CIC – CUMC

So this was it, that infamous scene of many an epic fester the Charles Inglis Clark Hut on the slopes of Ben Nevis. Described by various CUMC members, and even hardened mountaineers, as "a squalid little hole", it was a welcoming sight nonetheless after toiling up the Allt A’Mhuillin for two hours, laden down with vast supplies of consumables and even a little ice-climbing gear. I had been assured that the latter would he totally redundant and indeed, much equipment had already been abandoned in lockers at Port William station as the prospect of the walk-in had been faced. The secret behind the popularity of the annual CUMC meet at the CIC Hut was, it had seemed to me, the guarantee of foul weather on the Ben rendering all forms of outdoor activity impossible... so it seemed somewhat foolish to come too well prepared.

All the previous week, talk had been of nothing but food to be taken; meals, snacks and little things to nibble whilst idling away five days in the hut. Being but a novice in the art of festering (as well as ice-climbing), I had chosen as my "climbing" partner one of the CUMC’s most accomplished members in this field. The fact. that Roger had done very little ice-climbing himself seemed completely irrelevant!

Roger, Robert and Pete, and I had come up a day early to ensure that first thing Sunday morning we could grab the bunks nearest the stoves, so as to minimise movement once established indoors. Saturday night, as we packed into Robert’s new tent (a self-collapsing Phoenix model of ingenious design), I thought blissfully of the relaxing few days that I believed lay ahead.

You may imagine my feelings early the next morning when driven from my warm sleeping bag by others with less cosy pits, to discover that it was, in fact, a beautiful day, and I was expected to go out and get some fresh air, God forbid!

***

Tower Ridge was a hoot. Up and out in the pearly dawn, bitching at the cold and exclaiming at the day. Then away up the hill – playing hide-and-seek behind the boulders, meeting nature in the raw – while we gained a sort of momentum which carried us up into the Douglas Gap, where Robert and Pete waited.

After the first groove, which was steep and awkward, we moved together on easy ground, following Robert and Pete along icy shelves and around jutting outcrops of rock. We got bored of that after a bit, so while Pete went footling off around the corner, I went straight up the hard-looking bit in the middle. Only it was easy really and I popped out below the Great Tower, sunlight and snow banked on the rock before me, and unhappy voices drifting up from the right. The Eastern Traverse was easy too, but Tower Gap gave pause for thought until my hand closed over the big spike. Kate messed up the rope there, and found herself fishing in Glover’s Chimney with fifty feet of best nylon line. After that it was all over bar the shouting and the man at the top who kept taking pictures.

It was lunchtime on the summit, so we gorged ourselves on a delicious panorama of peaks and lochs, from Ben Macdhui to the Cuillin of Skye, ebony on aching blue. For dessert we peered down Zero, then trudged off towards Coire Leis and the Little Brenva Face. Kate’s ankles hurt, her enthusiasm tempered, her eyes fixed on the hut.

"Do you want to do Cresta?"
"Not really."
"O.K. We’ll do Bob Run."

***

Front-pointing came as a considerable relief for my tortured ankles, unused to the vice-like grip of Nark’s "big boots". Robert moved across from a dripping Cresta to join Roger on the first pitch of Bob Bun. They spent some time showering me with fragments of ice whilst placing, on a trivial section of ice, the most solid drive-in I was to see all week. When the time came for me to remove it, instead of lifting straight out in the usual manner of ice-pro, it stubbornly resisted all my attempts to loosen it, and I had to resort to excavating a large section of the route with rather uncontrolled swings of my axe.

On reaching the top, I declined the offer of a quick stroll up Carn Môr Dearg with R & R and hobbled down towards the hut to join Pete for a brew. A helicopter was lifting off some unfortunate who had taken a 100 yard slide down the rocks next to the abseil posts, but my spirits, raised high by the thought of steaming mugs of tea, platefuls of tasty tomato pasta and cheesy-toasties, could not be dampened.

The scene in the hut that evening was less sordid than I had been led to expect. Where were the semi-naked bodies, bathed in sweat and condensation from the sauna-like atmosphere; the poker dice, cards and whisky bottles? The only alcohol on the entire mountain was a bottle of the amber fluid which Roger and I had brought, and we were determined that that would go no further than our corner of the bunk. I ascribed the almost civilised ambience to the fact that Rob Barton had yet to arrive, but had high hopes of the next day.

Monday dawned bright and clear, much to my horror, and once again I was labouring up the slopes from the hut, cursing at the pain being inflicted on my ankles. Much of the morning was spent in a "serious attempt" on Point Five – me slowly disappearing beneath a growing heap of snow on the belay, whilst Roger cursed the elements somewhere out of sight above my head. Time and again he was driven back from near the top of the second pitch by facefuls of freezing spindrift, as below, the figures of Robert and Pete, who had arrived to spectate, faded in and out of view behind a curtain of white. Finally, after some hours and considerable pressure from his frozen second, Roger came down and we quickly knocked off Tower Scoop before returning to the hut for a well-deserved mid-afternoon tea.

***

Robert leaned over the table.

"What’s that?"
"Dahl."
"And that?"
"Mushroom biriyani."
"Oh."

I continued feeding my face, and the enormous mound of food on my plate slowly diminished.

"Can I try some?"
"Sure. Finish it, I’m full."

I watched in fascination as Robert shovelled down half a plateful of mixed veg and spices, to join the amalgam of Beanfeast, beef stew and cheesy-toasties already lining his gut. He grunted, belched.

"It’s alright, I suppose."

I lay back, replete, whilst the conversation ebbed and flowed around me.

"Another brew, youth?"
"... crapping myself." A Barton epic.
"I see England won."
"South Gully ... grade IV ... 10’ cornice." A Rushman epic.
"Where’s my handbag?"
"... anal sex ..." Barton again.
"Zero was pretty thin." A Herold failure.
"Robert, your toast’s burning."
"I think I’ve got frostbite." A Wilson epic.
"Put on a brew, Brendan!"

The long, hot evening wore slowly an. Next morning I waited at the entrance to the Gorge as Kate advanced from the hut with all the speed and grace of an arthritic tortoise, displaying a vocabulary catholic in variety if not sentiment. We geared-up there, and I soloed off up the icy sidewall, staying solicitously close ahead of Kate until an attempted axe placement behind my Achilles tendon persuaded me to keep my distance.

When we arrived at Garadh, the frostbite team were already ensconced on the second pitch. The route consisted of straightforward ice, followed by a long névé slope broken by a ten foot ice step. We elected to dispense with the rope and caught Brendan below the step. He and I looked on in amusement as Kate flailed up, one axe over the top, one crampon scarting on the bulge below, space limbs thrashing wildly. I followed in similar style.

Then we did Raeburn’s Easy Route, sort of by accident. Comb was occupied and I didn’t like the look of where I thought Raeburn’s went, so we soloed some ice bulges. Only that was really Raeburn’s, and there was nothing left to do but crab across acres of steep, hard névé, calves screaming despite platforms hacked every fifty feet. At a patch of unexpectedly soft snow Kate decided that she was tired of sideways movement and departed rapidly downwards on her stomach. The random swing of an axe stopped her before she became fully committed to a free-fall reversal of No. 2 Gully Buttress. We moved on and, after a brief struggle with the cornice, emerged onto the windswept plateau.

I suggested Comb Gully to round off the day. Kate calmly replied that she had to wash her hair. Stunned by the enormity of this concept, I wandered back down to the hut in a daze.

***

The attention paid to my hair-washing session was, I thought, quite excessive. I was virtually ostracised the entire evening for being ’clean’ – a state obviously alien to other (male!) occupants of the hut. By now I was resigned to the fact that the more sordid aspects of life in the hut were unlikely to manifest themselves whilst I was present, so I opened the whisky bottle, which had been carefully stashed on my corner of the bunk, and attempted to get Brendan drunk.

Wednesday was .html fine day, but someone muttered something about it being windy, so I stayed in my pit until driven out by too many brews. It was to be my last day on the Ben and I was determined to make it a lazy one. I cast around for some excuse to stay indoors.

Apart from my hair-washing session I had managed to avoid all contact with the grease-encrusted sink, but now every surface in the hut was piled high with filthy dishes and pans and by midday I could stand it no longer. I shrugged off my cloak of apathy and commenced battle with dishcloth in hand. Within hours patches of table could be discerned through the grot and there were enough clean mugs for Roger, Jeremy and I to have .html brew, so I laid down my cloth and turned my attention to food. We pooled our resources; porridge oats, sugar, Jeremy’s butter . . . then my gaze fell upon Jon’s enormous jar of golden syrup.

"Flapjacks!"

Several hours later, stomachs groaning after the self- indulgent feast, Roger, Jeremy and I strolled up Observatory Gully to watch with interest as some crazed Frenchmen struggled against the spindrift on Point Five. It was with considerable satisfaction I later learned that the trio had retreated before completing the first pitch.

The following morning, as I stumbled down towards Fort William in the first light of dawn, my thoughts turned to Arran, the geology field trip and prospect of snatching a few routes on spare afternoons. But what thrills could a mere rock route hold after the excitement of steep ice?

***

Robert and Pete arose as Kate and the frostbite team departed, and sloped off muttering something about "having .html look at Zero." It required no act of clairvoyance to see that the wind lashing the hut would he channeling rivers of spindrift down Point Five, so Rob and I remained in our pits whilst breakfast noises rose slowly to a crescendo and faded with janglings of ice gear and the creak of the outer door.

In the wee sma’ hours of the afternoon we left the hut and trolled up Coire na Ciste, buffeted by erratic gusts from a cerulean sky. By an artful strategem I arrived first at the foot of Green Gully and disappeared upwards, pretending to have spotted a belay stance. As I reached the third pitch, a plaintive cry floated up.

"I’d really rather not solo this route!"

This was Rob ’Psycho’ Barton? Joining me at the newly fashioned stance, he confessed sheepishly that he "wasn’t properly psyched up." In more conventional style we climbed gloriously easy ice to a plateau scoured by the wind to a polycrystalline expanse of firm névé. I jumped up and down with joy and cold toes, then we scampered off down No. 4 and returned to the hut to feast on the last of the three day old minestrone.

With Kate gone, the climate of the hut reverted to normal and the atmosphere once again became blue with contributions, verbal and anal, from the assembled company. From my perch on the upper bunk, I looked out past tousled heads and piles of dirty dishes to the pool of stagnant water growing beneath the sink, the toast burning under the grill and the socks steaming by the fire. But my mind raced on towards Arran, beguiled my visions of remote island fastnesses, soaring towers of golden granite and .html tick in Hard Rock.

But fate was to play a different card. Three days later I stood shivering on a ledge 400 feet up the Rosa Pinnacle whilst the only snowfall of the holiday swirled around me and the mists closed in. As the others prepared to abseil off, my thoughts returned to the CIC: claustrophobic warmth, cheesy-toasties, and the satisfaction of knowing that the gale could do its worst. It was to be a long, cold retreat.