Cubby fixes it for a pair of clients chuffed to discover Jimmy Saville is one of his neighbours in Glencoe and enjoys a couple of great Scottish winter days.
"I nearly passed the cafi the other day," said Hamish with a look of shock, "when I noticed the open sign was up, so I stopped to have a look and was pleasantly surprised that Davy had opened up for half term."
"We're very lucky to have such a good place, it's a real bolt hold (a ship's cargo)," said Hamish not realising that he repeats himself every time I see him. "What a winter Cubby, it's the worst I can remember. Not so much as far as the amount of snow is concerned, because there's actually quite a lot, it's more just the wind and the rain."
"Now then," said the long silver-haired gentleman, dressed characteristically in a shell suit, walking boots and gaiters, and brandishing a pair of wacky sports shades, cigar in one hand and a gold Rolex, studded with diamonds, in the other.
I had met Jimmy Saville before and was a bit uncertain of the man but meeting him again, I saw a different side. Of course he loves being the centre of attention, that's what he's best at, that's his job. But here is a man in his 70s, mixing with people he has very little in common with, being so lively and positive.
"If I can help to make money for others, then great." And then he offered me to take a photo of him climbing a tree, or something similar, if it would help to increase our calendar sales!
"Did you know that every oyster has a pearl," and how right he is. "For example, take the lady from along the road, what's her name...anyhow, her husband took the only pictures of HMS Hood as she sank during the war. Now then, what do you think to that?"
Jimmy hasn't got a head for heights but adventure takes on many different forms. He went on to tell a story of a live programme that he did for television, relying almost exclusively on an unknown audience. In some ways it was a sort of forerunner to the Graham Norton show. The production team and director sat behind the stage, on the verge of a nervous breakdown with potential for the programme being a complete flop. But one by one, members of the audience were picked out, all of whom had something to say, a story to tell about their lives.
Recently I did Dorsal Arete via the Zig Zags in Glencoe. It was a lovely day and for once windless and dry, with snow down to the road and a warm spring sun filtering through the parting clouds. It's a great introduction to mountaineering for beginners and I was glad that my guiding skills and ability to monitor and assess a student's level of competence, had not waned after a break from guiding over the last couple of years.
Just seeing John and Mike's movement on the short stretch of climbing on the Zig Zags was enough to convince me that we could probably move simultaneously as a rope of three up Dorsal Arete (missing out the top fin which is harder, with a move or two of grade three). The summit of Gearr Aonach is one of my favourite viewpoints in Glencoe. I pointed out the various peaks and the starting point for the Aonach Eagach, which they had read so much about.
"What's the white cottage?" asked John. "That's Allt-na-Reigh. It used to belong to Hamish McInnes," I replied. There was a pause and a vacant expression on their faces.
Such is the type of clientele lured into the big guiding companies these days, that sadly, clients often know very little about the important figures in mountaineering, or those who have played a part in its development. This evolution of clientele from a non-climbing background is a growing trend, one that appears to be strongly influenced by names that are associated with epics on the world's highest peaks. And why not you may well ask. I watched a programme on TV not so long ago, about a client being guided up Everest. What struck me was that the client was being complimented on his performance crossing the Khumbu icefall, having never worn crampons before!
"Jimmy Saville owns the cottage now." Their eyes came to life and cameras started to click away. "The Jimmy Saville? Ah, of course, I recognise it from the programme with Louis Theroux."
As a guide I should have pointed out the flora and fauna, or the areas geology but instead I told them a few Jimmy Saville stories, which appeared to capture their imagination far more than my tales of woe from the mountains. "When Hamish lived there, he grew trees to reduce stray light from vehicles as they passed by at night. When Jimmy moved in he cut the lovely trees down." Jo, my wife asked why? But before Jimmy even had a chance to answer Jo's question, Hamish butted in, laughing and said, "so that all the passers by can wave to Jimmy and Jimmy can wave to them!" It takes all sorts!
Talking about high society and the big mountains, I read with interest an extract from Jeff Connor's new biography on Dougal Haston, The Philosophy of Risk. And although personally speaking, I could not idolise a person to the degree that Connor does, Haston was a man, charismatic, even a cult figure and certainly a role model to us as young upstarts. The extract sparks off a few thoughts.
It was my first interview for a job after leaving school. I'd been climbing for about two years up until then and I thought that the interview had gone pretty well. 1976 was a great year. We travelled a lot in the UK doing first ascents and early repeats, including a couple of Pete Livesey's "super" routes, and Smith and Marshall's tour de force, the Orion Face Direct on Ben Nevis. And then a month in Chamonix, our first season. It was a steep learning curve but somehow or other we managed to come back in one piece. The confidence that climbing had blessed me with was a powerful tool and a week later, I started my new job.
I'll never forget sitting upstairs in an overcrowded, smoky double decker bus during rush hour, the number sixteen from Bruntsfield to Oxgangs. I rarely read the papers but several rows in front of me a headline caught my eye. From my position all I could see was the word "dead", a word not uncommon in the tabloids but as the bus swayed the entire page revealed itself - "Haston Feared Dead." I could feel a lump in my throat - I couldn't believe it. Haston, like Smith and others were in a way our role models. We followed in their footsteps, from the Currie Wa's to Dunkeld, Creag Dubh and the Coe. His stomping grounds became ours and now he was gone. I'll never forget that bus journey. At home the news on TV only confirmed what I already knew and I could barely hold back my emotions.
Back with my clients we continued into the coire where all the other outdoor centres and companies had similar designs. "Remember folks," I stressed with a more serious tone in my voice, "keep your points square to the surface of the snow, be positive with your axe and balance with your other hand, and keep the ropes distance apart. If we don't keep the rope tight and one of us slips, we'll all go together."
I tied a loop for my left hand and moved into gear. Twenty minutes later, having woven a thread at high speed through teams, adorned with shiny new ice screws, cascade crampons, two technical tools and a rack of gear to put any big wall climber to shame. We emerged at the top of the climb, greeted by a blast of icy hailstones. I wondered what our Victorian ancestors would think if they could see us now! I have to confess though, that even as a professional mountain guide, I cannot help feeling a sense of being smug, having dispensed with the climb with such efficiency and tradition. My team were beaming as we then bum slid down the untrodden snows of Broad Gully and feeling even more smug as we whizzed past the chaos that we had left in our wake on the arete, now fading into the distance above our heads!
One of the best parts about walking into a winter climbing venue is to immerse yourself in your own thoughts, to be lost in your own little world, not only does the time pass more quickly but great ideas are often conjured up, it's just a case of remembering them. Lots of thoughts whizzed around inside my head as I settled in to a methodical plod. One that suited my clients but more importantly, one that was effortless for myself and one that I could drift off into my own little world with.
For our second day together, we had decided to climb Sgreamhach, via the Stron na Lairig ridge (pictured above) which we approached from Dalness in Glen Etive. I could not help but think of the trainee guides on their winter assessment at Glenmore Lodge and with that thought, my mind wandered to my own winter assessment in 1985. At a suitable stopping place, before reaching the ridge, we geared up. Watching my students completely bamboozled with their harnesses took me back to an incident on my personal climbing day. Bob Barton was my assessor, who had a reputation for being really hard. I never really took my assessment as seriously as I should have done and looking back, I got off lightly with a few days deferral for a lack of structure on my teaching day. Nothing that a few days teaching at Glenmore Lodge couldn't sort out, or rather, a free guide for Glenmore Lodge! However, personal climbing achievements feeds confidence and being confident on the day means everything. I suppose it's a bit like taking a driving test, you have to get it right, you pass and then you really start to learn!
Anyway, at the Cairngorm car park we were divided up and Bob asked me what my itinerary was going to be for the day. I had a couple of options tucked up my sleeve. My first choice was Sticil Face, mainly because I hadn't done it but secondly it was at a level, which I thought I'd be able to perform comfortably with. My second choice was Patey's Western Route. It's graded a meagre III/IV in the old guidebook but when I arrived at the lodge on the previous evening, Fyffey and Richard McHardy were just down off the mountain, their beards still encrusted with snow and ice, and raving on about how excellent the climb was, and probably warranted grade V. So that was that taken care of and I knew that if the assessors complained about its meagre rating, Fyffey would be the first person they would consult.
"Well Cubby, what's your plan?" "Sticil Face," I said. "Er, mmm, er, well I don't know how to put this really but my wife is about to have a baby and I need to maintain radio contact with her."
"Right...okay...well, I have a second choice Bob, Western Route in the Lochain." To be honest it was a few years since my last visit to Coire an Lochain and I was more concerned about finding the start of the climb than actually doing it. In Jeans Hut, Bob tried to put his harness on upside down. "Come off it," I said confidently, "this is my personal climbing day." Everything went fine after that apart from Bob "pretending" to fall off the crux and pulling me up for not leaving a long sling in place for him to pull on. The fall was a reality I suspected, more than an act. Higher up, apparently I had jeopardised my client by not placing a runner between belays (on grade I ground). Bluntly I remarked, "if I haven't got the confidence to solo grade I ground with a rope on, then I might as well give up, and placing a runner out to the side of the gully bed would have increased the grade and put the client at more risk, and in any case, time was against us."
Confidence really does mean everything and my point was reluctantly taken on board. Later that night after the de brief, Willie Todd, Mike "Woofer" Woolridge and myself, went to a dance at the woodshed. We drank too much and then broke into the lodge kitchens where we pinched the staff's gourmet packed lunches (gourmet by comparison to ours), before finally turning in for the night.
I chose the Stron na Lairig as it is a great wee climb and in a setting which feels quite different to other parts of the Coe. The route, which is about grade II, is often described as a good primer to the Aonach Eagach ridge. It's neither as long, grand, nor as hard but it's still a great beginner's route. Going to the summit of Sgreamhach and returning via the connecting ridge, going north towards to top of Beinn Fhada, makes up for its lack of length however. It's a while since I've completed the round from Stron na Lairig via Sgreamhach and north onto the top of Beinn Fhada but part way along there is an awkward notch that has to be crossed with an old cable.
For years I thought it was the remnants of one of those extreme boundary fences that you often find perched on precarious buttresses and ridges, such as the Aonach Eagach. But the other day, Hamish was telling me that during the war, when ships moored locally, barage balloons were released to protect them against enemy bombers. One of the balloons broke loose from its mooring and crashed in the vicinity of Bidean and the cable finally came to rest over the ridge connecting Sgreamhach to Beinn Fhada. If curiosity ever got the better of you, now you know.
That's enough ranting for one fortnight. There's an enormous amount of snow falling at present so things are beginning to shape up nicely for a truly, legendary, late season. Here's hoping! I might even come out of retirement myself if there's some real neve around.
Cubby
28/2/2002
