Glen Nevis

Easter Meet

Saturday April 10th 1971

Members Present
Chas Murray, Jim Murray, Ian Cairns, Muir McKay, Jim Neill & four friends, Eric & Alasdair Scott

The writer did not arrive until midday, finding the club tents deserted in a luxurious campsite complete with hot water, showers, loos, shop, and all mod cons, including dolly birds in hot pants.

'Hot Pants' - photo provided for our younger members!

All this in the midst of a regular heatwave - a far cry from the days of arrival on boggy wasteland in darkness and sleet!

We explored the gorge up to Steall, investigated the monumental landslide en route, and lay in the sun soaking up the scenery all afternoon until the rest of the gang arrived. They had spent two days on the Mamores, the first from An Garbhanach to the Devil's Ridge and today from the Devil's Ridge to Stob Ban. Great tales were told of petrol tanks falling off cars in the Clyde Tunnel and precarious deeds in the gully splitting Stob Ban's N.E. face where the only things to roll down in the snow had fortunately been Easter eggs.

Sunday April 11th

A fair amount of cloud appeared to have ended the heat wave, but nonetheless most of the club were up at an astonishing hour in order to 'do' the big Ben. Jim N and his two friends had to be away early to Glasgow, while I argued that Alasdair at 8 years old would need a long time (actually it was me who needed a slow pace). Jim's party was away at 8 a.m. myself at 9 a.m. and even Chas was out of his pit by then. How could it fail to be a remarkable day?

Apart from a ringside seat for a battle between two gulls and a Raven, the plod up the tourist track was uneventful, and high on the infamous zig-zags the ascending parties joined forces more or less simultaneously with meeting Jim's party descending.

The Scotts, Murray Bros, & Ian Cairns

We were almost at the snow-line and cloud level and since Jim reported no view and a cold wind up top we promptly sat down for lunch there and then, and surveyed the motely hordes trogging past. There were the usual large numbers of accidents looking for somewhere to happen, clad in light clothes, shoes, plimsolls etc leavened by the very occasional bearer of an ice-axe. One young lady almost acquired an escort party, who were prepared to turn round and make for the summit a second time. Her bra-less condition may have encouraged such sacrifice, but Jim cruelly urged his mates in the opposite direction.

As it turned out the clouds cleared as they vanished downward, and they missed a day on the plateau that was about as perfect as one could wish for.

The top of Tower Ridge

The snow was soft for an inch or two on the surface, but hard below, and the whole summit lay under a heavenly blue sky all the time we were up, strolling about to admire the view that extended from Skye to Jura, the Cairngorms to the Pentland Hills: or just plain lying about in the sun frying. 

Ben Nevis Summit

People kept bobbing up out of gullies or off lower ridges to swell the mobs on top, and eventually we strolled off round the summit rim to Carn Dearg where we sat and contemplated that tremendous north face, draped in ice and snow and flashing in the sun against a blue sky. Only to the north was the view obscured by a layer of cloud below us. 

Eric & Alasdair on the summit

Chas sat in deep reverie with his feet dangling over No. 3 gully at a point where rocks broke the line of high sagging cornices and after half an hour broke the silence to pronounce it would 'go' tomorrow. 

Chas Murray & Tower Ridge

We looked at those tons of snow poised to fall and made skeptical noises, before dragging him away to excavate the refuge near the Carn Dearg summit.

Carn Dearg Refuge in 1971 - now removed

At about 5 p.m. thoughts of food and drink prompted a move glen-wards, and we enjoyed some good standing glissades down the Red Burn for a thousand feet or so. Young Alasdair enlivened the proceedings by trying a sitting glissade and converting it into a high speed stomach slide before being neatly fielded in the slips by Chas.
Ptarmigan flew off grackling disapproval at this careless behavior, and more soberly  we trotted down in the mellow evening sunshine to the already darkening glen.

Monday April 12th

Young Jim (and was it Tom?) were off at an ungodly hour to make the most of a pristine morning. Much later Alasdair and I lazed by the river, while Chas lay in bed muttering things about 'supposed to be a holiday' and 'b- noisy campsite'. Incredibly, only four hours later, Jim and Ian were back having knocked off the Devil's Ridge and glissaded the the summit coire of Sgurr a Mhaim (which was a perfect snow bowl)

Very sun-burnt bodies returned to Glasgow down the congested roads. Chas, Ian and Muir went off to 'have a look' at No. 3 gully but what became of them is not known at the time of writing.

There has, at least, been no word in the Express of 'avalanche on Ben Nevis'.

Eric Scott

Once Upon a time

O.B Loch Eil Winter Skills Weekend

4-6th March 1988

It was 7.30 on a Saturday morning in O.B Loch Eil Campsite; my hands embraced a cup of hot, steaming tea. Lifting it to my lips, I anticipated the hot liquid running down the back of my throat, warming my inner core and re-charging the soul.

A bitter-sweet combination of a warming breakfast, an icy cold fresh morning and excitement of a glorious day’s climbing ahead on the Ben sends a shiver down the back, a tingle in the extremities and a tickle in the tum.

From the entrance of my tent, my eye is drawn to a single water droplet falling from a nearby bush, like the tears from mother nature’s eyes as the early morning sunshine turns frost to water. From sleep to waking up – it’s great to be alive!!

Anyway, no time to waste - Bill and I packed our day-sacks with ice-climbing gear, some spare clothes and enough delicious goodies to keep us going on a winter’s day.

Echoes of Geoffrey Winthrop Young and the poetry of the Scottish Highlands draws us like magnets to Scotland’s highest peak – Ben Nevis. The smell of Scotland’s amber nectar fills our beings as we step out of the car at the distillery car park and the beginning of the long but scenic walk up the Allt a’ Mhuilinn.

Once far enough up the track, we are confronted with the cliffs of the Ben – Great Bastions of impregnability. The summit hut is the battlement from where the Ben’s “claws” can pierce out like a bayonet and hold a man helpless in the teeth of a great storm. But today, this mighty lion within the Ben purred and rolled over, inviting all Scottish climbers to “rope up” and rub her tummy.

After a long haul, our boots crunched to a halt on the icy slopes of the Castle Coire.
Two tired men took the weight from their weary legs and rummaged in their rucksacks for some hot coffee and other culinary delights. I was about to lift a delicious red plum to lips when Bill said, “No, Try a dram of this wi’ me”

I couldn’t believe my luck as Bill produced a silver hip flask containing 30-year-old Glenlivet Single Malt Scotch Whisky!! I took a sip and swallowed it - slowly; it burned down my gullet and floated like dry ice, finally dispersing in my stomach. This celestial beverage cannot be equalled and is second to none, other than the kiss and cuddle of a braw Scottish lassie!!

The hip flask then found its way to the safety of Bill’s zipped inside pocket as we wandered up the lower slopes of the North Castle Gully. Conditions were perfect, I led the first pitch in absolute silence, apart from the sure thud as my ice axe was driven home and my crampon points sunk into the ice. My boots were slack and I could feel my heel rubbing with every step. The leather bit in like an ill-fitting pair of false teeth.

I then belayed and Bill was soon sitting by my side. We sat for a while, picking out climbers on huge ice routes. The haunting of “climb when ready” and “climbing” placed me back to the days of the pioneers who first put up these classic routes on the Ben. There is a wonderful sense of isolation in winter mountaineering and although there were many climbers on the Ben that day, I can still feel that I’m alone and that the mountain belongs to me.

A hop, skip and a jump saw us peering over the summit plateau. We sorted out gear and coiled our ropes in brilliant winter sunshine. A white glistening panorama danced around in front of us as we stood in composure, buffered by the greatness of a magnificent winters day.

We meandered along the summit plateau, meeting all sorts of people on the way to the Coire Na Ciste. A stop at the CIC hut for the last of our coffee and a look at the guidebook was in order before we tackled another route. I munched away on a chocolate bar and looked at Bill’s eyes, they seemed to bulge out and sway about, rather like a pair of silicone breast implants. I could see then he was being hypnotised by two climbers on the curtain. Then he said, “Fancy a go at the curtain?” I was apprehensive, Bill said, “I’ll lead” and I agreed.

This was it, a great climb or the “final frontier”. Bill led off up the easier first pitch to a small cave-type recess.

The second and third pitch would almost be as hard as trying to get Paul Carruthers to do a write up for a journal!
Bill swung out of the cave and tiptoed up an overhang. Bill Gray, the bearded ballerina, clung on to the ice like a fly, his legs and arms pulsating and shaking with fear as he placed an ice screw for protection.

Onwards and upwards he went to the next belay.

On my way up the overhang, the heads from both my Clog Vulture ice axes became detached from the stems and I fell backwards. Tumbling down at great speed to the Coire Na Ciste.

When I stopped, I felt someone shaking me. It was Bill. He said “We better get a move on”

I was still in my sleeping bag. I opened the tent and it was pouring outside, which means this whole story must have been a dream…………..