Footsteps

by Nick Bullock

Friday, 5.30pm.

The dark-wet-windblown street bustled with people wrapped tight against the cold. Grit thrown across the cobbles crunched under foot. The warm glow from the shop windows poured into the outside, like a shaft of sun breaking from a cloudy-storm-ridden sky. It lit the piss-stained pyramids of snow the grit had failed to melt. Loud, inviting music emanated from the alehouse opposite the climbing shop. Entering the shop, leaving behind the cold Fort William high street, the climber approached the gaunt-s tern looking chap standing behind the counter.

“ Hi, do you know what the conditions are like on The Ben?” The climber asked, the same as a million hopefuls before.

“Aye I do, I wouldn’t bother!”

“Oh, well you see, I’ve just come from Stob Coire nan Lochan where I talked to a group of climbers who are staying in the Alex Macintyre Hut. I arranged to meet one of their friends and hopefully climb with him tomorrow. He’s soloing The Orion Direct today.”

Counter Man shuffled, tiered with the conversation, tiered with the Lemmings turning up every weekend.

“ You have eh? Well, The Orion Face is in terrible condition. If I were you, I would find a new partner!”

*

The winter had been one to rave about, and this; my final trip to Scotland was shaping up to be a contender for the best week ever. Smith’s Gully, The South Pipes, Vanishing Gully, Boomer’s Requiem. Two with a partner, two without, five days, superb! There was one problem though, (isn’t there always). For the second year of regular-nightmare journeys north, tolerating the crowds of university winter-wannabies and sleep depravation, had found me without the route I longed-The Orion Direct.

Two years had passed since I had started on one of the most frustrating pastimes know to mankind-Scottish winter climbing, and every day since I craved to get to grips with Marshall and Smith’s classic-The Orion Direct. The grandeur and splendour of the Orion Face magnetically draws the eye and caused pangs of longing to well up inside. The drip, drip, drip of the Highland-water-torture had begun before I had even set foot on the approach bogs of The Ben. Ken Wilson’s Cold Climbs had intravenously supplied me with my armchair fix. So here I was, two years in, and devoid of the route that would lead to bigger, greater, grander things across the Channel.

Earlier in the week topping out after climbing the fantastic Vanishing Gully, I stood, balancing on the crest of Tower Ridge staring at The Orion Face. Two specks could be seen slowly inching their way. The climbers were dwarfed, lost to the world of the white. I envied their position, the solitude-their escape from the normal. I vowed to emulate it later in the week.

After a day of bad weather I could wait no more. This was my last opportunity of the winter to climb The Orion; it was slipping from my grasp. I couldn’t contemplate the long drive south without the route in the bag. Seven hours is a long time of flagellation, with the motorway turning the screw.

Sneaking from the hut it feels like the dead of night. Driving through The Fort, racing along the golf course, slithering the steep, muddy bank, squelching through the bog and battling the moon-like surface of the wind blown and rock-strewn-plane beneath The C.I.C. Hut, I stand alone- in the dark. Invisible cold rivulets of perspiration run down my back and turn my body cold. I cower behind the hut battling the wind, fighting to add several more layers of clothing. Zips are zipped, fleece wrapped, Gore-tex pulled, and throughout the whole of this torture, fingers have to be repeatedly warmed and re-warmed. Arms have to be swung, toes curled.

An hour later the huge imposing Orion Face thrusts sheer from the snow cone. A single track zigzagging its way up the slope finishes at my feet beneath the face. Heavy breathing from kicking fresh tracks in deep snow billows from my heaving chest. Snow that has fallen over the previous days has hidden all trace of the hoards. Another cunning Bullock plan turns to folly. Ease of passage was to take the form of following the steps of others. Knowing others had gone before eases the head of the solo climber. Intricate and complex route finding was to be arrogantly sneered at. Steps of the climbers I had watched earlier in the week were buried under a layer of new snow. Sleep deprived, red-prickled eyes struggled to pick the line. I hoped the fresh layer of snow had had time to consolidate.

Stepping from the snow cone, I left behind the thoughts and feelings of the normal. The door opened on an ice encrusted, white world of the vertical. Each kick was one of enlightenment. New. Clean. True. There were no ways to cheat. There were no top-ropes. No practiced moves. I had no rope for escape, no harness and no beta other than the guidebook description.

‘One of the finest climbs in Scotland, with all the atmosphere of a major alpine face. Start left of Zero Gully where a broad ledge leads to the foot of a prominent chimney line leading up toward The Basin. Climb the chimney for two long pitches.’

Patches of ice were good and the occasional placement solid, giving a respite from the steep and insecure climbing that shockingly appeared to be the norm. Keeping upward momentum was difficult as I hunted for pick-placements beneath the fresh layer of powder. Hunting for dribbles of solid ice in the corner of the chimney worked. Toes and front-points scrabbled when they broke through the fragile skin that was stuck to the black rock, but bridging gave my crampons purchase. The night had lost the battle with the rising of the weak-winter sun and early morning-cloud-covered light lit my position. I bridged across the chimney and savoured the situation of space, light and loneliness.

Occasional shallow steps could be seen where the chimney was at its steepest. The new snow had failed to stick, gravity ruled. I followed them feeling comfort knowing I was still on the correct line. I weaved from left to right crossing rib and buttress. Old-cracked and rusty, a peek into the past, I found pitons driven into dirty, turf encrusted cracks. Frayed and rotten tat was threaded through the holes in the head of the odd blade or angle. The way above always looked difficult but once committed to the series of moves I found there was usually a hidden corner or fortunately a patch of solid snow, at least solid enough to relieve the tension. Feeling like a speck of dust in the centre of a giant hand, I crawled, clinging to my lifeline.

Route finding was the key to this, and eventually I reached The Basin, a large patch of snow clearly visible from far below. Plunging axe, arm, foot and thigh deep into fresh powder I crossed the Basin moving from left to right. A rising traverse through the unconsolidated snow found me perched hundreds of feet up. The C.I.C. Hut was a speck in the distance. Strong winds caused clouds of snow to swirl, twisting and thrashing the stone that made up the outer walls of the hut. Vibrant red gas cylinders lay in a heap behind the hut. The scene was one of desolation, depravation. A holocaust. Not a sole in sight. I imagined I could hear the blades of the fan fixed to the roof of the hut buzzing like a plane propeller, threatening to rip from its fixings. The hut disappeared, momentary lost to cloud sweeping down from Coire Leis.

Kicking a ledge big enough to stand without the worry of overbalancing and toppling, I remove the guidebook from the pocket of my jacket.

‘Move up and right across snow to the foot of the second slab rib. Descend a little, move around the right side of the rib, then climb up to and across a steep icy wall on the right (crux).’

I moved down a little by plunging large leather clad feet into soft snow until beneath a steep slab. The only line of weakness was a thin corner crack on the right of the slab. There appeared to be no footholds and it looked really difficult. This was definitely a steep icy wall but grade 5? I started to climb, not confident at all. Thin climbing, front points balanced precariously on small edges of rock, but after only just beginning the slab I couldn’t commit to the moves. Feet sketched and scraped. I reversed and questioned my drive. Unable to accept failure without at least another go I launched once again, but could only manage a couple of moves higher, before I reversed once again. There had to be another way? Reading the guidebook once again I started to wonder if I had descended enough and moved right enough.

Hugging the base of the rock-rib and with caution, I eased around to the right side that had been hidden from view. Gasping with relief, the wall above looked more amenable than anything I had seen before. A steep ice blobbed-rocky wall thrust into the sky to join a snow patch beneath the final tower. I knew I could climb it by joining the blobs of ice together, my head would be glad of the islands of sanity before launching into fresh sections of insecure mixed-moves.

The wall was all I imagined. Tackling it reminded me of life. Moving from the relative safety of a solid pick placement I travelled through sections of danger with confidence. Fresh from the rest and ready for the challenge, long moves from one good ledge onto a patch of nèvè, onto a smear of ice gave me all I asked from the experience. Occasionally tiered from a difficult move I found a place to relax, until I forced myself on to meet a new challenge, until the wall was climbed and I moved easily to the foot of the final tower.

The final tower looked down onto me, dark-mean and moody, steeper than anything before. Nestled just beneath the summit ridge the snow and ice build up was less than below. The wall to the right of my position looked to be too steep. Leaning into the snow I consulted the guidebook.

‘Follow left trending snow-ice grooves to the snow slope beneath the final tower. This can either be climbed directly on steep ice or turned by following a groove and chimney line on the left to reach the plateau at the top of North-East Buttress’.

I climbed the snow slope by front-pointing and stabbing the picks of both axes into the fresh layer of snow until beneath the tower. Leaning back to study the tower strained my neck. I attempted to read the deep chimneys, runnels and corners for a possible exit. A fine mist of powder snow gusted across the face, like a sculptured and furrowed desert plane. White-wind blown powder snaked over the surface collecting in the cracks and corners. Soft like flour, the powder clung to all it touched. Weakness was masked. A strong and impenetrable front was portrayed, but like some inmates I knew from working in a prison, I hoped a way to penetrate that steel exterior was possible.

Search as I might though, I couldn’t decide the best way. The usual exit was hidden and having no rope would leave me stuck should the chimney turn out too difficult for me to climb. Often when soloing the described way is not always the easiest. Sometimes it is better to choose a more difficult but obvious line, at least you will know what is to come and can mentally prepare. This was one of those occasions and above I could see a deep chimney, blocked by an overhanging chock stone, leading to a near vertical open-book corner. I moved up, still undecided if this was the line I should take. A faint line of steps leading into the bowels of the dark fault and disappearing above the overhang convinced me it must be right.

The walls closed around. Steep. Suffocating. Intimidating. The weight on my shoulders became heavy although it was not from the empty rucksack. Rearing steep, blocking the way, a runnel of ice dribbled thin and delicate, pouring from above the large boulder blocking the chimney. Wedging into the tight constricted cave beneath the boulder I gained a purchase on the right wall and heaved. Back and footing-bridging-pressing-straining-fighting I made height until level with the top of the boulder. Although still in the confines of the chimney the void beneath was sickening.

“Come on for Christ sake, concentrate on what is to come not what is below.”

The voice in my head screamed in an attempt to convince my flagging arms and legs that all was in control. Heaving from a placement in the corner above the chock, scratching-scraping-sweating-gasping, wedged into a tight dark corner I knew there was now only one direction. Taking a breather on top of the boulder gave the first opportunity to look above. A runnel of snow leading to the open-book corner spotted from below had a slither of ice, thin and shallow, running like a trickle of dirty brook water, (I needed a river). Tufts of moss, green-islands in the brook of ice, frozen and covered in a fine-white mist of frost, grew, sporadic and weak, clinging to an existence that could be ended without the strength for survival.

Steps were visible leading to a spike beneath the corner. The sling draped around the spike had a new-shiny locking karabiner hanging from it and in an instant I knew my boat had sprung a leak.

“BASTARDS!”

I couldn’t believe it? They had lured me onto this icy-island, then having the equipment for escape sailed away into a shimmering sunset. If I couldn’t climb the corner I would be marooned without sea or sand.

Two, three, four moves into the corner I knew I was fully committed. The whole of the Orion face dropped away from beneath my insecure position. Waves of shimmering, turbulent ice ran over crest and fold, rib and corner to crash into the beach of snow hundreds of feet below. This was more than my mind could accept or wanted to acknowledge. For once the exposure and the thrill of pushing myself was sickening. I knew I had made a mistake and life had now become very simple.

The walls either side of the corner were smooth, only the smallest of nick’s to place crampon front points gave a feeling of security and relief from the scraping and smearing of crampon covered feet. This was a small Cenotaph Corner but without the crack where the walls met. Unfortunately though, it was not vertical like Cenotaph Corner, if it had of been I would have opted for the long wait huddled at the base. As it was the just off vertical had tricked me into believing I could balance and rest. I longed for an opening to slide a pick and layback from but there was none. The only purchase was from millimetre pick placements into the tufts of frozen moss. These tufts became my islands of security amid the blank-grey-white-dusted sea of doom either side.

Inch, by slow, careful, tenuous inch was made. Time became irrelevant. Above, small edges to stand or thicker patches of moss for a pick were aimed. Between these, insecure moves were made while all the time expecting my feet to shoot from the smooth wall and axe-picks to slip from the tiny rugosity it balanced. Reaching each small haven of safety was a relief. Time to breath, time to contemplate and try and relieve the tension that had built before studying the next section and working out a sequence before committing to it.

I felt sick. My stomach churned, a river in spate passing over rapids. A hand held my intestines and clenched tight. My head was in turmoil. Voices screamed. Time stood still.

My life depended on frozen moss.

Halfway, a ledge and a clump of moss deep enough for the whole blade of one axe gave security for a time. Although I needed the rest, the fear of becoming attached to my haven of safety was frightening so I quickly attempted to continue. The move to begin the second half of my game of Russian roulette was as difficult as any below, and I had made the mistake of looking down. Petrified, the whole process of psyching up and moving had to be gone through again.

Nervously I pushed the front points of my left boot onto a sloping edge at hip height and hooked one tooth of my right tool into moss high up in the corner. Slowly, weighting the left foot and laybacking from the right placement, straining, tight-tension, taught, terrified, I lifted the right foot an inch to test both foot and pick placements. They held. I moved.

There was no time for contemplation. I moved again and again. The situation was sickening. Finally the end was in reach. I pulled from the top of the corner glad to be on my own. I would have scared anyone nearby. I must have resembled a drug addict fresh from a hit.

A yell of release, a shout of life, a scream for the living - turning right I started the plod to the summit.

Friday: 7.30pm.

A knock. The heavy wooden door separating the entrance corridor and the living room of The Alex McIntyre Hut inched open. Old and paint-chipped the door opened wide enough to allow a head belonging to a man I had not met before appear.

“Are you Nick?” The head asked.

“Yes I am.” I answered, perturbed that the strange head knew my name.

“Oh, that’s good, I thought you might be dead.” Said a little too chipper for my liking.

The door opened wider now allowing the warm air to escape into the cold corridor and a body attached to the head to enter the living room.

“I’ve just met some of your friends. They said you might want to climb tomorrow?”

He obviously hadn’t looked close enough because if he had he would have noticed the thousand-mile stare and the aura emanating from my persona that was possibly similar to a soldier who had been operating behind enemy lines.

“No thanks, I’m down the road tomorrow before I get the idea to solo anything else, and the first thing I’m going to do is buy a rope!”

The End.