Guerdon Grooves is one of the test pieces of Scottish winter climbing and in this three part special Cubby tells the tale of this outstanding climb for the very first time.
Read part one here
Read part three here
In doubting mood I cautiously started up a calf-aching groove, the walls of which are composed of a coarse outward shelving rhyolite and a precarious breakable crud.
The compact, tightly jointed nature of the groove does not yield protection without considerable effort and even when it does the placements are marginal. Nor could I find much purchase beyond the first tooth of my axes.
But slowly I udged and inched my way upwards. The climbing was so involved that Arthur's mumbled references to secure another runner had gone pretty well unnoticed, until that is, I detected a more adamant tone in his voice.
For all that it was worth I tapped in a micro Stopper but in the end a peg is called for. Never keen on the use of pegs on a climb normally done without, a brief scan at the steepening bulge above and I conclude that change is never a bad thing!
While raking around for a peg placement, some curious little patterns I had noticed in the snow lower down on the pitch were not, on closer inspection a work of nature after all. Whose, I wondered?
Bridged out most uncomfortably, I fumbled around on my rack for a short blade, a Bugaboo. It goes in reluctantly and not with the reassuring "ring" of confidence that I was hoping for, but more of a dull dead thud.
To reduce any leverage I clove hitch a hero loop behind the eye.
"What's it like?" quizzed Arthur in a manner implying I should consider the consequences of a fall.
"Something to retreat to," I replied, eager to get moving.
Just above me the scuffmarks now vanished completely, which cheered me up no end. Still, I was impressed that whoever it was had got this far. With much relief and a new found confidence I started to explore uncharted territory. To the best of my knowledge no one had been up here in winter before me. It was a lonely yet sensational experience.
The groove merged into a steepening, going right is not an option but above and to the left I can see a turfy ramp. To reach it I first have to negotiate the left wall of the groove.
There is precious little for my crampons here and only a marginal placement for my axe. Transferring my weight from the groove onto the wall, which is very steep if not vertical would clearly dictate a less subtle approach, at least by comparison to the elegant nature of the groove below me.
A pincushion of moss proves to be the way forward. But would it hold my weight? Carefully I flick my Chacal into the vibrant green blob and pushing off the groove with my right foot I am now committed to the left wall. But just as I start pulling up on my axe to reach the ramp a crampon skates abruptly from beneath me.
"Shit!" My body goes into spasm, as if to maximise my grip on the verglassed wall. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Arthur shifting uneasily on his stance and taking a firmer grip on the rope. I'm tense.
"Relax," I talk to myself. The axe is still holding. I'm f*&!?d if it doesn't. This is the reality. I take a deep breath, readjust my crampon placement and locking my left arm, reach up and "thwack" - some loose grassy turf is hooked. I'm not up yet however. The turf is the sort that easily rips.
I keep control, reach up again and my second placement is better. Pushing down on the heads of both axes I teeter up and finally attain a standing position - phew! First things first. I calm down and look for a runner. Rock protection is non-existent so out comes my trusty Warthog. It goes in beautifully, deep, up to the hilt in solid muddy turf.
And then hey presto, as if by magic, it - or certainly half of it - tinkles down the rope - snapped! Wonderful, now what? I try again, this time with a recently acquired Mountain Tech ice peg. One of those painted red. Red for danger no doubt but it does the trick and at last my confidence is restored and Arthur's.
The ramp is a strange little haven, an oasis in a desert of stark frosted rhyolite. For the first time I could stop, relax and soak up my incredible surroundings. Opposite, on Cuineform Buttress, Rick Allan and Brian Sprunt were attempting the first winter ascent of Raven's Edge while, to quote Arthur, some "noisy English" were hacking away to their hearts content deep in the depths of Raven's Gully. (I discovered later that our musical companions were Mark Miller and Simon Yates).
Rested, I continued to the top of the ramp where a beautiful little column of ice appeared to emanate from virtually nowhere, bisecting the top of the ramp and then frizzling out into the void below. Through its opaque bubbly fagade my eye detects the vivid colour of some unnaturally blue climbing tape. With the prospect of a good runner, I start hacking into the tough dense ice. It's demanding work and a lot of energy is expired for what transpires to be a rusting relic from god knows when. But cemented in place the peg gives the impression of solidity, and once clipped I could relax once again.
The ice pillar contrasted most enjoyably against the demands of the mixed climbing. But its meagre four or five metres in length come to an end all too soon. Near the top of the ice fall I step back down and across to a nasty little tapering ramp where Slime Wall's evil tilt certainly makes its presence felt. There was nothing positive on the ramp and each time I stood up and applied pressure with my crampon points the crud would break up into dozens of little pieces that pitter-pattered off down the wall, somewhat akin to climbing a moving escalator.
It was a daunting prospect to look back at my rusting relic of a runner, some 20 feet or more below me and beneath that an ice peg in two halves for all I know.
Although delicate the climbing was becoming increasingly technical and with no prospect of another runner this was no place to make a mistake. The ramp dwindles to a point where its tilt finally forces me onto the wall beneath the ramp. It is steeper and more exposed here and with the belay almost within reach I thought my luck had finally run out. After some time, however, I managed to excavate a small incut hold. Pushing down on this with my left hand and stepping up with my right foot allowed me to reach up and hook some turf. Another pull up and at last the pitch is completed. Before I can do anything else I clip into the belay and allow sickening hot aches to run their course.
I think I got four, maybe five runners in over 40 metres. What a superb and varied piece of climbing but I was glad that it was over and confident now that the remaining hard pitch would go a lot more easily. I discarded another pair of worn out inners, flicked the rope around my waist and brought up Arthur.
As he neared the top of the initial groove I wondered how he would get on with the hard move left, then - whoops! I'm plucked from the belay.
My first anchor rips from the icy crack. The second anchor holds, fortunately. But the ropes are running in such a manner that rather than being pulled into the belay I'm unwrapped and as a consequence flipped upside down, left desperately holding Arthur's weight with both hands over my right shoulder.
With so few runners in place and the traversing nature of the climb, Arthur drops close to the bed of Raven's Gully. Hastily I lower him down. That was scary. The wall is overhanging out of Raven's Gully but with a bit of jiggery-pokery Arthur manages to get back on line and before long joins me at the belay, almost completely unperturbed by the whole affair and still muttering something about noisy English!
Few words were exchanged between us. I had never taken so long on a pitch before but Arthur did not think that three hours was unduly excessive for such a technical and serious piece of climbing. We munched a sweet, changed belays and Arthur nipped up the vegetated fault above (pictured) - the only straightforward climbing on the route so far. He placed a runner at the top of the fault and started scratching across an ill-defined slab.
Lost in my own little world I was just thinking that soon we will be celebrating the first winter ascent of Guerdon Grooves, with Tam and Davey back at the hut. But reality hits hard. Almost an hour passes by and in that time virtually no upward progress has been made. No longer was the route definitely in the bag!
Eventually above the noise of a howling wind and falling snow Arthur suggests exactly what I don't want to hear - that I should have a "wee look". I suggested that he should have another "wee look" first but this achieved little more than eating into precious time. Arthur backed off and belayed at the top of the fault, where I joined him and took over.
The atmosphere was tense. I soon reached his high point and before too long came to a similar conclusion, no protection and no obvious way out. So I downclimb to rejoin Arthur.
Suddenly the whole outlook was grim. Success was so close only half an hour ago. The English party now faded into the mist, Rick and Brian whooped up the final crack of Raven's Edge, the wind reaching alarming force as it whipped around the outer edges of the West Face. Spindrift blasted in all directions.
One other option remained - high up on the right side of the Great Cave dropped an impressive column of ice. My thoughts were that if we could reach into the back of the cave it might then be possible to traverse out to gain its lower reaches. Optimistic we decide to give it a go, even though we were no longer on a route that we could call Guerdon Grooves.
On a little subsidiary buttress I torqued up a series of short overhanging cracks, preferring to keep up momentum rather than stopping to place protection. I reached a good ledge at the bottom left hand corner of the Great Cave where some ancient pieces of cord and pegs suggested that this could be the point where Nightmare Traverse exits the main face.
To my left the bubbly snow-covered wall of Apparition dropped away in a great perpendicular sweep. I worked my way close up under the roof on difficult slabby rock. After about 35 feet from the ledge, some 70 feet or so from Arthur's belay I reached a point where I thought it might be possible to traverse right and up to the foot of the ice fall. But here the rock was water-worn smooth, void of holds and covered only with a very thin veneer of black ice.
It was too thin. My axes and crampons bounced with every swing. Spindrift was now pouring down from the top of the ice fall. Something evil was going on up there and it was getting dark. I stood still for a few seconds, my hands resting on the shafts of my axes, heart pounding and the icy spindrift melting on my hot face.
Cubby
28/12/2001
To be continued
