Gardyloo Gully, Ben Nevis, Grade II/III. March 21st 1993.
The Saturday had been a wash-out or should I say a snow-out. We had all piled out of the CIC with great intentions of doing some ice routes. John Thompson, Big Willie Scott, Kevin Thole and for myself, this would be my first ice climb. I was excited as we plodded up through the gorge, exiting on the left up a loose soaking gully with a final nippy move up a wet wall onto a moving escalator of scree.
The Saturday had been a wash-out or should I say a snow-out. We had all piled out of the CIC with great intentions of doing some ice routes. John Thompson, Big Willie Scott, Kevin Thole and for myself, this would be my first ice climb. I was excited as we plodded up through the gorge, exiting on the left up a loose soaking gully with a final nippy move up a wet wall onto a moving escalator of scree. The snow was higher up but no less mobile and after attempting Garadh Gully, belayed at the rim of a gigantic bergschrund down which a waterfall plunged into the black depths, while Kevin tackled the iceless first pitch we decided to call it a day. The snow was melting and the rocks were bare and soaking. I was a bit disappointed, having to wait 'til the Sunday for my first foray onto vertical water.
However, Sunday did arrive and I left the hut with Bob, Kevin and Alan the spy. Earlier on Big Scott had been standing at the door of the hut, overlooking the steady line of plodders snaking their way up the coire like a line of faithful on their way to the Holy Land. He was standing there, an upturned pick-axe in one hand, a rope draped over one shoulder and a pink parasol propped against the other!! Moses Crossley there to oversee their passage, "I have hewn a great fault in the mountain, fear not, follow and be saved". The parasol had come from the hut and not from the Crossley sack I hasten to add!
I was feeling rather inadequate in this company. Kevin was new-routing at E3 or so, Alan had been to the Alps and also numerous mountain training courses and Bob had been on the epic ascent of North East Buttress. I was following in the footsteps of the great only my wee legs couldn't keep up with these giants of the ice world and I had to take intermediate steps in the soft snow. Soft snow, it didn't register, neither did the black clouds and wind that howled round the hut the night before.
We were making for Gardyloo Gully, the going was easy and we plodded up Observatory Gully as far as the first buttress. I was impressed with the drop below us, it wasn't steep but it seemed to go on for ever, iron hard snow dropping down into the depths of the gully. It was here we roped up and I led up the first pitch with Kevin belaying. It was here that I found out that it was his first ice route as well and we expected the old hands to give us some advice when we reached the crux. It was really easy climbing, GRADE I it turned out! but it was good fun. There were people everywhere, all either soloing or moving together Alpine style. I even saw a guy in what looked like KSBs and walking crampons being dragged up on the end of a line wrapped round his leaders waist. He couldnt front point because he didn't have any and all he could do was a sort of Charlie Chaplin sideyway walk up the route! There was meant to be a cave at the crux but it was completely banked out. Instead, I was leading up an easy angled scoop in the gully when the axes started producing this enormous dull thumping noise every time I banged them in. It was like hammering on the door of a huge hollow in the mountain, giant echoes reverberated from the depths of the gully, the home of an angry Troll I imagined. I was hoping he wouldn't wake up and open the roof of his cave to see who was pestering him! The snow was brilliant, really hard and the route was easy. The guidebook said it was GRADE III but it was so banked out it must have been I. The booming from under the ice continued to the belay, a well buried dead man and I worried about the whole lot caving in with the weight of people on the route. I was bringing Kevin up and Bob was starting his lead too when there came a shout from far above, in the mist - "below" and a huge chunk of ice came sailing over the buttress on the right, bounced down the gully, was funnelled at the narrows, and landed right on top of Bob`s helmet. It exploded into a shower of crystals and he momentarily disappeared in the cloud of particles. I was sure he wouldn't be there when they cleared but there he was, shaken not stirred and heading upwards again. There were people belayed everywhere, all shouting to each other and all heading up the right hand finish, an icy groove line that looked pretty hard.
The angle up 'tll now had been fairly shallow and now the crux loomed above. Who's going to lead? I asked Kevin if I could lead our rope up, and he gracefully accepted the offer. A short traverse across loose snow brought me to a large boulder buried in the slope down which a torrent of snow was pouring. There was a couple ahead of us and they were bringing most of the mountain down on my head. I timed my move, up to a ledge on the boulder, then both axes buried in the slope above, head down and ride out the next wave of slush and spindrift. Down the back of my neck it went. Down my sleeves it went and down the front of my breeks it went. They would soon expand with the volume of snow trapped in them, held in at the bottom by the gaiters, like a bizarre incontinent who has been frozen by a group of Aliens for further study [whoa, less of the gibbering Young, get on with the story - ed]. When it stopped I looked up and nearly shit my pants. A long, near vertical snow wall stretched up into the cloud and spindrift. It was bounded on the right by solid overhanging ice, on the left by the frozen rocks below the plateau, the gully narrowing to about 40 ft wide. I stood up, plunged the axes higher up into vertical slush and entered the final arena. The snow was suddenly crap. It took about half a dozen kicks with each foot to get a purchase and the axes seemed to be buried in turf. This prompted me to traverse onto the overhanging ice on the left wall, I wouldn't climb it but would traverse up the length of the gully at an angle to the overhang, at least I could get the axes into some solid ice. Bang, one axe in to the hilt, bang, in went the other, great, right foot off the slush and stab the front points into the ice, left foot off and put all weight onto the right foot, stab the left front points into the ice as well. I was out of the slush now, looking up an improbably steep ice wall. I stood up and both feet came away, splinters of ice shattered and flew off down the gully into oblivion. "Bastard", the girl high above me nearly jumped out of her belay, as I kicked back in and made a hasty retreat back into the slush filled gully. I was near the end of a 150ft run-out with no gear between me and Kevin on the belay and the last few feet were a nightmare of vertical slush and choss. I took a belay on a deadman when I finally found solid snow near the top of the gully. Kevin followed and he brought the news that neither of the others were prepared to lead the crux. I was to belay him while he led to the plateau, about 50ft above us, then he would untie, throw his end down to me and I would then coil my rope and throw it down to the others at the belay and top rope them up. Off he went, up overhanging slush again and disappeared over the plateau. Down came his end. I was now belayed to a deadman buried in dodgy snow on a near vertical slush run and to boot I would have to solo the last 50ft of overhanging choss if they couldn't get the rope. I coiled it neatly, shouted at the top of my voice, braced myself against my buried axe and threw my last hope into space. "I can't reach it" came weakly from far below. I was furious, "fucking climb up to it then" I seethed to myself, "hang on, I'll climb up to it", almost like the word of a desperate man lunging for his straw, "Got it" was carried up on the updraught. I slumped against my axe and breathed normally again. Now all they had to do was follow the rope up to me and lead through. A figure appeared through the gloom, 120ft below, making the route look quite impressive now that there was some scale to the final gully. "For fuck's sake this is worse than North East Buttress" wailed the figure as it was constantly buried in clouds of spindrift. The old red helmet shook and wobbled it`s way up to the belay and I was about to give him some gear for the final push when he lunged at the wire coming from the dead man and with a resounding snap had himself screwgated in before I could say "it's bloody cold up here". Another refusal, so off I went up the wall, banging overhanging snow away with my helmet so I could see the next moves. Up until then we had been sheltered in the gully, now, as I thumped both axes from the vertical to the horizontal and pulled over onto the plateau the wind nearly blew me back down the flaming route. A dark figure was hunched on top of a buried axe, clinging on against the 70mph wind and blasting spindrift. Kevin casually informed me that he had been there for about 2 hours and it was another hour and a half before the others would arrive. Chno Dearg clung to the belay in the gully and brought up the aspiring guide, whereupon a scream from below signalled my reinvolvement in the saga by pulling tight on the rope and bringing up one of them while the other belayed from below!! Eventually we were all finally on the summit at 7pm. Kevin Thole had been sitting in the gale force wind for about 4 hours and we were all completely wasted.
Bob did a grand job navigating back to the half-way lochan though, more than making up for the escapades in the gully and getting us out and away from Five Finger Gully. I took my hat off to that man when we finally rounded a corner and saw a line a lights making their way down the coire far, far below. They must have spotted us as one light broke away and started up the hill at a furious pace. Mr. Dickson was relieved to see we were all right and they could now abort the visit to the Police station. We arranged for them to phone round our respective houses and reassure family and friends, because we intended on spending a free night in the CIC hut.
Well I can tell you, I'd rather have spent the night up the bloody gully than share the hut with the crowd that replaced the club. A club from Oxford was fast asleep when we arrived and a certain Mr. K gave us some black looks when we disturbed his appreciation of Radio 2, what a poof!! We guzzled what was left of our grub and confessed to the great K that we had been benighted on Gardyloo Gully. His look spoke volumes, but, I thought, we`ve all got to start somewhere!