Every year, the inevitable question comes. What to do with that weird week between Christmas and New Years? It usually boils down to “fester and vegetate”, two states that are fairly alien to me in the rest of the year but universally deemed acceptable from the 26th-31st December. This year though, I resolved to actually make use of the forced time off. I don’t remember if it was me or Chris (probably not me), but someone, at some point, floated the idea of a trip to Scotland to try our hand at some Scottish winter mixed climbing.
Mixed trad climbing generally refers to routes that rely on the presence of varying degrees of snow, frozen turf, rock, and if you’re lucky, a bit of ice in there for good measure. While summer trad is all tiny shoes and chalked up hands, winter mixed is big heavy boots strapped with crampons and hooking ice axes into cracks. The important things to note here, are that it relies very cold conditions, during winter in Scotland. While Chris’ excitement increased on an exponential curve in the run up, I watched the preparations with dangerously low enthusiasm. Me, winter climbing. Me, with my Mediterranean heritage and my complete inability to retain any body heat whatsoever. I’ve done a few low-grade winter days in Wales sure, but Ogwen is friendly, and I know it inside out. The highlands are larger, scarier, and with the kind of routes Chris was dreaming of, long hours on belay ledges were inevitable. I kept pointing out that it wasn’t too late to book a trip to Spain instead, but my concerns fell on ears that might as well already have been full of ice. I compensated by moaning to everyone else I encountered, convinced I would be miserable for a week straight.
We headed up to the Riasg Climber’s Club hut at Roybridge on Boxing Day with a variety of Christmas leftovers that tragically didn’t make it past Kendal. Also arriving in the Highlands that day was Storm Gerrit who, instead of festive leftovers, brought gale-force winds, excessive precipitation and widespread power cuts. Gerrit failed to read the room and overstayed his already meagre welcome well into the following day. Not wanting to start our winter mountaineering career having to horizontally pitch a walk-in to avoid being blown away, we decided not to venture any further than Fort William. We almost didn’t even manage that, thanks to an enormous fallen tree on the main road into town causing havoc and standstill traffic. Consequently, a quick trip for supplies turned into an entire day’s outing, but at least the power was back on by the time we returned.
Stob Coire an t-Snaechda: Take 1
The 28th dawned at about 9am, by which point we (having dawned significantly earlier) were already in the Cairngorms, and raring to go at Fiacaill Ridge, a friendly grade II that shouldn’t even need pitching. Well, Chris was. I was still decidedly unenthusiastic about the whole concept, thoroughly convinced I was going to be constantly dodging avalanches while experiencing horrendous new levels of coldness. Fate was on my side, as a huge overnight dump of snow and an ongoing power cut had closed the road to the Cairngorm Mountain Ski Centre – also the parking for Stob Coire an t-Snaechda, home of Fiacaill Ridge. By the time the road was eventually opened, it was as if the weather had heard all my anxieties and decided to deteriorate just for me, as a little treat. That walk-in was everything I had feared. It was freezing cold, with a combined biting wind and low cloud cover that caused rime ice to accumulate on every surface. Though well-trodden, the path was that annoying level of frozen that isn’t thick enough to warrant crampons, but still makes you slide around like a drunken deer. We broke off and headed for the ridge, turning ourselves head on into the wind and making progress infinitely more difficult. The higher we got, the worse the wind became, until spindrift blown from the top was so incessant it was like trying to walk through a bowl of sugar. I was not having a good time.
I think we got about halfway to the base of the ridge, not even on the fully exposed section yet, before we decided we had no choice but to call it off. The weather was continuing to deteriorate, and we would have been finishing the ridge itself, never mind the walk-off in the dark. Although the route had sounded great, I was quietly pleased we could turn around. The wind now blew in my favour, pushing me back towards the warmth and comfort of the van, and another early night in the hut.
The one and only: the Ben
The early night was essential – the next day we’d be making a run at Ben Nevis. Our friend Sam joined us that night at Riasg, ready for the 5am wake up call. Summer trad walk-ins in Wales can be long and gruelling, endless slogs in the sun with sweat streaming and kilos of rope and metal hanging off your back. If summer walk-ins are hard, the Scottish winter walk-ins are another level of suffering. Add to your standard rack and ropes another few kilos of ice axes, crampons and extra layers; then add heavy, stiff boots and after an hour or so, every step is a dig-deep effort. You still sweat like hell, but now the sweat turns icy every time you stop, so you yo-yo between extremes and a comfortable temperature is a distant memory. Or maybe I’ve been spoilt by nice short autumnal sport walk-ins and my mountain fitness is garbage. Probably a bit of both. After two hours we arrived at the CIC hut, which crouches below the imposing north face of the Ben. There we met up with our fourth for the day – Jim – and forced ourselves back out and away from the magnetism of the cosy gas fire.
Chris pointed out the route we were headed for – Number Three Gully Buttress, and it was at this point I realised that I had been scammed. I had thought that arriving at the CIC meant that we were basically at the route – but we were actually nowhere near. The base of the climb began just 160m from the top of the mountain, we had another (very steep) 600ish vertical metres to go. Over three hours of walk-in misery, for not very much rock at all! What was the point of all this again?
That third hour was brutal. Wading through powdery, unconsolidated, knee deep snow on steep terrain. Progress was slow and exhausting, and we strung out across the slope like a desert camel train. I counted my steps, resolving to manage at least 50 before I stopped for another rest and trying to focus on the awe-inspiring beauty of my surroundings instead of the burning in my legs. Mountains just look more like mountains should when they’re covered in the white stuff. The snow too, captivated my attention. Did you know that when you poke a hole in thick snow it glows a deep vivid blue at the bottom, as if a tropical ocean is hiding underneath? The ever-present danger was constantly on my mind too, but the upside of the loose, layerless snow was that avalanches were unlikely. So, we had one less thing to worry about as we crossed the base of Number Three Gully itself.
At the base of the route, I was ready for the misery to continue unabated, but was pleasantly shocked. Out of the wind, the temperature wasn’t too bad at all on the belay. It helped that a handwarmer I had tucked into my sports bra (one of many I had secreted away throughout my clothing), had slipped down to lie against my stomach, ensuring a very welcome toasty core. When my turn came to climb, I was genuinely surprised to find myself have a fantastic time. The first pitch was banked with snow, but a hidden ice pillar leant itself to some excellent moves. Swinging my axes above my head to thud satisfyingly into the ice and kicking the points of my crampons in, I felt like an absolute hero, like the coolest person alive, like a queen of the mountain. About six metres later ice transitioned back into sloped snow and I was back to kicking steps, but the damage was done. I was enjoying it.
I wish I could say the rest of the route was as incredible an experience but I’m afraid we got a little lost, ended up on a grade V ice route that, without ice, was impossible to progress on and had to abseil off before night fell. The abseil ended up being a little sketchy, and so disappointment at having to bail off the route was outweighed by the relief of getting everyone down safely. At least walking down the steep slope was a hell of a lot faster and more fun than trudging up it. Huge sliding strides and the occasional bum scoot covered the ground back to the CIC hut in half the time, as the snow glittered like diamonds in the light of my head torch. Sitting in front of the fire sorting gear, finding the motivation to leave was borderline impossible, and the van had never felt further away. But, the walk-out had to be done if we wanted food, and food eventually won out. I couldn’t believe how tired I was. The day had been no longer than many summer trad days, but the exhaustion was next level. Judging by the thousand-yard stares that Chris and Sam sported during dinner, I wasn’t the only one.
Will we actually finish a route?
In another wild weather see-saw, the next day, the 30th, was an enforced rest day, with more gale force winds and an ungodly amount of rain. I don’t think anyone was devastated. Sam, thoroughly unimpressed with his first experience of Scottish mixed, took rest day a step further and just straight up went home. So, it was just Chris and I for New Year’s Eve, which heralded a return to Stob Coire an t-Snaechda. This time we aimed to try Hidden Chimney, a classic grade III. In comparison to the Ben, this walk-in was a breeze. Sure the snow was still pretty powdery, but the angle was far more forgiving and the trek significantly shorter. Within an hour we were at the base of the route and raring to go.
Chris wanted to do the direct start, which was more of a technical climb than anything else we had done so far, but he’s never one to rest on his laurels. He got part way into the first tricky section, when one axe slipped down a crack which threw him off balance and he took a cracker of a whip. With one axe stuck in the crack, the leash that attached axe to harness failed to take the strain and exploded. He lowered down to the bottom and went again, only to fall a second time trying to get the wedged axe out. This time he carried on and got to the top of the pitch without further drama. He’s claimed it as a ground up, but that is between him and his conscience, and I am saying nothing.
I was intensely glad I was on second. This technical pitch was a completely different beast to anything I’d done before. Without packed névé snow to kick my points and axes into, I had to torque my axes into cracks and essentially walk up the rock face, scratching it with my crampons. In my inexperienced hands, the axes skittered on thin coatings of ice and poor placements, giving me little confidence. However, the further I went without falling, the more I managed to get my head in the game and by the time I arrived at the belay, I felt good enough to try for a lead on the second pitch. What I’d failed to realise is that Chris had been doing a lot of the hard work for me on the lead. Ledges and gear placements had to be dug out of the thick layers of snow, and the endurance that I thought was pretty good struggled to stand up to the long periods of waving heavy ice axes above my head. Though pumped and tired I kept going and completed my pitch, revelling in the tough technical moves at the bottom, then flying up the run-out snow slope in the second half. I arrived at the belay exhilarated and proud of myself.
As Chris came up on second ready to take the final pitch – the eponymous chimney – he beamed from ear to ear. “Having fun?” I asked.
“I think I was born to be a winter climber!” He exclaimed, and though I laughed I had sudden visions of a lot more snowy slogs and cold belays in my future. We topped out of the excellent final pitch just as the sun set, bringing our number of completed routes for the week to a grand total of one. One route! However, I am told this is completely normal for Scottish mixed, so not to worry. We strode down the walk off and headed back to Riasg for a lovely New Year’s Eve with new friends, before reluctantly setting off home, to begin 2024 back in the real world.
So, the all-important question. Did I enjoy it? Far more than I anticipated to be honest. I think I went into it with such low expectations, and so convinced I would be constantly miserable and hypothermic that I was perhaps fairly easy to please. I have no doubt that the two beautiful bluebird days on the Ben and at Snaechda had a lot to do with my enjoyment. Had I been huddled on belay ledges in the wind and driving snow, this would probably be a very different post. The scenery was breath-taking, I feel like I have a new appreciation for the mountains, both their awe-inspiring beauty and their ever-present dangers.
Everyone asked me in the run up why I had agreed to go, if I was so convinced I would have a terrible time. “I have to try it once, just to make sure I hate it” was my response. I’m happy to report that I was completely wrong. In fact, I enjoyed the trip so much that in a completely unexpected turn of events I am actually keen to go again ( though only, only if the weather is good). Lesson learned: “try anything once” really can work out for you every now and then. Just don’t tell Chris, or we’ll be up there every weekend.
Kate Harrison Writes 
Leave a comment