#TeamWrong

I don’t want to post this one in some ways.  I did something foolish which makes me feel uncomfortable.  But nobody died.

Monday was return home from Scotland day.  So with a six hour drive ahead of us, we decided to make the driving time worth it, we should get another full hill day under our belts. Me and the lodger, that is.  After some alcohol on Sunday night and some books, talking and maps, we established a plan.  Then we woke up on Monday and established another plan.  It turned out both of us had dreamed for some years of going up that iconic entry to the highlands of Scotland hill – the Buachaille Etive Mor.  Being a Munro type of hill, and covered with snow, what wasn’t to like.  It did, in fact, sound like an impressively good idea, on the way home and everything.  Ideal, eh?

There was a discussion over how best to get up this snow filled gully thing (I can’t emphasize enough quite how much snow ...)  which was dominating the scenery, and a discussion over what to take with us in terms of equipment.  One of those chats we’d come back to time and time again in our final descent off the hill ... hindsight being the wonderful thing it is. 

Gently we bimbled across the river, along the stony path past the climbers hut, walking poles rhythmically clanging ahead of me.  The path started to climb, all big boulder stuff, and we had occasional touching base conversations to check we both felt the same route would work for the next section.  And most amicable it was, although as we got closer, also daunting.  There was a lot of snow.  But undeterred we carried on, confident with the guidebook information which had suggested the rocky pathway to the west of the gully as a workable and indeed pleasant perhaps route up the hill.  A few decisions later and we found ourselves on scrambly terrain with solid smooth glistening balls of ice in place of steps.  Oh.  Interesting. Let’s go round it, we thought.  And so we did.  Until the point when all there was to the right and above us was ice balls, and to the left, well to the left there was this gully and some sheet ice and a whole load of snow.  

In agreement, we walked towards the gully, trying to make steps with the sides of winter boots, then front pointing with boots, then as one person with one decision we both took off rucksacks and ice axes appeared.  And we cut steps and we moved and then all there was ahead of us was icy snow slopes.  Steep snow slopes, and when it came down to it, not that snowy.  More like ice really.  Ice.  A rocky seat was found and the crampons went on.  We started to commit.  Zig zag walking across the gully.  Happily axe and cramponing it along, we were.

It got steeper.  The wind started to swirl eddies of snow around.  Anything we loosened with our crampons bowled down the gully, gathering pace and weight as it went.  The wind got stronger.  Matt almost idly wondered out loud, what do you suppose the avalanche risk is like.  Shit.  I know too much.  We’re committed, we’re over half the way up a snow slope that just got steep enough that the zig zag walking was no longer an option, and now I’m worrying about avalanche. Because I know enough to realise it wasn’t just an idle suggestion.  The slope is perfect avalanche gradient.  The snow when you grab a handful is just mobile enough and just sticky enough, and god only knows how deep it was and what the interface of old and new was really like. I was already sick to the stomach just thinking about it.  Snow was swirling at the top, there was a cornice and I just wanted the Scotty beam me up option. Frankly, I freaked. That’s a first.

Let me explain how I normally cope with perceived danger / risk.  In my head I constantly risk assess when I’m doing things which could potentially be dicey. It’s a simple system.  Two factors. I think about consequence. Is consequence low, medium or high. I think about risk, is it low, medium or high.  Provided only one of the two is high I’m kind of OK.  And in those situations I’m pretty calm. I’m more likely to allow myself the act of tizzy at a lower level when I have the time and brain space to spare for such luxuries. Normally in a fairly horrid situation I’m calm because it’s just more likely to help me out of a situation than the alternative.  Problem solving mode is my brain’s natural resting state and under stress it’s where you find me.  Kicking in with logic and calm because that’s how I’m going to survive.  When other’s are stress bunnying it’s even more likely you’ll find me calm in response. I don’t feed off others stress, because someone has to be the grown up, right?

But put me in a high consequence, high risk situation and it seems I express it.  I react.  I don’t flap or do anything odd physically, in fact, I don’t cry either (that’s more a relief later thing), but I do make it pretty damn clear to anyone around that I am feeling the pressure.  I wanted to get to the side, I wanted to downclimb, I wanted to do anything that wasn’t sensible all in the absolute desperate urge to just get off and get off as quickly as possible. Because I was scared beyond scared. I could picture my cartwheeling figure bouncing down the mountain in the middle of a turmoil of moving snow.

But Matt broke it down into steps.  Talked to me, set small targets.  First the rock patch, then a calm discussion of options (it turned out there were none), then a head to the side where there were rocks I could potentially traverse on (it turned out I couldn’t), then there was nothing for it but to climb the mountain.  Or the fucking mountain as I believe I may have affectionately nicknamed it.  

In fact, there was quite some swearing that day.  I swore at the mountain, I swore at the crampons, I swore at the French. I don’t think I swore at Matt though.  The French are, in my eyes, responsible for the most goddamned uncomfortable form of walking known to man, and one I resorted to on the return down the slope simply in order to change muscle groups.  Flat footing it. Makes sense on ground which is steep but not too steep, makes good contact with the snow as you place your feet at an angle to make sure all ten points make contact with the snow.  Ankles aren’t designed to bend like that time and time again. In my view anyway.  Fucking French.

Finally there was front pointing.  And there was ramming a 30 year old wooden Alpenstock axe into the ice like a crazy mad woman hoping the damn thing would hold me if perchance the crampon contact let me down.  But all the while also making sure the crampons contact with ice was secure and hoping not to have to deal with the axe having to do its job.  My body but not my head remembering it’s perfectly feasible with enough friction to take your body weight on your toes.  As I read up after the event on the necessity of rigid soles and well fitting sharp crampons I kind of want to gibber all over again.   The B1s were of course fine.

 

Finally getting over the top steering as much as we could away from the cornice, mentally I felt slightly driven over the top on encountering two climbers at the top.  Fully equipped.  They were abbing off to get down the slope I’d just climbed with a thirty year old wooden axe and B1 boots.

It was about then we checked the map and knew for absolute fact that the easiest retreat route was the vertical snow slope we’d just ascended ... 

Funnily enough, it turns out I’m good at descending.  Happy, fast, safe.  Ten two technique (I learned this one in New Zealand at great but it now seems value for money expense) facing the snow slope, happily ramming the axe in and moving down. Then back to zig zags and the occasional French related blasphemy. And at the end there was a high five, and later there was cake.

And returning to the hindsight discussion at the start of the walk, we both realised we might just have been happier with more than one axe apiece ... and maybe a rope, and perhaps some ice screws but a great big dose of MTFU seemed to do the job.

And I leave you with this quote about the “walk”  from www.trekkingbritain.com ...

“In the depths of a Scottish winter, the Coire na Tulaich is no place for just any walker. Only those with expertise in winter skills and a proven experience of mountain walking ...”