the centre of the wall, January Jigsaw begins more to the left and then meanders over most of the right- hand half of the cliff, crossing Agag’s about halfway up and then finishing directly above the start. Certainly it cannot be called a direct route, but it loses nothing in value by that. The first pitch, on perfect rock, consisted of a short steep crack followed by a long slanting staircase, climbed via a series of short walls And right angle corners. With the first two at the belay the nylon swished down and I duly crossed the Gully and tied on, then, as I joined Arthur, Eric traversed horizontally right to a flake and belayed himself. From there the route lay round a narrow nose into a shallow groove leading straight up. With Arthur now below him, Eric half disappeared round the nose and as he began to inch up the groove, that half of his profile still remaining in view called for .html picture; I blessed the compactness of my camera.
Overhead, and about a hundred and fifty feet, I could see a fantastically foreshortened view of .html climber engaged on the crux of Agag’s. He must have been almost directly above me, for only when he lent over could I see any part of him but the soles of his boots! Suddenly a startled exclamation from nearer at hand announced that Eric had discovered afresh that even large blocks are not quite as secure as they look; but the rope continued to creep out and all seemed well. Arthur and I climbed up, both finding the first moves awkward and both avoiding the loose block until after ascending left again we arrived in turn at a stance only to find ourselves sitting once more in Agag’s Groove, just below the crux.
Living up to its name our route now traversed right, out of the groove and round a corner into the Haven. This traverse provided quite delicate footwork, particularly one very pleasing move, just in balance, between two widely spaced holds. When eventually it was my turn to rest in the Haven I found myself in a triangular corner floored with bilberries and fitted with a comforting high belay; apart from this there was nothing. Nothing on either side and nothing straight down, not for two hundred feet anyway. But looking out from my eyrie I could see the Moor of Rannoch stretching for mile upon mile beyond Kingshouse until in the distance Loch Lomond lay glinting in the sun and then, still further beyond, the cone of Schiehallion rising dimly above the heat haze. Unfortunately, at this time of year the sun goes early behind the mountain and I was not sorry when a signal from Arthur set me climbing a short steep groove above. Forty feet brought me to the next "stance," though it barely justified its title: a small sloping ledge with what must surely have been the grandfather of all pitons protruding from a crack. Eric had already led the final pitch and as I clipped onto the iron-ware Arthur prepared to move on. Above hung a wicked looking crack – the crux of Satan’s Slit, and looking at it I was mightily relieved when Arthur avoided it, stepping right and then up. He moved out of sight.
Once more by myself I wished that we had made an earlier start; a teen breeze made it colder and colder and the rope crept out extraordinarily slowly. I supposed it must be a lot harder than anything before: I was to find out. At last a shout from the top and untying, I followed Arthur’s step right and then moved up. Almost immediately I stepped down and moved left and back in the relative security of the stance. I looked down into the Gully and checked my Tarbuck. At the second try it went alright and the line went on moving slightly one way or .html "avoiding difficulties" but for the most part vertically straight up. What difficulties it did not avoid were disconcertingly continuous and I felt rather harrowed and not a little relieved when after eighty feet I was able to congratulate Eric on his lead. We climbed the Crowberry Tower and ambled to the sunshine at the top of the Buachaille.
The weather in Glencoe seemed to have its moods and the next day being rather wet, we contrived to get wetter by exploring the first five hundred feet of Clachaig Gully. On Saturday we were reinforced by Guy Howard and with the sky once more brilliant and clear, inevitably we found ourselves on the Buachaille Etive Mor, again contemplating Rannoch Wall. The general feeling was that we ought to complete the job and do the last of the three easiest routes on the cliff, so with two ropes we tackled Route l. Guy and Eric on one rope were soon up the first chimney. Arthur led the second rope and I joined him to lead through on the second pitch, where patches of rotten rock lent further interest to the technical difficulties. This was a factor which up to then we had not encountered on the Wall. However, it was impossible to avoid most of the loose stuff and with Arthur not immediately underneath, Easy Gully was an obvious receptacle for debris. On the next pitch, the first rope was delayed at .the crux; we were moving too close together, so that after an ascending traverse and then a straightforward’ thirty feet, I had perforce to wait at an inter- mediate belay. Eric’s stance would not accommodate two. Eventually the way was clear, and Arthur came up and climbed on; I joined him at a sloping stance, again with a rusty peg. From here a fifteen foot wall offered one way, but a series of three widely separated ledges suggested a more promising route. Another of Bill Murray’s photographs came to mind. Unfortunately it was impossible to see what lay round and beyond the nose above the third ledge. The three ledges formed a steep traverse left that proved harder than it had looked at first sight. Placing a runner on a knob I stepped up above the last ledge.
The next move was obvious: with the right hand on the knob, all that was required was to lean out across the nose and stretch a foot across to a well marked hold. But between a hundred and two hundred feet below, the boulders appeared very small and I retired to look at the fifteen foot wall. This offered such little consolation that I was soon back at the nose. One leg was tiring rather, and I began to wonder: the runner on the knob made the hand-hold uncomfortably small, yet with the runner off.... ? Perhaps Arthur would like to try? He tried, and slowly made the awkward move, then stepping up he quite deliberately bent his head and spat between his feet. It hit the wall a few feet above the gully floor, and Arthur climbed on to the belay. Once over the crux, but with a rope above me, I cursed my lack of determination; it was my turn again to congratulate the leader. Firmer rock lent confidence and I led the last pitch, but little remains to memory. The other two had waited for us, and joining them we went up for the last time to the top of the mountain.
The rain of the previous day had cleared the air so that now, as distance gave upon distance we could see even the Cairngorms, lying shadowy on the horizon. Loch Leven shone at the feet of the mountains of Ardgour standing dark against the sun. Goat Fell on Arran, the Paps of Jura, mountain beyond mountain, and the two Scots seemed able to put a name to each. It was unbelievable that seven days before I had never set eyes on the Buachaille, yet now, after our climbs on the Crowberry Ridge, Central Buttress and above all on the Rannoch Wall, I felt that this week-old acquaintance had developed beyond measure. We sat content, gazing north to Nevis basking above the Mamores and then, far beyond these, the jagged peaks of the Cuillin beckoned – a misty blue in the setting sun. A day or so later we left Glencoe and turned north to Skye.