JUST before seven in the morning and the Scottish midwinter darkness was still complete. Inside the C.I.C, hut it was darker still as I lay thinking over the last few days. First it had been rain, and warm with last week’s reported good conditions literally melting away. We had been pessimistic as we trudged up the two and a half miles of boggy track from the distillery, our sacks of goodies reducing us to a steady mile an hour. The next day from sheer boredom we had gone for a walk in the rain. We returned happier: although the thaw had taken the snow off most of the ridges and buttresses, there was a lot of firm old snow in the gullies. So to find out about snow and ice we assaulted these and had a good day. Then the rain had stopped and the nights had become even colder, so we had been a bit more ambitious. This was to be our last day and we must leave for Fort William in the evening but last night had promised a good day so we intended to do the Tower Ridge. There would not be overmuch snow on it but we thought that frozen meltwater on the rocks could be time-consuming so we planned to be off at eight.
Soon after seven somebody’s alarm clock unwound at the far end of the hut, I lay there thinking: if I wait there a bit longer someone else will get up and put a light on and a brew. Soon I can’t delay any longer. So I find some clothes and then there is a kettle boiling and porage making. A relieving trip outside reveals a view of cold, clear stars, framed by the black and white flecked cliffs of Coire na Ciste. All looks good but it is cold out there so I am soon inside again telling Mike the good news and stuffing porage down unwilling throat and gear down unwilling sack.
For once we are even on time as we stumble out into the half-light. Below us the glen of the Allt a’Mhuillin is truncated: at fifteen hundred feet it stops short where a sea of cotton-wool cloud breaks noiselessly on the grassy shore. Beyond the hills at the head of Glen Garry rise like little islands: their lower slopes snow-white, the uppers rose-red in the dawn.
We slowly wander up the valley towards the Douglas Boulder – the two thousand feet of ridge all visible against a blue-black sky and the impressiveness grows on us, so a halt has to be made. The snow is really frozen hard so, soon after, .html is necessary to engage crampons. Thus equipped we move fast along the snow slopes on the eastern edge of Coire na Ciste to the foot of the Douglas Gap West Gully. It is getting lighter all the time and as we rise higher more and more peaks come into view, archipelagos in the grey sea. We keep stopping, shutters clicking in all directions. The snow in the gully is not complete; there are three rocky steps but on the whole the hard crampon-inviting surface makes for fast progress to the Douglas Gap, which is reached at a quarter to nine.
From here an easy chimney leads up sixty feet or so onto the ridge proper. There is hardly any snow on the rocks, just icy patches to keep the concentration going, so crampons are relegated to rucksacks. The chimney is quite steep and fitted with huge flat holds, but my bulging sack does its best to convince me that I will fall off backwards, so I am quite glad to emerge onto the ridge itself. The first bit is level and wide, you could walk along it with your hands in your. pockets, but soon the route moves out right along a snowy shelf towards Coire na Ciste. The snow is quite hard but a narrow rocky section at the bottom is reasonable – only icy, and I am nearly convinced I should have left my crampons on. It is soon over though, and we move back to the top of. the ridge by scrambling over rocks which are surprisingly free from ice.
It is level again now – though narrower and occasionally there are short stretches of hard snow where the wind has sculpted the crest to a sort of knife edge. Really beautiful, but how do you tackle them with no crampons – a step kicking hand traverse but boots don’t really bite – or a cheval, but think of that cold, cold snow between your legs – eventually it is a teetering tight rope walk and not too hard really "Two nicks... are met here", but I am the only one, "on the left of the second is the top of the Great Chimney"; I look down it and am impressed; consult the guide book to find it is Grade IV.
"150 feet beyond this second cleft is the little tower... the route is by the left edge." We just wander on up, trying to go for the rocky bits rather than the snowy ones. At the top we call a halt for photographs, to look around and study the guidebook. Above us is the Great Tower, four thousand feet up the mountain and a hundred and fifty feet high. We are soon at its foot and looking at the Eastern Traverse. A thin band of high angle snow leads out left – above is the east side of the tower, almost vertical and encrusted with snow where it falls back below this angle.
The snow is hard so we stop to put on our crampons and, seeing two pegs peeping out of a crack in the rock, put on the rope as a gesture to the impressive drop – four hundred feet, seemingly vertically, between the crampons of the traversing climber and the floor of Observatory Gully. Mike belays to the pegs and I move out left – easy now but the next bit looks harder. I have to move down and cross a shallow groove. I think about a runner but it is not worth putting in a peg and perhaps it is not that hard really, so on I go and it really isn’t, so I stop to pose for a photo and then reciprocate. Round the corner now and up; "How much rope left?"; "Twenty feet." Christ! I don’t make a habit of running out a hundred and thirty feet of single nine mil; still, better start looking for a belay. Some flakes above me look inviting, so I mantleshelf onto a rock ledge, crampon points sparking on the icy rock – no joy though, they are all loose, but ten feet away is a boulder sticking out of a snowfield. I get there and it seems secure so I drop a tape over it and bury a deadman for good measure, then I sit on the boulder to hold it in and take in the remaining five feet of rope.
I have a superb view down into Observatory Gully, and as Mike comes up I watch N and Z at the start of Good Friday climb. They seem to be having a bit of trouble as ropes and buckets abound on their walk up. An attempt at shouted conversation reveals the superb echoing abilities of this part of the gully but soon degenerates to insults. Then my attention is drawn to Mike who has nearly finished the pitch and soon leads on through to the top of the tower in .html rope’s length, I follow – finding it quite steep but soon getting the hang of using small rock holds with crampon points.
The view from the top of the tower is really scenic so we get some more pictures before moving on to the supposed sting in the tail – the Tower Gap. A hundred feet of level ridge leads me to the near edge of it, Someone, I think, described it in a recent journal as the karate chop of an enraged Norse deity – I can’t think of a better description. Six or seven feet across and some ten or fifteen feet deep, its sides are vertical to north and south, while to the east steep mixed ground drops away into tower gully and to the west is a bird’s eye view of Glover’s Chimney (now immortalised on the front cover of Wilson’s weekly). It looks a fine route and plans for the next visit are already hatching. Anyway, a tape over a large block spurs me on to scramble down into the cleft and then I set about getting out again. It isn’t really very hard and so I soon bounce back up out of my hole and start rabbitting about for a belay. A large loose flake comes to light and so Mike gets the go ahead, finding if anything even less difficulty than I had done. The rope is soon coiled away in a sack and we assault the final steep ice and snow leading to the summit.
We sit down and appreciate the eleven o’clock sunlight on the roof of Scotland – below us the higher hills sail like ships of the line through the cloudy sea. Away to the west are the Cuillins – with many memories of summer, and just the tip of Rhum. To the south, beyond the Mamores, Bidean and Cruachan dominate; away to the east is conical Schehallion, to north-east the bulk of the Cairngorms with many more memories, and northwards, north-westwards, the hills of Inverness and Ross, Mam Sodhail and the Sisters I particularly recognise.
The unexpected earliness leads to thought of .html climb and Three Gully Buttress is decided on in view of enthusiastic reports from other Cambridge members the previous day. Quickly we walk through the winter sunlight towards number four gully. At the top of two gully a Scotsman from the hut is just overcoming the cornice so we watch and then go on.
Soon we are looking across the steep snow slopes towards three gully and its buttress. Two are already on it though the leader seems to have finished the first pitch. Quickly cramponning across we arrive and start uncoiling the rope. The leader still hasn’t found a belay so we talk and sort gear, then I am off up the ice pitch – seems very straight-forward but nice with it and I am soon banging in a leeper and tying it off for a belay along with a frozen deadman. Mike is soon there and leads on up; then it’s onwards and upwards leapfrogging up a hundred and fifty feet at a time, except for a bit of yoyoing after runaway pegs, and in four more rope lengths we are back in the summit sunlight. Quick speed comparisons lead us to conclude that either we are better than we thought or others are more festerous.
Once again the talk is of .html route and North Gully is mooted but a sight of the cornice above and a closer acquaintance with the almost bare lower section reveals hidden festering abilities and a taste for brews and bacon butties in the hut.
As darkness falls four burdened glow-worms leave the hut in quest of the ale and chips of Fort William. Two hours later these thoughts are realised in the Jacobite, and while two of us get thrashed at arrows by the local Mountain Rescue the others just drink and think of how much there is for the next visit.