Tag Archives: Winter skills

Shades of Winter – a Highland Mountain Adventure

When winter bared its teeth for its last bite of the year, I went over the snowline in the Scottish Highlands to put winter skills into practice with Lakeland’s Hayley Webb Mountain Adventures.

The snow is soft and powdery. The first slope presents no problems for the car, but the second is slippery, and I lose momentum. I change down into second, but the wheels spin, and I start to slide backwards. In reverse gear, I regain control. Safely at rest at the bottom, I deliberate my next move. After a minute or two, a 4×4 appears. It’s Hayley. Hayley Webb is a winter mountain leader and organiser of the winter skills course I’ve been attending for the last three days, here in Glencoe.

“Can you pull in a little? If I can get past, I’ll go first, and you can follow in my tracks. If that doesn’t work, I’ll tow you.”

But Hayley only just manages the top herself, and my attempt to follow results in a backward slide off the road. I come to rest with a back wheel balanced precariously above a ditch. Hayley rings a local garage, who will be about an hour, and suggests I walk back to the Youth Hostel, which has been our home for the last four nights and wait there.

An hour later, my car is sandwiched between two Highway Agency vans, who have suffered the same fate. But the snow is now starting to melt, and the Highway Agency guys have found a grit bin. They have shovels and sacks, and I help them grit the slope. When I look at my car, most of the snow around the wheels has gone, and with a push from the guys I manage to get it back on the road. But there’s another problem. A pick-up coming from the opposite direction is stuck at the top. We wander up with refilled sacks of grit to help free it. It’s the man from the local garage. One of the Highway Agency blokes roars with laughter when he twigs. He turns to me and says, “so he’s come to recover you, but you’ve recovered yourself, and here you are with a shovel, helping to recover him!”

The Stuck Convoy Finally Ready to Roll

It sums up the morning, and after about half an hour more of teamwork and two more calls from Hayley to check I’m OK, we’re all free to move.

“Are you on your way to work?”  My new friend asks.

“No, on my way home. I’ve been here on a winter skills course.”

“Any good?”, he enquires.

“Absolutely brilliant”, I reply. “Apart from yesterday, which was great, but…”

“But what?”

“There wasn’t enough snow.”

He’s still laughing as he climbs into his van and leads our little convoy up the hill and out on to the main road, which thankfully is clear. With the danger over, my mind is free to re-live a tremendous three days.

~

We arrive in Glen Coe on Friday. Rob, Simon, and Helen all battling snow drifts in Yorkshire to get here. Hayley has booked the whole hostel to accommodate our large group of sixteen or so, plus five mountain leaders. After supper, and much convivial chatter, she divides us into groups based on experience. Bryan will take Roger ice-climbing. Hayley, Gemma, and Jules will take the beginners to learn basic crampon and ice-axe techniques. Those of us who have done that tuition before will go with Johnny to put those skills into practice on Aonach Mor. It means an early start, as to begin the day above the snow line means catching the ski gondola which is only open to climbers and hikers for a short window at 8:00 am.

Aonach Mor

As the Gondola lifts us above steep grassy slopes to where the snow starts, we learn a little about Johnny Walker. He’s a highly experienced winter mountain leader, who taught Hayley and who is close to completing his third round of all the Munros. Twenty years ago, he was made redundant from his job as a sales manager at Sainsburys and decided to turn his mountaineering qualifications into a business. It meant a drop in salary, but his quality of life improved immeasurably. His family quickly noticed his surge in energy and the full throttle return of his sense of humour. A persistent stomach complaint disappeared overnight. It’s a striking illustration about the nature of negative stress. The relentless treadmill of arbitrary, ever-shifting targets can grind us down, yet facing genuine danger, and taking responsibility for shepherding others through potentially perilous conditions brings us alive. It’s something we respond to positively, if like Johnny, we’ve learned the skills and techniques to negotiate the challenges.

Helen, David, Rob, Johnny, Kerry, and Caroline on the Nid ridge

The snow line appears, and I’m buzzing with excitement. Keen to learn from this man.

“I’m pernickety”, he warns, like an amiable sergeant major. “I’ll pick you up on every little thing you do wrong”.

Good. That’s what I’m here for.  

He turns to me with a beaming grin. “For a start, you’ve got your gaiters on the wrong legs.”

As we emerge from the Gondola station, Johnny shows us the avalanche forecast for this side of the mountain. It’s moderate, meaning there should be no naturally occurring avalanches, but avalanches triggered by human activity are a possibility. The risks lie in the sheltered areas where snow has been allowed to drift. He points to a hollow between two ridges over to our right. It’s loaded with softer snow. We’re heading for the exposed ridge to our left where the snow will be compacted and frozen, and highly unlikely to shift.

Aonach Nid Ridge

As we climb towards the ridge, the slope steepens, and the snow becomes firm. It’s time to don crampons.

“Uh uh, no sitting”, orders Johnny. “Stand with the crampon placed uphill from you, and step into it. Make sure your toes are right in then step down into the heel with your full weight to make sure you’re in the crampon not on it. Otherwise, it’ll come off.”

This happened to me last year on Cairngorm, so I heed the warning although faffing with the straps is harder in this position. After inspection and adjustments from Johnny, he turns our attention to our ice axes.

“Who remembers how to walk with an ice axe?” he asks.

“I do”, I offer, and demonstrate a zigzag, keeping the ice axe on my uphill side by swapping it and my single trekking pole over when I change direction.

“Well, you’re doing that all wrong”, says Johnny with a smile. “You must never take your hand of the ice axe. If you slip, it’s there to save you, but only if your hand is on top.”

He demonstrates tucking a pole under a shoulder, placing one hand on top of the other over the axe, before withdrawing the bottom one, and retrieving the pole. Then to reinforce the point he demonstrates a slip. As his back foot shoots out and he falls, his forearm straightens along the shaft of the axe, his top hand pulling it down deeper into the compacted snow, while his bottom hand grasps the shaft, anchoring him securely. It’s so rapid and sudden, it’s highly convincing. He kicks in with his crampons and stands up.

“That’s why you must always keep a hand on the ice axe”, he says. “That slip wasn’t intentional, by the way.”

With the gradient stiffening, Johnny shows us different techniques for ensuring our crampons give optimum bite. French technique or flat footing involves keeping your foot flat with the surface of the ice or snow and stepping down firmly to ensure all points on the crampons dig in. It is easiest when the gradient is gentle, but when walking on a zig zag across a steep slope you must roll your ankle downhill to keep all spikes in contact. Austrian technique or front pointing tackles the slope head-on, kicking in with the front four spikes of each crampon. American or hybrid technique combines the two, front pointing with one foot while flat footing with the other.

There’s a lot to think about and safety hinges on getting it right. Luckily, we have two pairs of expert eyes checking our progress. While Johnny leads, Kerry walks last, watching from behind. Kerry is an engineer, who is up in Scotland working on a new hydro-electric dam, but she is an experienced mountaineer and a long-term friend of Johnny and Hayley, and she has come along to help out.

“Keep your foot flat”, she advises. “Remember to roll your ankle”.

“To front-point, make sure you are kicking in with four points of your crampon, not just the front two”, Johnny instructs from up ahead. Then, when my head is swimming with the minutiae of foreign technique, he says, “just think about where you’re placing your foot”.

And with that the brain fog clears. This is not a series of elaborate dance steps, it’s common-sense. Just look and think. By the time we reach the ridge, it is starting to come naturally. It’s just as well, as here the gradient is more challenging. We are walking on névé or snow ice: snow that has started to melt and then frozen again, becoming hard and compacted. Here, technique really counts.

At first, we ascend on diagonals, but then Johnny has us tackle a section head on, kicking in with our crampons and daggering with our ice axes. It’s hard work, but the tools and techniques do their job, and no-one goes hurtling off down the slope toward Loch Lochy, which glistens like blue crystal in the distance.

At the top of the Aonach an Nid ridge, we reap rich awards for our strenuous exertions. Ahead, a sparkling snowfield snakes round to the summit of Aonach Mor. Eastern slopes drop away abruptly, loaded with driven snow and crowned with elegant cornices. The sky is ridged with fluffy white clouds like ethereal salmon scales. Below, sparse wisps of cirrus float like spray on a sea of cerulean blue, and the horizon is a band of warm yellow, gilded with sun. Behind us, the landscape below is a winter canvas of umber, chocolate, and cinnamon; rolling hills frame languid stretches of cool blue where Loch Linnhe and Loch Eil touch toes.

Loch Linnhe and Loch Eil
Helen and Kerry at the top of the ridge

With wind chill, the mercury would read below minus ten. I am wearing slim liner gloves to avoid getting too hot and sweaty during the stiff climb. I had planned to swap them for heavier duty alternatives now the gradient is becoming more forgiving, but my hands are still warm, and Johnny gives some interesting advice.

“If your fingers or toes start to get cold, throw on another layer. If your body senses that your core is cooling down, it concentrates your blood flow around your vital organs, leaving less to warm your extremities. Keep your core warm, and blood flow to your fingers and toes is greater. The real trick, though is to keep moving.”

And with that, the prospect of a rest before we strike on for the summit evaporates. It proves sage advice, however. I never do swap my gloves, and my fingers are never less than toasty.

As we approach the top, a sweeping vista of the Mamores unfurls to the south. A multitude of cobalt peaks poke through frozen cloaks of white. Cotton wool clouds kiss the tops likes puffs of steam. Closer in, the summit of Ben Nevis rises like a colossal Sphinx’s head, hewn from snow-streaked granite, and in the foreground, like a pair of white lions-couchant, is the CMD arête.

The Mamores from Aonach Mor
Ben Nevis summit over the CMD arete
Ben Nevis

From the summit, we descend to the col and tackle the stiff climb up to the higher summit of Aonach Beag. Ice climbers are negotiating frozen waterfalls on its western crags. I suffer a shiver of nervous anticipation. Rob and I are due to go ice-climbing with Bryan on Monday. I hope he has something a little gentler in mind, that looks extreme! On top, Caroline is beaming to have bagged another Munro as she is well on her way to completing her first round. We are all feeling beatific now with the exertion, the satisfaction of new skills starting to click, the crystalline sparkle of sunlight on snow, and the staggering expanse of Scottish Highlands stretching out in every direction.

Setting off for Aonach Beag

But we cannot bask in the glow of elation too long. Aware that in reality, we are cooling down rapidly, and we have the last gondola to catch, Johnny spurs us on to begin retracing our footsteps. Back down to the col we go, and back up to the summit of Aonach Mor, though mercifully, we return to the Gondola station down a slightly more forgiving slope than the Nid ridge. En route, I get chatting to Helen. Like me, she lives for the outdoors and days on the hills. She has teenage children she is loath to uproot, but when the opportunity arises, it is her dream to forego urban living and move somewhere more remote, perhaps up here. Having made a similar move to the Lakes, twenty-five years ago, I assure her that she will not regret it. I later learn Helen is something of an Instagram influencer; as @thatSoberHiker, Helen’s stunning photographs and inspiring posts about nature as a means to maintaining good mental health have won her thousands of followers.

Caroline on the Summit of Aonach Mor

The next day a turbo thaw sets in and the group as a whole braves rain, sleet, and brutal winds to climb Stob Coire Raineach. The path is treacherous, and while it may lack yesterday’s picture postcard winter conditions, learning how best to negotiate a mix of bare rock, sheet-ice, and slush hiding ice is every bit as valuable. The wind really kicks in at the col, and Roger’s fifteen-year-old son, Owen, who has already won widespread popularity with his gregarious nature and warm humour, leads something of a revolt.

“Why would anyone do this for pleasure?” He exclaims with a grin. “It’s horrendous”.

Hayley laughs but takes it as a cue to offer to split the group. “This is why we have more than one mountain leader. If anyone has had enough and wants to go back, come and stand over here with me. Anyone who wants to continue to the summit, stay there with Johnny”.

Owen walks towards Hayley and nearly all the group follow. Owen had simply voiced what nearly everyone was thinking. A hard-core quartet of Simon, Roger, Johnny and I are left to bag another Munro.

On the drive back, I ask about the vandalised cottage in an idyllic mountain setting up in the pass. It looks so out of character to have suffered that fate—boarded up and daubed with graffiti, when everything else, even an old stone barn, looks cared for.

“Oh, don’t you know?” Replies Johnny. “It was Jimmy Saville’s house.”

The thaw and the burgeoning winds put paid to our hopes of ice-climbing on Monday, and with no prospect of activity on the tops, Hayley takes us on a gentle walk to An Steall, Scotland’s second largest waterfall. We brave a precarious wire bridge to get up close. With the spray from the thunderous cataract on our faces, I turn to see Owen beaming in wonder.

“It’s quite something isn’t it,” I say.

 “It’s magnificent,” he utters, awestruck. If yesterday was “horrendous”, today has him bowled over with the sublime majesty of this elemental force of nature. Roger did well to bring him. He will not forget his first trip to Scotland.

An Steall Waterfall

And I’ll not forget this trip either. Magnificent scenery in inspiring company; shared passions, and warm humour; new skills learned, existing ones honed; and on Saturday, the most perfect of all winter mountain days.

You can find Hayley Webb’s Mountain Adventures page on Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/HayleyWebbAdventures/


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    Walk Out To Winter: New Skills

    Winter Skills in the Cairngorms

    I head for the snow-capped majesty of the Cairngorms to learn winter skills and meet some remarkable people with inspiring tales of courage, devotion, and survival. (Although, the less said about the pink unicorns, the better.)

    The High Road

    Beyond Perth, the landscape changes. The sprawl of human conurbation melts into the rear view mirror as the road handrails the River Tay and enters the Craigvinean Forest. Slender trunks of silver birch, white as winter ghosts, fan into filigrees of garnet twig, and dark towers of Scots pine wear tam o’ shanters of Caledonian green.

    The road climbs out of the woods and into the hills, lightly flecked at first, but slowly, steadily, the snow line creeps lower, until up ahead, rises a pure white winter peak. A tremble of excitement. This is what I’m here for.

    Loch Morlich
    Loch Morlich

    Winter’s touch turns our green hills into Alpine mountains and amplifies our wonderstruck response. But it introduces new levels of treachery. An understanding of winter terrain and its inherent hazards, together with the tools and techniques required to navigate it successfully are vital. Microspikes can only get you so far, so I’m heading for the Highlands to learn some winter skills.

    Walk out to Winter

    Hayley Webb

    It’s taken longer than the miles on the map suggest. I’d booked on to a day-long course on Helvellyn in February 2020, but Storm Dennis put paid to that. It was rearranged for March 16th, but due to an administrative cockup, no instructor turned up. I climbed Helvellyn anyway with another would-be pupil, Matt Napier. Matt turned out to be a sound-engineer who had just returned from Paris. The events he was due to work had been cancelled because of coronavirus. “Anyone I might have heard of?” I asked. “Madonna, “ he relied. “I’m Madonna’s monitor engineer”. I learned lots about life on the road with Madonna, and Roger Waters, and Kylie, but we learned no winter skills. We wouldn’t have anyway—there was no snow.

    I arrived home to the announcement that we would be going into lockdown and a very apologetic email from the course organiser offering a refund or a rebooking, although it was uncertain when. I had a little rant on Facebook, and Hayley Webb got in touch.

    “I’ll teach you”, she said, and she sent me details of a course she was planning in the Cairngorms for 12 months’ time. It was three full days on the mountain, which sounded far more substantial in terms of what I’d learn.  Hayley taught me to navigate so I know what a good instructor she is. What’s more, in a former life, Hayley was a chef, and she would be doing all the catering. Well this would be the icing on the traybake. I would have to wait a year, but 2020 would be a year when all our lives were put on hold. This would be something to look forward to when it was all over.

    Cairngorms
    Winter in the Cairngorms. Photo by Hayley Webb

    COVID


    Only it wasn’t all over. By February 2021, we were back in lockdown, and the rules in Scotland were even stricter. Hayley was forced to postpone all her bookings, and this being weather dependent, it would mean waiting another year. I signed up straight away.

    It was a terrible time for mountain leaders, as it was for anyone trying to keep their own business afloat. Hayley took a job at Sainsburys, packing orders for home delivery. There, she met Gemma Grewar, another mountain leader, who had taken a job as a delivery driver.

    On Radio 6, I heard Tom Robinson recount a conversation with an Amazon driver. She told him his gig at the Barbican, two years earlier, had been one of the best she’d seen. She was young. Not typical of his normal audience demographic, so out of curiosity, he asked her why she had attended. “I was your sound engineer,” she replied. I thought of Matt Napier and hoped he was keeping his head above water.

    Hayley Webb

    Lagganlia Outdoor Education Centre

    COVID still isn’t over, but the latest Omicron variant is proving generally less severe, and life is taking tentative steps back to normal. This morning, the Facebook Messenger group, which Hayley set up to keep us all looped in, was a flurry of negative test photos and excitable examples of overpacking—we were bonding in our desperate bids not to leave anything behind. Now, we are all about to meet for the first time.

    As I turn off the Aviemore road at Kincraig and cross the bridge over the River Spey on the edge of Loch Insh, a frisson of anxiety creeps in. I’m minutes from Feshiebridge, the Lagganlia Outdoor Education Centre, and Caeketton lodge, which will be our home for the next four nights, and I realise just how insular I’ve become as a result of all the restrictions. I have a gregarious, outgoing side, but also an introverted side, which has grown to dominate of late. Now, the thought of spending four nights and three whole days with a group of total strangers (Hayley excepted—although we’d only met once) feels intimidating.

    That feeling evaporates the second I walk through the door to the warmest of welcomes. The room is already buzzing with convivial conversation and filled with enticing cooking aromas. Hayley shows me to the four-bed bunk room, I’ll be sharing with Rob, a police community support officer and fellow guitarist with a gentle sense of humour and a passion for wild-camping. We are two of only three men on the course. The other is Andy, but Claire has already bagged him. Which is fair enough considering they are partners, although she made that deliberately unclear in her mischievous message to the group earlier, where she raised one or two eyebrows by insinuating she that was getting first dibs. This soon proves typical of Claire’s wicked sense of humour, perfectly matched by Andy’s dry wit. In the course of conversation, I learn they are seasoned long-distance walkers, veterans of several national trails, but Claire has an aversion to steep descents, a fact she discovered recently on Striding Edge, which she ended up crossing on all fours. She has booked a one-to-one course with Hayley in April to try and overcome it, but in the meantime, the next three days hold obvious concerns. That she is here, ready to confront her fears, shows genuine courage.

    Kit

    After supper, it’s kit inspection—to check we all have suitable ice axes, and crampons, and compatible boots. I award myself Brownie points for having purchased the same ice axe as Hayley, but she tells me my crampons are really designed for boots with a slightly stiffer sole. They’ll be OK, but I should be vigilant in case they pop off.

    My boots are three-and-a-half season boots, that will take a flexible crampon. Winter boots are better as they have a stiffer sole, but the added stiffness makes them less comfortable to walk in all year round. If you want boots you can use in all seasons, you are looking at a comprise. Three-and-a-half season boots make the compromise in favour of comfort, while B1 winter boots make it in favour of rigidity. If I am to get serious about walking in full winter conditions, I would be best investing in a pair of B2 boots, which are optimised for crampon use and insulation.

    Hayley introduces Gemma, her fellow Winter Mountain Leader and Sainsburys veteran. Gemma is here to assist in case they need to split the group or work on specifics with individuals. This comes as a relief to many of us who are worried about our fitness levels.

    Finally comes an appraisal of the weather. Researching conditions and adjusting plans accordingly is key. Wind speeds upwards of 60 m.p.h. are forecast for tomorrow, so we’ll not be going anywhere near the summit of Cairn Gorm..

    As we all turn in, Hayley and Gemma study maps to determine where we are likely to find snow at safe altitudes, while keeping as far as possible in the rain and sleet shadow.

    Loch an Eilein

    In the morning, we stuff sandwiches and delicious homemade tray bakes into our rucksacks, stow ice axes and skiing goggles, don gaiters and waterproofs, and set off for Loch an Eilein.

    Ahead of the storms, the air is crisp and dry, the sun extending fingers of white gold around the hems of soft grey cloud pillows, turning tranquil waters to liquid silver. Loch an Eilein means Loch of the Island, and the island in question hides a castle in a copse of trees. The castle started life as a fortified tower built by a notoriously ruthless grandson of Robert the Bruce, known as the Wolf of Badenoch. A curtain wall was added in the 1600, ninety years before the castle was besieged by defeated Jacobites fleeing the Battle of Cromdale. In 1745, it hid fugitives from the Battle of Culloden. A snapshot of Scottish history in a setting unfathomably older. The castle is now home to ospreys.

    Loch an Eilein
    Loch an Eilein. Photo by Rob Rushforth

    As the path snakes between the tall pines of Forest of Rothiemurchus, mossy woodland aromas fill our nostrils; and twigs sprout white beards of reindeer lichen. Hayley tells us the woods are home to capercaillie. From the Gaelic, capall coille, meaning “horse of the wood”, the capercaillie is a black, turkey-sized member of the grouse family. They can be aggressive if cornered, and have been known to harass dog-walkers. All the same, I’d love to see one.

    Loch an Eilein
    Loch an Eilein. Photo by Rob Rushforth

    Avalanche Awareness

    We’re ascending, so when we emerge from the woods we hit the snow line, and the learning starts. We’re surrounded by high hills, and Hayley has us observe how the eastern faces are snow-laden, while western faces are sparse and potentially icy: the prevailing wind was from the west last night, blowing the snow over the ridges to create loaded eastern slopes. We look for cornices, overhangs of compacted snow that could break away causing avalanches. The risk is heightened when fresh powdery drift settles on top of hard, compacted snow, but the top can freeze creating a crust and giving the illusion that all is firm. Hayley demonstrates on the bank by the side of the path. The snow is crunchy, but she excavates a section with her axe and reveals soft powdery stuff beneath, ice below that. She jumps on top and stamps down with her boot. The snow cracks into a tile and slides off.

    Winter Skills in the Cairngorms
    The party en route to ice-axe training. Photo by Hayley Webb.

    Self Arrest

    We find a knoll with a reasonable gradient and walk to the top, using our boots to kick steps in the yielding snow, sinking deeper with each step. It’s tiring, and Hayley bids us remember this when planning winter walks—add extra time, don’t be over-ambitious with distance. From the top she has us slide down on our bums, following each other’s line until we create four compacted slippery runs with soft, gentle, rock-free run offs at the bottom. It’s time to don helmets and learn how to self-arrest with an ice-axe.

    The Ministry of Funny Walks. Photo by Hayley Webb

    We’ve already learned how to hold the axe—hand over the top and the pick end facing backwards—to use the shaft and spike like a short trekking pole, but that grip also allows a rapid lift to the chest if you feel yourself slipping. The idea is to nestle the blunt adze into the hollow beneath your clavicle, then turn as you fall, driving the sharp pick into the snow, with your full weight on top of it.  You grab the other end with your free hand and look down the shaft to optimise your position. Oh, and remember to lift your feet into the air, so that if you’re wearing crampons, they don’t dig in and catapult you head over heels down the slope. It’s a lot to remember in the split-second panic of a slip, and if you’re ever to use it in anger, it would have to be second nature. We practice over and over, safe in the knowledge that failure here meets a soft landing. Hayley marches round like a Strictly Come Dancing instructor, barking orders on body-line and position. It’s exhilarating and exhausting.

    Ice-axe training. Photo by Hayley Webb
    Rob daggering with an ice axe & kicking steps

    Gemma notices Claire hanging back and quietly, unobtrusively, takes her aside for a one-to-one counsel.

    Meanwhile, black clouds have been moving up the valley. When the wind whips up and horizontal sleet stings our faces, we don ski goggles and begin the long tramp back down.

    I chat to Nikki, a solicitor who’s been a Facebook friend for a while, but this is the first time we’ve met. She’s every bit as warm, loud, chatty, and full-of-fun as I imagined. And every bit as passionate about mountains—although after a year dogged with bereavement, injury, and a recent bout of COVID, her fitness has waned and she’s found today a struggle. Not that anyone else would notice.

    And Andrea, who works freelance, teaching kids about nutrition and cooking and a host of other stuff that sounds richly rewarding. She was in the army and was stationed for a while in Herford, Germany, where my Dad was posted in my mid-teens. We reminisce about Herforder Pils, Gluhwein, and Christmas markets.

    In the evening, after a hearty meal, we learn to read avalanche forecasts and determine which faces will be safe and which hazardous for us to tread in the morning.

    Cairn Gorm

    The next day we decamp to the ski centre car park, and with the Met Office predictions of kinder weather holding true, we start up the slopes of Cairn Gorm. We learn to kick snow steps with our boots, and to cut them with our axes. When our feet no longer sink in, we don crampons. “Walk like John Wayne,” says Hayley, “because you have sharp spikes sticking out the sides of your boots, and you don’t want to rip the bottom of your waterproofs. Rob forgets and nicks a small slit in his over-trousers. A little further on, I do the same.

    Winter Skills in the Cairngorms
    Learning to walk in crampons. Photo by Hayley Webb
    Winter Skills on Cairn Gorm
    Daggering with ice axe and kicking in with front points of the crampons. Photo by Hayley Webb

    Once we have the hang of things, Hayley and Gemma have us running down a slope to appreciate the grip the crampons afford.

    “How are you feeling, Claire?” shouts, Hayley.

    “Great!” replies Claire, raising her ice axe in triumph before joining the downward race, her demons conquered.

    Point 1141

    A steep ridge leads up to Point 1141 (higher than Scafell Pike, yet unnamed). On this slope we find névé, snow that has partially melted and refrozen to form a hard, compacted surface. With the crampons’ teeth biting hard, and no more sinking, the going becomes easier despite the gradient.

    Ascending to Point 1141 on Cairn Gorm
    Ascending to Point 1141. Photo by Rob Rushforth.

    As the ridge narrows, Gemma counsels us to keep 10m or more from the north eastern edge, where the slopes are loaded. If a cornice breaks, it takes a significant amount of snow from the ridge top with it, and it will take you too, if you’re too close.

    A rocky path is mostly free of snow, and Hayley insists we walk some of the way on it to get use to the feel of crampons on rock,  uncomfortable, but sometimes necessary in mixed terrain.

    Crampons on rock. Photo by Hayley Webb.

    As we approach the top of the ridge, the cloud is beginning to break. Loch Morlich appears in the distance, a sliver of duck egg blue in a nest of forest green. Rob looks down the long line of the ridge and observes that you really couldn’t afford to make a mistake if you were practising ice-axe arrests here.

    “Oh I dunno,” quips Andy, “you’d stop moving by the time you reached Inverness”.

    Loch Morlich from Cairn Gorm
    Looking over Loch Morlich
    Monadhliath Mountains from Cairn Gorm

    Point 1141 sits 104 metres below the summit of Cairn Gorm and is marked by a large cairn. It is enveloped in clag, but as we rest, the mist dissipates and unveils an astonishing view. Across a corrie, the buttressed mass of Fiacaill Ridge tapers to a jagged arête above plunging precipices, rendered in monochrome by streaks of snow, exposed black rock, soft sun and heavy shadow. It’s as if we have stepped into a finely hatched pencil sketch, an ink drawing, a sublime larger-than-life etching. Hayley is seldom lost for words, but here, she falls silent in wonder.

    Fiacaill Ridge, Cairn Gorm
    Fiacaill Ridge, Cairm Gorm
    Fiacaill Ridge, Cairn Gorm
    Fiacaill Ridge, Cairn Gorm
    Hayley lost in wonder. Photo by Lesley Varnham.

    Loch Morlich

    It’s not the only transcendental moment of the day. On the drive back to the lodge, we pass the shore of Loch Morlich, just as the sun is about to set. Through the trees, we spy an onyx sheen illuminated with mirror images of the mountains. Hayley pulls over, and we run to water’s edge to lose ourselves in a tranquil tableau of snow-capped summits, reflected in perfect symmetry.

    Loch Morlich
    Loch Morlich
    Loch Morlich
    Loch Morlich

    Shelter on Windy Ridge

    The following morning we head up Cairn Gorm’s Windy Ridge. In fresh snow, we follow recent tracks of mountain hare. We cross a ski-slope, its wooden fence bejewelled with glittering formations of wind-ridged ice. We enter a disorienting world of near whiteout, but not quite: the tops of boulders are still visible through the snow. In total whiteout, there is no distinction between ground and sky.

    Cairn Gorm
    Icicles on Windy Ridge
    Cairn Gorm
    Icicles on Windy Ridge. Photo by Hayley Webb.

    Hayley relays a hair-raising story of being caught in a blizzard here. It came in twelve hours earlier than expected, and with no phone signal, she and her friends were unaware of the revised forecast. They dug deep snow shelters, in which to ride it out, but when it refused to abate, they navigated off the mountain using a compass and pacing techniques, through trenches they carved with their axes. The experience convinced Hayley that she had what it takes to train as a winter mountain leader.

    Digging snow shelters is what we do next, using the adze end of our axes. Ours are not deep enough to see out a blizzard (that would take hours) but sufficient to afford temporary respite from the bitter, biting wind.

    Walk out to Winter
    Andrea in her show shelter

    Rob and I wear gaudy badges of shame for failing to walk like John Wayne. Last night Hayley offered to patch our torn waterproofs with duct tape, without telling us her duct tape is bright pink and sports unicorns. “It’s all I’ve got,” she said with a wicked smirk as she handed them back.

    Back in the warmth of the lodge, I chat to Lesley. In September 2019, her young daughter was diagnosed with cancer and underwent several harrowing cycles of chemotherapy. She’s in remission, but until now, Lesley has not left her side. Lesley’s life was put on hold so she could devote everything to caring for her child. This is the first time that she has done something for herself. She is humble and unassuming, and her story has touched all our hearts.

    In the morning, I drive Lesley and Charlotte to the station in Aviemore; and as I turn the car around to begin the journey home, I reflect on three inspiring and transformative days of crucial skills, challenging weather, and impossibly majestic landscapes, all spent in the company of some truly remarkable people.

    Winter skills on Cairn Gorm
    Into the white

    You can find Hayley Webb’s Mountain Adventures page on Facebook:

    https://www.facebook.com/HayleyWebbAdventures/


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