Guerdon Grooves is one of the test pieces of Scottish winter climbing and in a three part special Cubby tells the tale of this outstanding climb for the very first time.
Read part two here
Read part three here
Unfortunately our extended lunch hour sessions at the Glasgow College of Technology indoor wall hadn't gone unnoticed by the Nevisport management and as a form of punishment, I was banished to the climbing floor. In the ski workshop we had all the latest extreme skiing videos and the luxury of a drinks bar that we put together from our customer's festive season gifts.
By comparison the climbing floor was dull. The walls were a mass of oppressive, dark green and navy blue garments. Odd customers with nothing better to do with their lunch hour would come in and spend ages staring at the biggest and heaviest screwgate karabiners. Who then should breeze through the door but Arthur Paul, weather beaten with that characteristic wry smile. I always thought of him as the man in the "Lady who loves Milk Tray" advert (see pic below), craggier perhaps and with a personality that suggested he could get away with just about anything. Undoubtedly he was here on an annual pilgrimage to exchange the worn out picks on his Terrordactyles, under guarantee of course!
Despite being a Glencoe regular I didn't really know Arthur that well although we had met on a number of occasions. A member of the Creag Dubh, Arthur came across as being a quiet, private person and generally shied away from the rowdy climbing bars in Glencoe. He had taken a year out to concentrate on winter climbing, ironically in many ways if you consider that he was one of the most prolific winter climbers of recent times, with a string of magnificent first ascents to his credit, including Minus One Buttress, Gemini and Kellets Route on Ben Nevis, Silver Tear on Ben Bhan in the north west and North Wall Groove on the Cobbler, plus many more. Already this season, he had notched up the first winter ascent of The Hard Psyche on Lochnagar and was obviously on good form.
We chatted for a while. The respect seemed mutual and then, adopting a more sincere tone, Arthur quietly ended the polite conversation and asked if I would like to do a route together. A dozen thoughts whizzed around inside my head, my heart raced and almost subconsciously I murmured to myself - Guerdon Grooves. A first winter ascent on this legendary Cunningham route presented one of the most prized and challenging lines in the Coe.
There was a buzz about the line, it was much talked about. I had even heard a rumour suggesting that Jimmy Marshall had seen it almost completely iced up. I knew it would only be a matter of time before other Scottish activists such as Hamilton, or worse still the Londoner, Mike Fowler would pluck yet another plum from beneath the noses of the Scots. "Guerdon Grooves," I replied and not said in any way for effect or to impress. Arthur looked pleased. We were clearly on a similar wavelength and so we arranged to meet up outside the front door of the Sauchiehall Street shop the next Friday night. This was exactly the sort of inspiration I needed. I had a week to motivate and prepare myself mentally. Although I wasn't really hill fit, I was as strong as ever and my running I thought would at least come in useful.
On the Friday night we drove to Crianlarich where we stopped off at the hotel to meet up with Tam the Bam and Paraffin Davy. Tam is a staunch Creag Dubh man and in many respects for me his work as a welder for a shipbuilding company on the banks of the Clyde, epitomised the working class climber. His favourite haunt was Dumbarton Rock on the outskirts of Glasgow, where to newcomers his middle-aged rocker image and fifties attire could be quite daunting. Sure, he had all the problems wired but you could not stop yourself from being impressed by Tam. Dressed in his winklepicker shoes, black t-shirt, bunched up drainpipe demins and DA haircut, he would solo up and down the various problems telling terrible jokes. "Hey pal, did yae hear the wan aboot the guy wae the glass prick - could see yersel coming!" Moving onto another problem, another joke, still soloing and still laughing to himself. Davy on the other hand was a new Creag Dubh recruit, a more studious character and young hopeful. I always got the impression that a lot was expected of him, especially in winter.
Not being much of a drinker at heart, the hotel at Crianlarich is not a venue where I would normally stop for a drink. Arthur and I walked into the hotel, greeted by Tam who was sitting next to Paraffin at the bar. "Oh ho, here we go, the A team's arrived, have a drink Davy boy," said Tam. I didn't respond in a manner normally associated with a seasoned beer drinker. I paused, long enough to instil some doubt in Tam's mind as far as my social attributes were concerned. Tactfully, Arthur turned to me and said "a wee sherry". The barmaid, bemused, obviously knew the lads and stood patiently with one hand on the Tennent's lager tap.
Orange juice or a shandy is what I'd normally have ordered. But I was getting tired of the "I'll buy you a real drink but I'm not buying you that" routine. Better not let the side down though and in any case it was a great occasion and an honour to be invited to The Ville, especially for an east coaster such as myself. "Aye, a wee sherry will do nicely." Grins all round. "Good on you wee man. Cheers," said Tam raising his glass with that slightly manic laugh. It was as if I'd just past the first part of an initiation test. "And dinnae worry," Tam continued, "I winnae tell anyone!"
Another couple of "wee sherries" and we headed off into the frosty night, my beetle purring effortlessly like a sewing machine in the crisp, cold air.
We pulled off the A82 into The Ville car park. It was empty with no visible signs of anyone having been there. The great, black bulk of The Buachaille slumped over the River Coupal as we stumbled across icy stepping stones, which glistened and shone under a bright new moon. The musty smell inside the hut reminded me of The Squirrels Dray, another climber's hut situated further down the glen. The outside was painted black with pitch and constructed in a multitude of bits and pieces of material, timbers and a tarpaulin that had no doubt been added over the years. Inside was tidy and practical and featured a fireplace with a metal chimney, a table, some chairs and a bench. A large piece of hessian sack hung from the ceiling in the entrance lobby, which seemed to act as a draft excluder and prevented wind driven snow from creeping into the living area.
We didn't stay up late. A brew and Tam got some digs in about an east coaster staying in a Creag Dubh hut. We set the alarm for 4am and turned in for the night. Two excited to sleep, I lay awake for a while, thinking about the great climbers who had stayed here in the past, the weekenders, the escapism and those who had contributed to the development of climbing in Scotland. I thought of the stories I had read, of Don Whillans, Jimmy Marshall and Big MacLean and the infamous games of pontoon, of Haston when he spent the night wrapped up in newspapers waiting for Christmas Day.
Then I thought about the time when I skipped O Level Biology to hitch up to the Coe with Rab Anderson to do Trapeze in a snowstorm, then Gallows Route and Guerdon Grooves the next day. Guerdon Grooves had a reputation as a chop route in those days and the description placed great emphasis on the length of rope required on the main pitch. It was a daunting thought that our rope might not be of the required length but of far greater concern was that it was a Cunningham route! Outside, the wind whistled loudly and with each gust, the embers of the fire glowed an intense, bright orange. I searched deep into the past to remember which parts of the climb might present difficulties in winter but that was ten years ago and before long I had dozed into a restless sleep.
Arthur's alarm was a rude awakening and already I questioned my fitness. Reality hits. I had not got into the discipline of waking up and being organised, while Arthur obviously had. I was still rummaging around for my head torch when a hot mug of tea and a fat bacon sandwich were thrust into my hands. So much for my attempt at being vegetarian. We left the comforts of our doss, Tam and Davy still deep in sleep and headed across intermittent drifts of thigh deep snow, wrapped up in a strange little world under the confines of our torch beams. I swallowed my pride and asked Arthur to break trail for a while. We alternated shifts but his generally lasted longer than mine. It was time consuming, hard work and unnerving as we clung awkwardly to the side-wall of a potentially avalanche prone, Great Gully.
By the time we reached the foot of Ravens, a new dawn cast a vermilion glow on an otherwise stark and featureless West Face. The perpetual weeps for which Slime Wall is so famous were now transformed into long slithers of blue and green ice, while the dark rhyolite adopted a stark and clinical white. All was frozen silent except for a persistent updraft that whipped up any loose snow in uncanny quantities and dumped it upon us with menacing accuracy. It was 7.45am. The approach had taken longer than expected, although we still had more than eight hours of climbing time. We geared up and shared a small rucksack, carrying only our headtorches, waterproofs and a handful of sweets.
Starting to the right of the summer line, Arthur climbed with a solid and confident style, making good use of his slightly dated rack. Given the subdued light and flurries of spindrift, I was impressed by the way in which he climbed without hesitation and he soon reached the sanctuary of the Shibboleth flake - a well-earned runner. From the flake a traverse right and descending jam-crack in a corner is followed, leading to the crux of the first pitch. A short, steep wall, which unless veneered in a thick plating of ice will prove to be a technical and demanding piece of climbing with limited protection. It was an excellent lead on Arthur's part. Always slow to warm up, I was glad that he went first.
Cubby
20/12/01
Read part two here
