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A couple of
days in the Highlands with Michael Coffield and Kevin McKeown. We started this
walk as soon as we arrived at Glen Shiel on Friday night, and with
winter now in full swing, we were looking at a winter ascent in darkness. It was an interesting proposition and one I was
eager to try out. So Michael and I arrived at Glen Shiel without hitch
and began to get our gear organised. That was when I realised I'd left
my boots at home, four hours away. The only thing to do was to use
Michael's winter boots, which are too little for my feet. Now try
walking with rigid climbing boots that are too small and you will
understand why the end of this walk left me hobbling. It was hardly
comfortable, but I got by and even forgot about the pain on the summit
ridges where more pressing matters were at the front of my mind.
We started the walk from the Cluanie Inn and headed up An Caorann Beag,
the glen leading north to Ciste Dhubh. We used head torches, although
with a full moon filtering through the cloud, we could mostly see
without. We climbed to the top of the glen then onto
the flat area of Bealach a' Choinich, where at the opposite end lay
Ciste Dhubh.
Here, views opened to the Munro A' Chralaig to the east, which although
I at first mistook it to be the enormous Munros of Glen Affric to the
north, it looked equally huge. The moonlit snow-streaked corries were
very atmospheric in the middle of the night and they just sat there,
glowing in the darkness, feeling timeless, looking like they'd sat there
for a long time, undisturbed. I felt we'd almost entered 'their time' so
vast and silent they were.
I took out the tripod for a couple of long-exposure pictures, and got a
couple of shot of the dark hills. We then
headed on upwards to Ciste Dhubh, up some steep slopes and
then onto the snow covered ground higher up. We'd arrived at the part I
was anticipating the most - the snow covered, sharp arête of Ciste Dhubh.
Summit Ridge
We reached the snowline and ridge at about the same
time. It had been fairly calm up to this point, but the wind picked up
at the crest and blew with some force. I knew the ridge ahead would be sharp and steep sided,
and already knew it was going to be a
challenge.
Three tops lie along Ciste Dhubh's ridge, the distant and more northerly
being the mountains true summit. At heights of 877m, 929m and 979m, they
rise in succession. I made the 877m top my first mental goal, and we
headed upwards over the snow covered ridge. The ice axes came out soon,
and Michael brought the crampons out fairly soon too. I really should
have, but waited until later to do so. Ploughing through the snow on the
way to the first top, the weather closed in and we were soon in a
whiteout. Visibility in the light of the head torches was often nil, but
these occasions passed and we could continue upwards without hitch.
Things were just beginning to feel rather extreme.
The whiteouts hadn't concerned me too much, but then the ridges
steepened on either side. The
trail was unbroken before us, which made progress a bit more hazardous.
What struck me more than anything was the sheer sharpness of this ridge.
On my left, snow slops descended into nothingness, to the right,
cornices lined crag ridden drops. It seemed like a long way to go in
either direction, and falling at any point was not an option.
But as we went further and further along this ridge, sometimes using
hands to climb down sections, I couldn't deny the oncoming sense of
unease. I had to concentrate to keep my head together. I was more
worried that we'd be climbing ourselves into a trap than anything: once
at the summit ridge, would there be an easy way off if the shit hit the
fan and we needed to make a sudden retreat to lower altitudes? I
reckoned not.
I eventually put on crampons while sitting on a ledge carved from the
snow in an all-to-precarious position. I should have done it earlier,
but it couldn't wait longer. I'd need all the purchase on the ground I
could get. So we continued onwards, myself starting to wonder why on
earth I put myself up here, Michael looking less bothered but perhaps
not expressing fear. Meanwhile, I began to wonder where on earth this 877m
top was. We'd been going a long time, but I'd stopped paying
attention to goals when all my thoughts would need to go into
keeping two feet on the ridge.
Eager to know our position now, Michael got the GPS out, and read a six
figure grid reference which I translated to the map. To my delight, we
were near the 929m top - we were right beside the summit!
My spirits went through the roof. In that instant, the tension in my
stomach dissipated. Soon after, we descended from the 929m top a small
saddle, then were faced with the final slopes. But the summit was just
there. And once we were there, we could make our return. I was a lot
happier knowing now what was ahead, and we climbed the final slopes.
Rocks stuck out from the snow, and this seemed to constitute a mostly-buried
cairn. I tried excavating some of the snow from around it to see if I
could make better judgment, although
that was too great a pain to go to. I wasn't 100% sure that this was the
summit. I
considered walking onwards for a moment to see if the ground rose again,
but "f**k that" was my next thought. I wasn't going onwards for any
other reason than if we hadn't actually got there. I studied the map
carefully - there could be no false summits. Michael read out another
six figure grid reference, I checked it against the map and sure enough,
this was it. The summit of Ciste Dhubh at
3.40am in the middle of winter. Whoa.
I also got the camera out, and we took some shots of each other. The
driving wet snow made my rucksack and everything in it soaked, so the
camera was wet in no time too. I was almost temped to not take
pictures, but figured that you need pictures from the summit, whether
it's for nothing else than to figure out when you got there. If I didn't
bother taking the camera out, I'd kick myself later for having no
pictures out of what I'd see as laziness.
Descent
Mentally, the descent was a lot easier to deal with then the ascent.
With the trail now broken and knowing what lay ahead I quite enjoyed it.
I could feel the atmosphere of the night now that the uncertainty was
over. No more were the whiteouts and the tension that sat with
me for the time spent starting along the ridge. I found that being able
to look back on my own reaction to such conditions, I had a new found
appreciation of climbers that are doing so much greater things on harder
mountains in greater ranges.
Physically, the work was easy but keeping myself composed on those sharp
ridges in the middle of the night was it's own challenge.
Back where we joined the ridge, the crampons came off and we began the
long walk back to the Cluanie Inn. In Michaels Scarpa Mantas, walking
had never felt so difficult. On soft ground in the long grasses, it
didn't feel so bad to be walking with them but they still made my feet
scream. I never knew feet could feel so bad, and it reminded me of my
early hillwalking days as an eleven year old when dad would give me a
paid of twenty-year-old, stiff leather boots for summer walking.
We seemed to spend an eternity walking back to the Cluanie
Inn, but when I left the long grasses and picked up the track back, the feet situation got a whole
worse. I couldn't be bothered walking in the long grasses again, but the
hard impacts on the gravel made my feet weep. It was becoming
unbearable when we reached the Cluanie Inn, by this point I was hobbling
along behind Michael.
Post-walk
Once our soaking wet gear was off, we headed
down the glen for five minutes before finding a place to park for the
night. We got to sleep around 6am, and we'd only have a few hours sleep
before we'd be up again for more hills. The main walk on Saturday would
be with Kevin McKeown who was already parked in Glen Shiel.
All in all though, I see this climb of Ciste Dhubh in a positive light -
owing to it's extremity more than anything else. The pain of the long
glen and unforgiving boots were quickly forgotten and I've found that
when I think of it, I only recall the hours spent on that high ridge in
the darkness, straddling the knife edge, keeping away from cornices, and
feeling fear changing to joy when I realised we were close to summiting.
I also remember the occasional whiteouts and the calm, in-control state
I felt in their presence, unfazed by present events, but feeling the
knot in my stomach tighten at the thought of the situation we could be
getting ourselves into. These are natural fears, I suppose.
But these are all things I remember in a positive way. As is always the
case in the mountains, I am compelled to return to them and have a go
again. Hopefully with better boots.
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