It was an unbelievably warm and clear Friday. Dave and I sat opposite the Senate House watching tourists slowly shedding their layers and bringing out their shades. Looking down at my plastic boots, axes and ridiculously large sack, a ten hour drive to Aviemore seemed such a monumental hassle especially since we were not certain of the conditions. Why not spend a weekend on sunny rock? But I had already been captivated by my first climbing trip to Scotland two weeks before. The stunning sunset from the summit of Meagaidh, the blue ice and the beauty of Glen Coe were not easily forgotten. After a quick stop in Carlisle to pick up Ben and deplete his food supply, we kept beating on down the motorways. Ben was in high spirits and we caught up on his week's saga of being a vet. They varied from stories of dogs dying on him before he had even touched them, to delicate operations with pregnant cows...
We were headed for the Cairngorms which Dave and Amos seemed to know quite well after a week's visit there this winter. Names of routes were thrown around and I felt quite lost as I tried to understand why a word pronounced "Trek" is spelt "Snateq"?
At eight thirty the next morning the Cairngorm ski station was still not open, and the impatience to climb was mounting. The wind and poor visibility was quite a contrast to the open skies and sunshine we had enjoyed at Meagaidh, but I just retreated into my hood and began the inevitable walk in.
"Why does Dave have such long strides? Why does Amos walk like a duck? Why is my stomach making strange noises?"
These were only some of the inspired thoughts that occupied me for those two long hours. Our aim was to climb in Coire an Lochan. Unfortunately when we arrived the clouds decided to obscure what little visibility we had previously been granted. Where was this elusive climb?
"I'm shure it's here", declared the beloved Irishman. I was not so "shure" nor was Amos so we decided to walk back to Coire ant-Sneachda and leave Ben in Dave's competent hands.
"We'll try Katy's Route", I thought Amos had said. My image of "Katy" the Destivelle of the Cairngorms was quickly dispelled as I realised that it was Tom Patey's route- yet .html famous mountaineer I had not heard of.
As we approached the climb, bright gore-tex jackets and helmets bobbed from virtually every gully. Suddenly this bleak Scottish landscape seemed more like an overcrowded adventure playground. Just managing to get crampons on and set up before the two other couples in close pursuit, Amos lead the first pitch up to the looming bulge that the guide book had warned me about. Making a wide bridge, leaning right back, he placed his axes and passed the precarious move. It was pretty terrifying to watch and I had the added bonus of an audience when it got to my turn. Finding myself too short to make the first bridge move I looked despairingly at this obstinate bulge. "You'll just have to hook your axes and swing your legs over", said the all too helpful onlooker. My growing humiliation forced me to commit myself. Putting all my weight on my axes I pulled hard and hauled the rest of my body around. Adrenaline pumping and feeling the move had been a personal triumph, I arrived at the belay ledge to find a composed, or probably cold, Amos which somewhat deflated my epic moment. The rest of the route was not too momentous apart from a tricky traverse across a large slab. Luckily there was a helpful sling for the less scrupulous.
At the top we met up with Dave and Ben who had just summitted on Aladdin's Buttress - they had never found the other route. Everyone looked elated and satisfied to have completed a route. Dave's verdict on the climbing was, "A piece of piss". But I felt my enthusiasm waning as my stomach began to make decidedly strange noises. Ben and Dave went off to do Patey's and Amos suggested something easy where I could practice leading.
Goat Gully is probably a very pleasant route but I swore my way up and left the second pitch for Amos. The wind had been picking up but suddenly the weather turned and it became obvious that it was time to go down. The spindrift began to blow and the visibility was going rapidly. The walk out became quite difficult with snow drifts and strong winds. I was amazed at how quickly the landscape had transformed and realised that this was probably typical of Scottish weather. My predominant thought was to ignore the increasing demands of my stomach. It was dark when we finally spotted the lights of the ski station swinging in what was now very strong winds.
The winds became so violent that the car began to rock and slowly the lights of the ski station shut down. A very exhilarated Ben and Dave arrived and we drove off to spend Saturday night soaking in grease at Scotland's Finest Fish and Chip Shop. The evening was uneventful apart from Amos' party trick of falling asleep at the wheel.
Sunday was clearer and at nine the car park was full of budding skiers. I looked wistfully at the effortless enjoyment of being dragged up chairlifts and speeding down slopes, and then plodded on. We planned to climb Fluted Buttress, a mixed route at Coire ant-Sneachda. Again the weather took a sudden change for the worse and the blue sky was transformed by strong gusts of snow. I could barely see Amos through all the snow as he began the first pitch. The wind howled, the ropes swung and spindrift swirled. This was the real Scottish experience I supposed, and it was superb. Climbing was no longer only the physical and technical challenge posed by the route but the weather had to be battled out as well. The climb was more sustained than Patey's had been, but with no real crux moves. I realised that mixed climbing needed a little thinking and creativity to secure axes in cracks and balance crampons. At the first belay Amos seemed almost apologetic about the weather but we decided to keep going. Snow and ice had already begun to stick to his hair. The second pitch I found trickier as it narrowed and it was almost uncomfortable chimmneying at times. At the next belay ledge I could not stop laughing as spindrift avalanches choked me in powder. By the time we had finished only Amos' eyes were visible beneath the curtain of ice that caked his hair. The wind at the summit was not conducive to staying up any longer and we made our way back.
In the car we prepared ourselves for a long wait as Dave and Ben had gone to climb in an area with a three hour walk in. Allowing for the navigational difficulties in the horrendous weather, they were definitely going to take their time. About half an hour later we saw two figures sitting slumped on the benches in the car park - it was them. The weather had forced them to change their plans and climb at Coire ant-Sneachda, but they both looked a paler shade of green, especially Dave. He had found the incessant wind and spindrift claustrophobic. After decorating a Scottish road Dave looked decidedly happier and we drove on to that haven of warmth and grease, the Fish and Chip shop.
It seemed that the stomach bug I had they day before had worked its way around and chips were not eaten with the same voracity. The drive home loomed but no one wanted to begin. Ben had to hand over the wheel as he was feeling awful, so Amos achieved the literally heroic feat of staying awake and driving back to Cambridge whilst Dave and I dozed.
Crawling into my bed at five on Monday morning I remember still feeling the elation of the weekend. Fighting the weather, climbing challenging routes and even the travelling, had created a sense of adventure which is such a part of the intense experience of climbing.