Ben Nevis, Scotland //
Tying in at the sharp end
Battling the elements on Ben Nevis
Date March 2011
Posted July 2011
Posted July 2011
It was probably soon after 4pm that I stood on top of a rare flat square meter or two of snow, a good few hours into our climb of the ridge, wanting badly to walk about and put some warmth back into my legs. My feet stood atop the head of an ice axe, its shaft buried within the snow. Around the shaft a large carabiner secured the two lines which ran in one direction around my body, in the other across to my climbing partner who stood a few meters away. Should he fall the rope would pull tight, I would brace, both of us hoping that the axe would hold fast. And then the real trouble would start.
All of this was of paramount importance, transcending all the other aspects of my life at that moment, each of which shrunk away under the cold stare of the violent death that lurked unseen several hundred meters below. For the rest of my existence was about to be placed, along with that of my climbing partner, on the icy ledge of the Eastern Traverse barely the width of a single boot which was cut into a thin line of snow somehow glued to the rock.
The ledge snaked across a face devoid of handholds and sheer enough that a fall would give no opportunity to arrest. Below us the side of the ridge disappeared into the cloud that had enveloped the climb from the beginning - the same mist that prevented us from knowing just how much of this intense endeavour was left. So far the conquering of each arete and face had presented a subsequent one, hovering menacingly way up in the gloom ahead.
We could not go back the way we'd come as it would take too long, and we could not still be on this ridge after dark - we would simply freeze to death. Trying to rope off the side of the ridge was no go - we had no idea how high we were, and even if we did then there was no way of knowing what awaited down there. For over an hour the cracking and sliding of avalanche material had been echoing up to warn us. If there was a way out of this then it was by traversing the terrifying offering before us. And after that, whatever the ridge would chose to throw at us next.
Given that we hadn't read the guide book, had no idea how far was to go, and were relative novices in this game, my heart was in my mouth. Jonnie stepped outward, placing one foot onto the ledge. And so in front of me began to unfold one of the most gripping displays of steel nerves I'd seen in a long time. This sense of awe was compounded with the realisation that afterwards I would have to follow.
The road to Ben Nevis had been guided in part by a local gamekeeper who had suggested we join the celebrations of the local mountain rescue dog teams, who'd just finished a week long assessment. This traditional Scottish 'ceilidh' took place in the local hotel and here, between pints of local bitter, we were advised to try Ben Nevis if we were after the last of the winter conditions. The next day, two hours after arriving in Fort William, we'd each carted 80 litres of gear up to the freezing level on Ben Nevis, around 700m. Here we would cache the overnight kit, complete an easy gully climb before returning to our newly established 'base camp' to cook up army rations. For the next 8 or 9 hours we were to shiver in bivvy bags as it rained, trying to sleep.
The first two hours of Monday morning were largely spent attempting a route onto the ridge further up the mountainside. The snow integrity was questionable and the ice routes up the flat slippery boulders had melted, forcing an abseil and down climb. Initially a gully up onto the front of the ridge behind The Douglas Boulder (the large 'nose' of the ridge) had been spotted, so this became our new route of choice. The gully, known as The Douglas Gap, allowed occasional rope protection and fast access up to the ridge top. Still roped in we were free to continue up the rock of the ridge placing gear where possible but moving 'alpine style' for speed and warmth. All being well we'd summit Ben Nevis by 2pm and be back at 'base camp' for 4pm.
By the time 4pm came around we had crossed thin snow-covered aretes, climbed up yet more slippery rock, and occasionally intact ice falls. Crampons ground against the rock and axe blades worked at the ever-thinning ice for some kind of security. But we were far from completing the ridge, and any ideas of reaching the actual summit of the mountain had long been binned.
And now we'd come to The Great Tower, a big flat face, and climbing it was well beyond our capabilities. Instead here we were, facing the famous Eastern Traverse. This was the only remotely feasible onward path.
One thing you're sure to learn about Jonnie if you climb with the man is that he just accepts situations. There's no apparent wasted thought on 'what ifs'. He sees what has to be done, and does it. With this attitude, and the declaration that we had no choice, Jonnie edged out onto the ledge gently ensuring that each foot was secure before placing the next one. For part of the way he used his axe for support before reaching down to where the ice between ledge and rock stood proud, offering the hands a very limited hold. Boldy but steadily he pushed on, eventually crossing the worst 5 or 6 meters and placing an anchor. This provided only a mild confidence boost - the belay below my boots was of questionable integrity.
From this point the ledge widened a little, taking him past a second gear placement and then around a corner. From now on our only contact was the occasional pulling of rope, and once or twice the sound of clinking trad gear as Jonnie put in more protection.
For the belayer left behind it's a lonely wait. He must remain alert incase of trouble, and at the same time keep his mind positive about the route he knows he has to undertake next. Virtually motionless in this role, save for the feeding out of the lines, I suffered as the cold bit ever sharper. Now and then I'd peer over the bright white precipice and down into the almost swirling clouds below the ledge. The sliding of avalanches, hidden in the fog, continued unabated. And so my senses were constantly fed graphic warnings of the three different unpleasant ways to die that both of us crept carefully between. I began to feel impatient, wanting more than anything to start moving, loathing the anticipation.
But there was no escape, no easy way out.
There was no removing of the headphones and stepping away from the PC or console, no throwing in the towel as you might during a bad tennis game, no ejector seat. All there was to do was to function, devoid of the distractions of fear and panic. We would keep going, relentless, determined, or be left helpless against the whims of the mountain.
When Jonnie was tied in 'safe' somewhere out of sight we used the invisible neighbouring ridge as a go-between. Instructions had to be yelled as clearly as possible, the receiver waiting for the echo which bounced around the corner. At my command the slack rope was taken in. I stepped forth.
Progressing out on the snow, forcing from my head the playing out of possible endings to this manoeuvre. Movement was with care, knees starting to shake from nerves and exhaustion. The first piece of gear was tricky to remove, and just at that point my back foot shifted several inches. Small snow balls rolled off the top and disappeared silently into the fog, their eventual impacts below too distant to register with my senses.
After what seemed like ages I turned the corner and saw the next pitch - a steep snow climb not unlike the gully climbed the previous day. As Jonnie was tied-in it made sense for me to continue up to the top which, I hoped, would be the top of the climb. By halfway up it became clear that this simply wasn't the case, and my hopes were crushed. Off to the left of this slope I could see a huge towering mass of snow and rock presenting itself for our assessment. The top of this ridge (if it even had a top) merged seamlessly with the clouds. From now on there was nothing to it but to hope no longer, only instead to do what had to be done, to complete each pitch and deal with whatever would follow.
Around this time I was reminded again of Jonnie's resolve when I asked him what our chances would be like if we had to endure a night up here: "We can't be up here when it gets dark. There's no way we can still be up here. We just can't."
The top of the climb put me back, finally, on the top of the ridge, a sharp knife-edge of snow poised on the top of so much rock hidden inside it. I swung a leg onto the opposite side and straddled the ice before working out a new belay point. On the opposite side of the knife-edge was pretty much the same situation as we'd just dealt with: a stupidly steep snow-covered slope dissolving into oblivion. And as if this wasn't enough, the mountain had another test for us. From the belay point I sent Jonnie onward, traversing across to the base of the next ascent. He stopped halfway across the thin arete down below that joined this peak of the ridge with the next one that we had to climb up. Frustratedly I yelled out for a reason. His answer was simple and to the point: "You'll see".
Sat now just behind him I looked at the problem. Tower Gap is four foot wide and ten foot deep - a great big section of missing ridge, horrible-looking chimneys falling away on either side. Later we were to find out that there had once been slings attached to the rock to help the traverse, but these were, presumably in the interests of purism, removed. Since then at least one climber has fallen into the gap and not survived his injuries. So now a down-climb into this gap was forced upon us and after it a step across thin air and the finding of a route up onto the huge expansive pitch that would come next. On the second or third attempt my right foot made it to a prominent foothold from which I was free to lean out and grab the opposite side.
Both across, the mass of snow above awaited our try. Up high was the highest visible rock outcrop that we hoped would be the last. Jonnie set out for it, finding no protection along the way, but again forced to continue regardless. On both sides and below the exposure was deadly enough that there was no better counter-measure than to just not think about it. This became twice as apt when the ropes, hanging off the side of the arete, became snagged. There was one option and one option alone: to untie from both lines and continue up to the outcrop solo.
The knots came undone and the ropes dropped off out of sight. With eyes only on toes and axes I began to ascend up the snow, taking faith in the trails already there that this house of cards wouldn't decide that this was the appropriate moment to topple into the valley below.
Attached to gear placed in a crack in the outcrop Jonnie tried to pull in the ropes only to find that they'd jammed themselves, somehow twisted together. And so the thought of ever getting off this damn ridge was set back once more. Using the other end of one of the ropes Jonnie had to be belayed back down at which point with one last pull the ropes were freed. Jonnie returned confident that the next pitch - a careful ledge around the edge of this rock face and then a 10m ascent, would be the last. If it wasn't then we were in big trouble. All the while it'd been getting darker, and now the snowfall had started. Our bags were frozen, our clothes and gloves frozen, the ropes frozen. We were probably scheduled to freeze next.
The final slope, steep as it was, we undertook without ropes, working up towards a big flat top. At the top of this climb we stepped away from the edge, snow now stretching off as far as could be seen across a flat plane. Finally we knew that we'd reached the summit plateau, and therefore were delivered from the perils of the ridge. As if waiting for our arrival the snowfall began to set in properly and the light quickly faded out. Our descent back to 'base camp' would be undertaken by torchlight via a somewhat easier gully route into the valley. This would in turn be followed by the 6km walk out with full kit. When we might sleep next was anyone's guess.
All of this was of paramount importance, transcending all the other aspects of my life at that moment, each of which shrunk away under the cold stare of the violent death that lurked unseen several hundred meters below. For the rest of my existence was about to be placed, along with that of my climbing partner, on the icy ledge of the Eastern Traverse barely the width of a single boot which was cut into a thin line of snow somehow glued to the rock.
The ledge snaked across a face devoid of handholds and sheer enough that a fall would give no opportunity to arrest. Below us the side of the ridge disappeared into the cloud that had enveloped the climb from the beginning - the same mist that prevented us from knowing just how much of this intense endeavour was left. So far the conquering of each arete and face had presented a subsequent one, hovering menacingly way up in the gloom ahead.
We could not go back the way we'd come as it would take too long, and we could not still be on this ridge after dark - we would simply freeze to death. Trying to rope off the side of the ridge was no go - we had no idea how high we were, and even if we did then there was no way of knowing what awaited down there. For over an hour the cracking and sliding of avalanche material had been echoing up to warn us. If there was a way out of this then it was by traversing the terrifying offering before us. And after that, whatever the ridge would chose to throw at us next.
Given that we hadn't read the guide book, had no idea how far was to go, and were relative novices in this game, my heart was in my mouth. Jonnie stepped outward, placing one foot onto the ledge. And so in front of me began to unfold one of the most gripping displays of steel nerves I'd seen in a long time. This sense of awe was compounded with the realisation that afterwards I would have to follow.
The road to Ben Nevis had been guided in part by a local gamekeeper who had suggested we join the celebrations of the local mountain rescue dog teams, who'd just finished a week long assessment. This traditional Scottish 'ceilidh' took place in the local hotel and here, between pints of local bitter, we were advised to try Ben Nevis if we were after the last of the winter conditions. The next day, two hours after arriving in Fort William, we'd each carted 80 litres of gear up to the freezing level on Ben Nevis, around 700m. Here we would cache the overnight kit, complete an easy gully climb before returning to our newly established 'base camp' to cook up army rations. For the next 8 or 9 hours we were to shiver in bivvy bags as it rained, trying to sleep.
The first two hours of Monday morning were largely spent attempting a route onto the ridge further up the mountainside. The snow integrity was questionable and the ice routes up the flat slippery boulders had melted, forcing an abseil and down climb. Initially a gully up onto the front of the ridge behind The Douglas Boulder (the large 'nose' of the ridge) had been spotted, so this became our new route of choice. The gully, known as The Douglas Gap, allowed occasional rope protection and fast access up to the ridge top. Still roped in we were free to continue up the rock of the ridge placing gear where possible but moving 'alpine style' for speed and warmth. All being well we'd summit Ben Nevis by 2pm and be back at 'base camp' for 4pm.
By the time 4pm came around we had crossed thin snow-covered aretes, climbed up yet more slippery rock, and occasionally intact ice falls. Crampons ground against the rock and axe blades worked at the ever-thinning ice for some kind of security. But we were far from completing the ridge, and any ideas of reaching the actual summit of the mountain had long been binned.
And now we'd come to The Great Tower, a big flat face, and climbing it was well beyond our capabilities. Instead here we were, facing the famous Eastern Traverse. This was the only remotely feasible onward path.
One thing you're sure to learn about Jonnie if you climb with the man is that he just accepts situations. There's no apparent wasted thought on 'what ifs'. He sees what has to be done, and does it. With this attitude, and the declaration that we had no choice, Jonnie edged out onto the ledge gently ensuring that each foot was secure before placing the next one. For part of the way he used his axe for support before reaching down to where the ice between ledge and rock stood proud, offering the hands a very limited hold. Boldy but steadily he pushed on, eventually crossing the worst 5 or 6 meters and placing an anchor. This provided only a mild confidence boost - the belay below my boots was of questionable integrity.
From this point the ledge widened a little, taking him past a second gear placement and then around a corner. From now on our only contact was the occasional pulling of rope, and once or twice the sound of clinking trad gear as Jonnie put in more protection.
For the belayer left behind it's a lonely wait. He must remain alert incase of trouble, and at the same time keep his mind positive about the route he knows he has to undertake next. Virtually motionless in this role, save for the feeding out of the lines, I suffered as the cold bit ever sharper. Now and then I'd peer over the bright white precipice and down into the almost swirling clouds below the ledge. The sliding of avalanches, hidden in the fog, continued unabated. And so my senses were constantly fed graphic warnings of the three different unpleasant ways to die that both of us crept carefully between. I began to feel impatient, wanting more than anything to start moving, loathing the anticipation.
But there was no escape, no easy way out.
There was no removing of the headphones and stepping away from the PC or console, no throwing in the towel as you might during a bad tennis game, no ejector seat. All there was to do was to function, devoid of the distractions of fear and panic. We would keep going, relentless, determined, or be left helpless against the whims of the mountain.
When Jonnie was tied in 'safe' somewhere out of sight we used the invisible neighbouring ridge as a go-between. Instructions had to be yelled as clearly as possible, the receiver waiting for the echo which bounced around the corner. At my command the slack rope was taken in. I stepped forth.
Progressing out on the snow, forcing from my head the playing out of possible endings to this manoeuvre. Movement was with care, knees starting to shake from nerves and exhaustion. The first piece of gear was tricky to remove, and just at that point my back foot shifted several inches. Small snow balls rolled off the top and disappeared silently into the fog, their eventual impacts below too distant to register with my senses.
After what seemed like ages I turned the corner and saw the next pitch - a steep snow climb not unlike the gully climbed the previous day. As Jonnie was tied-in it made sense for me to continue up to the top which, I hoped, would be the top of the climb. By halfway up it became clear that this simply wasn't the case, and my hopes were crushed. Off to the left of this slope I could see a huge towering mass of snow and rock presenting itself for our assessment. The top of this ridge (if it even had a top) merged seamlessly with the clouds. From now on there was nothing to it but to hope no longer, only instead to do what had to be done, to complete each pitch and deal with whatever would follow.
Around this time I was reminded again of Jonnie's resolve when I asked him what our chances would be like if we had to endure a night up here: "We can't be up here when it gets dark. There's no way we can still be up here. We just can't."
The top of the climb put me back, finally, on the top of the ridge, a sharp knife-edge of snow poised on the top of so much rock hidden inside it. I swung a leg onto the opposite side and straddled the ice before working out a new belay point. On the opposite side of the knife-edge was pretty much the same situation as we'd just dealt with: a stupidly steep snow-covered slope dissolving into oblivion. And as if this wasn't enough, the mountain had another test for us. From the belay point I sent Jonnie onward, traversing across to the base of the next ascent. He stopped halfway across the thin arete down below that joined this peak of the ridge with the next one that we had to climb up. Frustratedly I yelled out for a reason. His answer was simple and to the point: "You'll see".
Sat now just behind him I looked at the problem. Tower Gap is four foot wide and ten foot deep - a great big section of missing ridge, horrible-looking chimneys falling away on either side. Later we were to find out that there had once been slings attached to the rock to help the traverse, but these were, presumably in the interests of purism, removed. Since then at least one climber has fallen into the gap and not survived his injuries. So now a down-climb into this gap was forced upon us and after it a step across thin air and the finding of a route up onto the huge expansive pitch that would come next. On the second or third attempt my right foot made it to a prominent foothold from which I was free to lean out and grab the opposite side.
Both across, the mass of snow above awaited our try. Up high was the highest visible rock outcrop that we hoped would be the last. Jonnie set out for it, finding no protection along the way, but again forced to continue regardless. On both sides and below the exposure was deadly enough that there was no better counter-measure than to just not think about it. This became twice as apt when the ropes, hanging off the side of the arete, became snagged. There was one option and one option alone: to untie from both lines and continue up to the outcrop solo.
The knots came undone and the ropes dropped off out of sight. With eyes only on toes and axes I began to ascend up the snow, taking faith in the trails already there that this house of cards wouldn't decide that this was the appropriate moment to topple into the valley below.
Attached to gear placed in a crack in the outcrop Jonnie tried to pull in the ropes only to find that they'd jammed themselves, somehow twisted together. And so the thought of ever getting off this damn ridge was set back once more. Using the other end of one of the ropes Jonnie had to be belayed back down at which point with one last pull the ropes were freed. Jonnie returned confident that the next pitch - a careful ledge around the edge of this rock face and then a 10m ascent, would be the last. If it wasn't then we were in big trouble. All the while it'd been getting darker, and now the snowfall had started. Our bags were frozen, our clothes and gloves frozen, the ropes frozen. We were probably scheduled to freeze next.
The final slope, steep as it was, we undertook without ropes, working up towards a big flat top. At the top of this climb we stepped away from the edge, snow now stretching off as far as could be seen across a flat plane. Finally we knew that we'd reached the summit plateau, and therefore were delivered from the perils of the ridge. As if waiting for our arrival the snowfall began to set in properly and the light quickly faded out. Our descent back to 'base camp' would be undertaken by torchlight via a somewhat easier gully route into the valley. This would in turn be followed by the 6km walk out with full kit. When we might sleep next was anyone's guess.
