Sgor Gaoith: Mountain of the Winds

Sgor Gaoith (Peak of the Wind) is an aptly named Munro at the western end of the Northern Cairngorms.  It forms a great whaleback that looms above Glen Feshie to the West, with a spectacularly craggy eastern rim that towers above Loch Einich.

Finding ourselves in that neck of the woods last week, on Friday last we picked this windy hill for a quick jaunt before heading south again. The forecast was for gales, and the Gaelic name for the mountain told us what to expect, so we wrapped up warm, and headed up through the forest from Glen Feshie to the ridge. Regular readers will know that I'm a big fan of the ancient scots pine forests that persist on the fringes of the Cairngorms. The woodland on the approaches to Sgor Gaoith was particularly special.

A forest of scots pines.

Heading up on to the open hill, the rich autumn colours of the grasses and heather helped to warm what was a cold and bleak landscape. A golden eagle soared overhead until it began to rain. 

 It was a steady climb above the forest on to the open moor. 

We lost the visibility for a while, and navigated from the bealach of Carn Ban Mor across the plateau to the summit. We soon became aware of a precipice on our right, and in the strong winds did not venture near the edge. The clouds began to lift as the gale increased, and as we began our descent, the views came back. 

 Looking down the descent ridge towards Geal Charn

We descended the long ridge of Geal Charn in a blustering gale before tottering down screes to a pass above the forest.  From here a muddy track lead back in to the forest with ease. Once back in the relative shelter of the woods it was possible to linger and enjoy the autumn colours once more. The birches in particular were just at that golden stage in their leaf that sends tree freaks like me in to ecstasies. 

Amongst the trees again.

Magic Forest

My life is full of big wet misty cold Scottish Mountans, and I like it that way.... but every now and then a gal needs a holiday- you know, the kind where you sit around and eat and drink with your friends, play in the sand, and relax....

Don't worry, I didn't spend a week sweating on a beach thankfully, but a week sweating my way round the Foret de Fontainebleau, a wonderful freak of nature south of Paris designed to entertain climbers and children in equal measure.  Being a particularly childish type of climber, the place was made for me. If you have never tried bouldering or have tried it and don't get the point, come here, and discover how climbing smallish rocks really can be great training for bigger stuff, without getting more than a few metres (sometimes quite a few) above the ground, and have a massive laugh. Some people come here and take their climbing incredibly seriously, but set against my usual holiday experiences of discomfort, fear and bad food, it seems impossible not to have a complete hoot in Fontainebleau.

 Wally searching for crimps at 95.2

 More crimps at J.A Martin

Told you I was a childish sort of climber.... Roche aux Sabots

The Magic Forest: At Gorges d'Apremont.

In the olden days when we were really good at suffering, we used to stay in a campsite at La Musardiere, but the last couple of years we have squished as many friends as possible, and increasingly their children too, into a nice big cosy gite, where we can eat, drink and be merry in comfort.  Climbing in "Font" is a brilliant activity for families and groups of people climbing at all different levels, as harder problems lie next to friendly children's circuits and nobody is stuck on the end of a rope 50 metres from a decent conversation. A proper holiday, no misery, and lots of fun.

Walking on the Wild Side: The Good, the Bad and the Squidgy

This article appeared in the Voice for Arran in Sept 2011 as part of a series of features on wildlife and walking on Arran.

I recently discovered that I am afraid of snakes. This sudden self knowledge is surprising in itself, but more astonishing to me is that I have suppressed this all my life until now. 

 A snake in the grass....

I remember finding my first adder- I am walking on a Norfolk beach with my father. A small scaly creature lies inert in the sand and my Dad yells at me to keep the dog away. I recognise danger, but blank my mind to fear. Dad tells me that only foolish people are bitten by snakes. I’m a little girl but I am brave.

Other encounters- a pair of dark sequins hissing at me from the heather, a flat head tensioned to strike, a black and olive pattern darting away. I respond with the same stillness I use to ignore wasps at a picnic, I don’t notice my heart bouncing in my ribcage or the adrenaline flooding my veins.

This summer, survey work has taken me more than ever in to the adder’s domain and I have come to expect these exciting meetings. Now I quiver at a twisted branch of heather, or jump back at the zigzag silhouette of a dead bracken frond.   When I see a real snake, I tremble with relief as my foot hovers above the angry coils. The statistics are in my favour- adder bites are rare and as my Dad said, usually inflicted on the hands of the foolish and the curious, but the odds are against me, as I must have tripped over 20 or so adders this summer alone.

My relationship with nature has been coloured by what I have read, watched and been taught. In order to understand the world around me I swallow facts and try to view the natural world through the objective lens of science. And yet it is virtually impossible not to respond emotionally to the wildness when I meet it face to face. Who cannot be delighted by the big innocent eyes of a red squirrel, peeking out of a tree, or the quicksilver energy of a pair of otters playing together in the surf? And we make value judgements about nature all the time. Sparrowhawks, magpies and black backed gulls are often reviled as thieves and murderers, but we easily forget that red squirrels sometimes eat birds’ eggs too.

My objectivity was recently tested to its limit as I stood on a stretch of rocky coastline watching a pair of otters fishing in a sheltered bay.  At first they seemed to ignore each other, but as they drifted ever closer together I waited for the expected game of rough and tumble. Instead, as they pulled up nose to nose, an eerie caterwauling began, and within seconds they were trying to tear each other apart. The speed, violence and complete lack of mercy that the larger otter showed the other were shocking. Eventually the loser escaped the frenzied grappling and was pursued at speed through the waves and out to sea. Finally getting away, it was clear that this otter was badly injured, its tail held stiffly out in the water as it swam. Unable to intervene, I was shaken and upset with myself for being so- fighting with lethal ferocity between rival male otters is the natural order of things.

We humans are unsurprisingly drawn to the parts of wild nature that are easiest for us to identify with.  We are afraid of, or ignore the unsettling and the unpleasant.  This is a huge challenge for conservationists who seek to protect entire ecosystems, not just cute and fluffy brand ambassadors. One wonders how much simpler the COAST campaign for a marine reserve in Lamlash Bay would be if it were dolphins or otters under threat from scallop dredging, rather than the strange and squidgy life of the sea bed.

We prize the rare over the commonplace. One species whose fortunes have seen a dramatic turnaround is the common buzzard. Growing up as a young birding geek in East Anglia in the eighties, I had never seen a buzzard. Their numbers plummeted during the 20th century due to persecution, pesticides and myxomatosis in rabbits (an important prey animal for buzzards). On a family holiday in the Black Mountains, I searched empty skies every day until at last I saw that heavy outline now so familiar in every British county. The buzzard has made a fantastic comeback, but has been relegated from magnificent and rare raptor to “just a buzzard” by bird watchers. Some people have asked me if buzzards are now considered vermin- we assume that if something is common, it is a problem that must be controlled. In contrast, the muddy brown fields of my youth were filled with giant flocks of boring lapwings.  Today they are in catastrophic decline and my heart bursts with joy when I see a just small troop tumbling overhead.

Is it possible to value all of nature equally?  Should we even try? What about biting insects? Some species are no doubt troublesome and even dangerous to human health. But each has a unique place and we are only beginning to understand the complex interspecies relationships in a healthy ecosystem. I have to hold my hands up to being genuinely afraid of the fierce little adder, but I count myself lucky, (especially while I remain unbitten), to live in a place where these animals still thrive. I’ll take the infested bog over the concrete jungle any day.

To put it simply, even midges have a value to bats and swallows, moorland birds eat ticks, and if you look deeply in to rainbow eyes of a cleg, you will see beauty reflected there.

And then it bites you.

Arran's Best Kept Secret (until now)

Yesterday Wally and I headed up for a round of the Pirnmill Hills via the Northwest Ridge of Beinn Bharrain, that juts out from the top of Mullach Buidhe like a prow. Curiously, this ridge is hidden from the road and is invisible from many other directions. If this was not the case it would certainly be ranked as highly as Arran's more famous ridges. It is a wonderful secret place, with a fine crest, excellent scrambling that is in places very serious, and amazing views. I'm almost reluctant to reveal it in the blog, as currently the chances of meeting another party on route are nil. I've actually blogged about this route before, but been deliberately reticent about its quality... Enjoy.

 The route takes a path through the fantastic woods above the village of Pirnmill following the rim of a dramatic gorge.

The gorge continues upwards on to the open moor below Beinn Bharrain. Beyond the gorge, it is possible to cross the river.

The crest looms in to view as an incongruous knife edge that protudes from the whaleback of the Pirnmill Hills. 

Established on the lower slopes of the ridge, the scrambling here is easy and it is possible to pick your line. 

The ridge begins to narrow near the top.  Below the final tower there is the crux- a rotten and greasy slab before a deep notch- which can be (and on this occasion was!) avoided by a long descent to the right and up steep grassy slopes.

 

Gobsmacking views from the top of the Goatfell Range to the East!

Tracking School

I returned to the woods this week and enrolled on a tracking course with Woodsmoke, a highly respected bushcraft school based in the Lake District. I've done a teensy bit of tracking with them before on their Woodlander Course, and lots of my own amateurish attempts, but this was to be three days of structured and in depth training that I hoped would open my eyes to the world around me. I was not disappointed. 

Sniffing out a scent trail.

We were in at the deep end from the very beginning, with exercises designed to enhance our memory and senses, culminating in following a pre-laid scent trail through the woods. Of course the human nose is not good enough to follow a natural trail, but smells are useful when identifying signs and scat, so it was wonderful to discover the human senses are not as dull as we assume.

Rainstorm so heavy night fell in the middle of the day.

The weekend was full of tests and challenges that gradually opened our eyes and helped us to tune in to the subtle signs around us. Alongside the rigours of the course, nature also had a curveball for us - epic rain fall that began on the first day, and continued in prolonged bursts for the next two days.  It wasn't long before little floods were pooling around camp and rivers running through tents and shelters.  I was impressed with the way the lessons were adapted and continued within an increasingly difficult environment. We even managed to watch a wonderful film on the first night about the bushmen who track in the Kalahari, thanks to some generator engineering and a cosy boathouse (providing welcome respite from the rain).

Dissecting a fox scat.

As the course progressed, I became increasingly confident not only in my own senses, but was able to understand where the limits of a really experienced tracker lie.  Abilities that had once seemed supernatural to me were shown to be based in science, while other tracking myths were quickly debunked. By the end of the course  I was scrutinsing broken blades of grass and running my fingers inside tracks to feel their form. Although many times I was unsure of what I was reading there, often enough I was rewarded with good evidence that allowed me to progress faster along a trail.

Course Director Steven Hanton demonstrating gait analysis- very Pythonesque.

Another comedy moment. Blindfolded piggy backs- can you walk in a straight line?

Looking for animal sign amongst dune systems at Ravenglass. 

By the end of the course, I was completely hooked, and keen to get straight on to my next trail. The skills taught at Woodsmoke are only the foundation stones of what is a huge area of study.  I think the next step for me is to try and understand better what happens to tracks and trails over time, as there is something reassuring about fresh signs, but these are rarely found in nature. I can't wait to get out again, only this time with my eyes wide open. 

 

The ending of the rain. A misty final morning in the woods.

Classic Day on the Three Beinns

Its been a while since I posted something fresh on here, and I'm sorry for getting so behind myself! It has been a busy summer with work both on and off the island and not much chance to log on and upload.  This week the schedule finally eased, and not only that, but last Thursday Wally and I grabbed a nice day to head out in to the hills to enjoy one of Arran's classic ridge walks, the three Beinns. 

 

 The Garbh Allt Burn as it flows in to Glen Rosa

There had been a lot of heavy rain overnight, and the Garbh Allt Burn that flows from Coire a Bhradain was in spate. To avoid a tricky river crossing we headed up open hillside on the left side of the burn, and followed the main stream until a smaller tributary flowing from the slopes of Beinn Nuis blocked our way. From here it was possible to cut up the side of Beinn Nuis to join the main path not far from the summit.

Sunlight on the ridge above Coire a Bhradain

As we climbed a cold rain shower whipped across the mountains, but by the time we had reached the first summit, the sun was breaking through the clouds and patches of blue were appearing in the skies above. The light was incredible, and we enjoyed crystal clear views of the rest of the Goatfell Range. 

Looking towards Beinn Tarsuinn with Achir and Cir Mhor beyond.

North Goatfell and Goatfell.

Glen Iorsa, a wet place at the best of times.

The Three Beinns is a real treat of a ridge to walk because once you have slogged up the first of these three peaks, you maintain your height for much of the day.  There is a gentle stroll on to the twin humps of Beinn Tarsuinn, and then a steep descent to the bealach between Tarsuinn and Beinn a Chliabhain.  There is a little height to be regained before the final summit but not much. Finally, there is a gentle descent off the southern end of Beinn a Chliabhain, and a stomp over the bog towards the gate at the top of the Garbh Allt path down to Glen Rosa.

The Descent from Beinn a Chliabhain. Views to Brodick Bay and Holy Isle in Lamlash Bay.

Walking on the Wild Side: Michael's Deaf Blind Challenge

Those readers that follow me on Twitter will be aware that I have recently been involved as part of the support team for Michael Anderson, a Deafblind man who climbed Ben Nevis on the 21st of July.  I wrote a couple of articles for the Voice for Arran before and after the event.  They are reproduced below: 

Part 1: The Preparation

Michael Anderson likes a challenge but his goal of climbing Ben Nevis for his 70th birthday is going to be a mighty test of his stamina and determination. Michael is both deaf and blind and hopes to climb the highest mountain in Britain to raise money for DeafBlind Scotland, a charity which supports and campaigns on behalf of people with dual sensory impairment, a complex disability that can be incredibly isolating.  Michael hopes to raise money towards a Training and Resources Centre that will support people with deafblindness, their families and guides/communicators.

I agreed to get involved with Michael’s challenge long before I met him.  As soon as I heard about his plans to climb Ben Nevis I wanted to help if I could and put myself forward as a member of his support team. However, it was not until a grey midgey morning on the shores of Loch Lomond in June that I finally met Michael, his daughter Fiona and her partner Nina. Michael is a gentle man with a soft voice. His kind exterior belies a man with a core of steel. Meeting him for the first time, for a training day on Ben Lomond, I wondered what on earth I could offer Michael and his support team. My knowledge of the mountain is one thing, but my experience in guiding deafblind people and the additional challenges we might face was at that point non existent.

On the Summit of Ben Lomond with Michael Anderson

At first I walked alongside Fiona and Nina and watched how they patiently guided him along the early sections of the path. I wondered at how, taking Fiona’s arm, Michael intuitively followed and copied her motion, gauging the size of steps and unevenness of the ground by feel.  Michael wears a hearing aid, and the two women loudly described the footpath before us.  Suddenly Michael stopped.  “We are in woodland?” We tried to explain how green corridors of oaks and birch surrounded us.  “May I touch a tree?” Michael asked.  Carefully we led him over to an ancient and gnarled trunk.  “Ah yes,” Michael smiled “An oak”.  Later he would identify a fallen birch by the feel of the papery bark under his fingertips.

Michael’s sense of direction is better than that of most sighted people, as is his balance, despite his damaged hearing. He has Usher’s syndrome, and has had a hearing impairment all his life; his sight has deteriorated slowly since he was a boy, and at the age of 33 he was registered blind.  He recalls climbing a mountain with his brother as a child and the wonderful emotions that awoke in him: “it was an amazing, uplifting sensation, both in what one has achieved and what we could see.  That was my first ever climb and I believed a seed was sown”

As a younger man, Michael enjoyed walking in the hills around his Berwickshire home and he is still exceptionally fit and active despite his disability.

For me to get a handle on how best to guide Michael and become part of his team, it was time to experience a glimpse of his world.  Approaching a rocky section of the path, I closed my eyes and took Fiona’s arm. I felt a huge leap of faith at this moment, and suddenly the act of climbing a mountain was condensed into each tentative step. Simple descriptive commands work best and though to the guide this can seem incredibly repetitive, it is vital information.  “Step up and over, left a bit, forwards, rock in path”. This steady flow of information is the guidee’s lifeline to progress. Fiona and Nina are very skilled at this, but as we approached complicated sections of path I could see the concern etched on their faces. 

Taking a turn at Michael’s side was nerve wracking initially, but his kind manner and careful concentration soon helped me to relax. Michael has an iron will and even though it was clear that he was weary, he never complained and continued to smile graciously. We left the treeline, and climbed up in to the grey clouds. He was keen to learn when the mist closed in.  We described the views, and how they faded from sight. He sensed the cold wind, and the brightening of the sky as we approached the summit.  Standing at the trig point taking photos, Fiona and Nina had tears in their eyes, but Michael’s face was a picture of pure joy.

Wise people say that when you reach the summit of a mountain you are only half way there, and for Michael this is more than true.  Each step is placed with equal care in ascent and descent, and as fatigue set in, the reality of the challenge dawned on us. Progress was slow, and through the stony sections painstaking. Ben Lomond is a lighter shade of Munro than Ben Nevis, which standing at 1344m is a worthy challenge for any hill walker. The Ben Nevis path is rough and rocky, and the weather on the hill often violently nasty.  We expect to be on the hill for at least eighteen hours, and will have to carry additional food, water and equipment.  Walking back through the woodland on the banks of Loch Lomond, I felt humbled by the immense challenge ahead for Michael, and honoured to be part of making it possible.

Part 2: Ben Nevis.

It was never going to be easy, but climbing Ben Nevis was a huge challenge for Michael Anderson and his support team because not only is he deaf and blind, but at 70, no spring chicken either. Michael was raising money for Deafblind Scotland, a charity that supports people with dual sensory impairment.  As part of his team I was able to take part in one of the most satisfying challenges of my life, and although it was hard for everyone involved, not least of all Michael, the whole experience was a huge adventure that forged new friendships.

We met at 4.30am at the visitors centre at the foot of Ben Nevis. The team comprised Michael, his daughter Fiona and her partner fun loving Nina, a cheerful young woman called Meg, George- an experienced mountain walker, Phil- a gear freak and walking guidebook writer, and finally, myself.

We set off in the early morning gloom grateful for evenness of the initial sections of the path. Michael set a cracking pace for his guides, and not even a peculiar design of stile (hard to describe to a blind man at 5am) slowed him down much. Optimism set in and as the sun rose and we were joined by other walkers on the track, the plan started to look distinctly feasible. By mid morning, Michael was striding out confidently alongside the “Halfway Lochain”. 

“Its in the bag” we thought….

The section of path above the half way lochain is very rocky. Loose boulders of considerable size litter the path despite recent work by the Ben Nevis Partnership. As we wove in and out of the obstacles in our way, progress ground to a standstill. Putting one foot in front of the other, we zig zagged our way up the shoulder of the mountain. I could see that this was taking its toll on Michael and the team and I began to seriously worry whether we would have enough energy left in hand to descend this sort of terrain.  I called a meeting and expressed my concerns.  Anxious that Michael was concealing his physical state from the team I asked him to level with us. Normally a quiet and polite man, he looked uncomfortable. Eventually he spoke: “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “I feel we are going too slow. I can go faster; I don’t need to go round everything!” 

Relieved, we pressed on, and the pace quickened. The support from other walkers on the mountain was fantastic. Phil was also sending out live updates to the internet via a satellite beacon that logged our exact position online. We felt as if the whole world was rooting for us to succeed.

We were joined by Jim, an elderly gentleman who was walking alone and looking for company. As we neared the summit, to my horror Jim took a turn for the worse and collapsed cold and insensible. Concerned that he was hypothermic, we wrapped him in warm layers and gave him sugary food. He perked up a little with some Kendal mint cake, but was hazy and incoherent. He looked in a bad way, but knowing that calling a rescue immediately would guarantee Jim could become seriously cold and ill in the long wait for help, trying to get him moving seemed like a good idea. George and Meg volunteered to descend a little with him.  I suggested that if he showed no sign of improvement in 10 minutes, they call the emergency services. In the event, Jim was able to walk off under his own steam after being fed and watered extensively.  It later emerged that he was diabetic and had not eaten sufficiently for the ascent. I believe he owes his life to George and Meg. 

On the Summit of the Ben!

Meanwhile, Michael was nearing the summit of Ben Nevis.  The final undulating plateau seemed to drag on interminably, but eventually at around 1pm the ruins of the observatory loomed in to view through the cloud. It was an emotional moment, with photos and phone calls home. We were even treated to a view, as the mist parted to briefly reveal the magnificent North Face of the mountain.

The descent was as hard as we knew it would be. Every single one of us was feeling the pain as the afternoon wore on in to evening. Michael seemed to have more energy than the rest of us put together.  At dusk, the midges descended hungrily.  We couldn’t escape them so plodded on regardless. Eventually, at half past ten, we crossed the bridge in to the visitors centre car park. For me this was a wonderful moment, tinged with relief and a huge sense of achievement. Michael had climbed Ben Nevis, and in doing so, had become the first fully blind and deaf man to stand on Britain’s highest mountain. 

Congratulations to Michael, and a huge well done to the entire team.  I’m looking forward to walking with you all again and eagerly waiting to hear what Michael’s next challenge will be!

To find out more about the work of Deafblind Scotland and the many other fundraising events they organise visit the website: http://www.deafblindscotland.org.uk/

You can support his incredible effort by donating to Deafblind Scotland on Justgiving.com: http://www.justgiving.com/teams/deafblindclimb