Now, we’ve already established on this blog that I am not a fan of winter climbing and I really hate being cold. So what on earth was I doing last Friday, driving up to the Cairngorms, in February, for a winter climbing weekend. Do I simply crave suffering and misery? Will I ever learn my lesson? While the answers to those two questions are still probably “yes” and “no” respectively, I had faith in this being a totally different experience to my other winter epics. Let me explain. For the past four years, I have been a member of the Pinnacle Club, a fantastic club for female climbers, dedicated to supporting and bringing together women in the sport.1 Members organise meets around the country, for a few days of climbing, socialising and generally having a great time. I was on my way up to Aviemore for one of the annual winter meets, and actually really looking forward to it.
Though my general attitude may suggest otherwise, there are aspects of winter outdoors that I do genuinely enjoy. I love winter hikes, the crunch of crisp snow under my boots, covering big distances in long days, the kind of days that make the evening hibernation under an electric blanket feel truly earned. I have had multiple incredible days out on low grade winter scrambles – where the conditions demand ice axes and crampons, but the terrain allows for constant movement and continuous progress, where ropes and harnesses stay in the rucksacks as an insurance plan rather than a necessity, and the difficulty just pushes into the edges of my comfort zone. What I don’t like are long, cold hours on belay stances, where I have to periodically windmill my arms to maintain circulation and huddle down into huge synthetic jackets to shelter from the icy fingers of the wind. Although we are well matched in summer difficulties, my partner Chris has a love affair with ice climbing that has propelled him up the winter grades in a rapid ascent that I cannot match, nor do I want to. Perhaps though, if I had the space to explore slightly harder routes under my own steam, I could learn to love winter, like the grudging, gradual acceptance of an arranged marriage. Maybe? The Cairngorms meet seemed like the perfect place to test my theory out – a group of supportive women, with potential partners at a wide range of difficulty and absolutely no pressure to push myself if I didn’t want to.
Plus… perhaps I could have a day sat up on the mountains with my camera, looking for ptarmigan and snow hares?
It turned out to be one of the best winter trips I’ve had – but with no snow and absolutely no climbing.
The forecast earlier in the week looked dire – a catastrophic thaw and extremely high winds. truly, if you want evidence of the impacts of climate change, look no further than 13°C in the Scottish Highlands in February. Still, I resolved to make the most of it, for the social really. I tend miss out on much of the social aspects of club meets – I’m often off climbing some silly hard route, on a different crag to everyone else, having an epic, arriving back to the bunkhouse late and missing dinner. This, I thought, could be an opportunity to right that. When I arrived at the bunkhouse we had booked, pretty much everyone else was already there. Women sprawled comfortably on sofas, chairs, or stretched out on the carpeted floor, relaxed, joking. The age range spanned three decades but regardless we were all on equal footing. I felt immediately welcome and comfortable.
We were optimistic the next morning. The winds were high, the snow conditions lean and the weather warnings yellow, but we were all confident in the mountains and decided to at least go and have a look at Fiacaill Ridge in Stob Coire an t-Snaechda.2 As we set off from the ski resort car park, I couldn’t believe how different the conditions were to my visit last winter. Gone was the thick layer of ice on the path, the knee-deep snow compressed from layer after layer of snowfall. The rocky black faces of the crags had barely a dusting of icing sugar, and the determined figures of climbers in the all but the deepest of gullies were just as likely to be climbing steep grass as they were good, thick snow. At least there was little danger of avalanche?
The wind, though. The wind was truly a force to be reckoned with. The persistent push against my front steadily ramped up to intense gusting that left me stumbling, even falling to my knees. Though the path was easy, I got my walking poles out just to have something to brace against – to have four points of contact with the ground instead of two. As we reached the split in the path that would take us up to the ridge, the mutterings that had begun in the carpark amplified into a tide of opinion that swept unanimously through the group – though well within our technical capabilities, the narrow ridge was out of the question in these conditions. “This is a stupid idea.” someone announced, cementing the group decision amongst laughter and bringing my attempts at Fiacaill Ridge to 0/2.
Instead we continued on ahead, just to get into the bottom of the coire proper, just to feel like we’d actually done something before we turned back. At the edge of a boulder field we paused for food and debated our next steps. We were sheltered at this point in the coire, and it if we stayed too long it would lull us into a false sense of security, forget just how bad it was. I was very aware of a nearby mountain rescue team on a training exercise nearby, huddled behind a large boulder out of the wind. If those guys are having a bad time, that’s a pretty good sign that you should probably be heading home.
The group split, a few deciding to take an easy, safe route up to the summit and head down a more sheltered way, and others – me included – taking the traverse path out of the left side of the coire and down next to the ski piste. I really had managed to forget just how bad the wind was. We had to head up and briefly over the left hand ridge to reach the piste, and the wind hit us with a full and almost overpowering fury, propelling us forwards, forcing our bodies to crouch low, hunch over our poles. At one point I simply sat down and shuffled forwards as gusts tried to force freezing fingers under my clothes. One of the other women leaned over me. “You’ll rip your trousers!” she shouted into the wind, as it ripped her words away. I didn’t care. This wasn’t the first bum scoot these hardshell trousers had seen and it certainly won’t be the last. Later Met Office reports confirmed the winds at 80mph along the tops that day.
As we dropped down over the other side of the ridge, the wind blessedly lessened, and my ears rang with the sudden silence. The rest of the walk down the bare, dirt piste was positively delightful in comparison, though I marvelled at the optimism of the skiiers hiking up the opposite direction, skis strapped to their backs.
Leaving the howling gale behind, the four of us traded stark mountains for the softer, muted tones and sheltered paths of the thick Rothiemurchus forest.
The varying faces of the woods
We wandered through the woods, rapt in the atmosphere. Though we were out of the wind, brief downpours rushed through and soaked the trees, alternating with brilliant sunshine that made the wet branches glisten as though the whole forest was coated in sequins. Ram-rod straight scots pine marched along the edges of the paths, the formation broken by the occasional far older tree that twisted and stretched out its branches haphazardly. Gorgeously rich, thick moss coated the ground below, a carpet of lush, vivid green even beneath the shadows of the canopy. The wind continued to make itself known through the dense woods, the trees swaying, trunks creaking in response in a way that was somehow both eerie and comforting at the same time. I felt the low level of stress always brought on by poor mountain conditions melt away.
Everyone arrived safe back at the hut that evening – always a sign of a good day – and the common room was filled with the smell of home cooking and uproarious laughter far into the evening. I count myself so lucky to be a part of this community. The next day, the Sunday brought even worse conditions and higher winds. It wasn’t even worth looking at the mountains, safer pursuits would have to be found elsewhere. A group trip to a nearby Neolithic burial chamber – Riatt’s cave – started the day off with more entertainment, before I slipped off to address my other reason for driving the 7 hours up to Aviemore: the birds.
Exploring the chamber – one Pinnacle Club member started out her career as a caver, and can’t resist a good squeeze. Everyone else politely declined.
My original birding intent for this weekend was to sit in wait for ptarmigan and snow bunting in the hills, but with the wind making that miserable for both me and the birds, I headed to the RSPB reserve at Loch Garten instead. I had heard there were crested tits about and I was quite excited. When I arrived at the spot, there were a good few other hopeful birdwatchers, but slowly they all trickled away – it didn’t seem like the elusive stars would be putting on a show this evening. Eventually it was only me left, hovering near the birdfeeder, but I was far from disappointed. The crested tits may have cancelled their performance, but there was a riot of birdsong in the trees and tiny shapes flitted about me, swooping from branch to branch, diving onto the feeder and dashing away again.
A gang of coal tits held the feeder hostage, almost covering the sides in their feathery bodies. They glared furiously at the great tit and chaffinches that dared to encroach, too small to chase them off, but not too shy to still make their annoyance known.
Directly in front of me, barely a meter away on the wooden handrail, a pocket-sized diva of a robin shouted at me until I directed my camera in her direction. Didn’t I know that she was the real star of the show? She fought to keep her balance as the wind ruffled her feathers, flashing the dark layer below the vivid red breast, but I swear she posed for me, not moving or flitting away until I had taken a good few shots and she was content that her magnificence had been appropriately appreciated.
Oblivious to the drama going on at the feeder, a treecreeper minded its own business on the pine next door, bimbling up the trunk then gliding back down, only to start all over again slightly further around. My big star of the evening though, in lieu of the crested tits, was the great spotted woodpecker gripping a high branch that swayed sickeningly in the breeze. It was uncharacteristically silent – I suppose it is hard to hit a moving target – but it shuffled around the narrow branch, swapping from perching atop it to hanging off the bottom. I stayed until the light began to fade, reluctantly dragging myself away once the birds became dim shapes in the gloom.
The treecreeper and the woodpecker. If you zoom in you can see I managed to capture the woodpecker mid blink, which is pretty cool.
I was heading home the next day, but before I started off on the long drive home I went again to Loch Garten, for one last ditch effort to feast my eyes on some crested tits. This time a couple of photographers had spread some seeds out on a log and as I approached, one whispered conspiratorially that there was at least one crested hovering in the trees. Alas, I had to be back in Wales for 6pm and I was very aware of the ticking clock hovering over me. I pushed it as long as I could, but the shy cresteds once again cancelled their performance last minute. Not a total loss though, I had a lovely time watching chaffinches bully each other over the seeds, playing territorial games and flapping angrily at the other. Like a cowboy showdown on Main Street at midday, this log was certainly not big enough for the both of us.
“…and stay out!”
Eventually I had to give in to the call of the M6, but was utterly grateful for the fantastic weekend I had salvaged out of the thaw and storm. Though a disappointment where the climbing was concerned it had been a delight in all other aspects. Good company, whether you’re surrounded by friends or the birds of Loch Garten, can take on even gale force winds and come out victorious.
1. I’ll talk more about how I got involved in the Pinnacle Club, it’s history and the stark differences between climbing with men and climbing with women in a later post. For now we’ll just say I love it, and its community.
2. Coire is pronounced “corrie” and is Gaelic for “cauldron”. It’s the same idea as a Welsh cwm or a French cirque – a hollow, often at the head of a valley, surrounded by mountains.
Kate Harrison Writes 
Leave a comment