Frontiersmen
Published in SMC Journal 2021
(journey took place in early March 2020)
On Na Gruagaichean as sunset approaches
Evening’s golden light reflects off my ski tips, shouldered on my pack as we descend a wind-scoured section of Na Gruagaichean. I fall slightly behind Es Tresidder to put an extra layer on: safe travel requires more concentration now, twilight is coming, we are tired but persisting. This is peak 17 of 24 and, as the sun sets magically beyond the remaining Mamores, we are - affirmingly - still going. Sunset hues take our minds back through thirteen hours of movement to the excitement of first light as we ascended Stob Coire Easain after a night of moonless ski mountaineering across the Grey Corries from Ben Nevis. The snow is getting firmer now as the blues darken to black, the wind strengthening. As we lumber on up Stob Coire a’ Chairn we switch head torches on again, the full allotment of mid-March daylight spent. Off to the right corniced drops gleam brightly in the torch-beams then fade into the void.
The way here is wide, but Ramsay’s Round doesn’t particularly lend itself to ski mountaineering, the many sharp edges and rough peaks a tougher objective than the rolling Cairngorms tundra which is a more obvious venue for long ski days. We’d made good time up the Ben, chatted our way along the Carn Mor Dearg arete at midnight as the lights of Fort William glimmered below, and found the only entry point without a huge cornice from which to drop from Stob Coire Bhealaich to the Grey Corries beyond. Breakfast at Fersit in the sun had been well received and had fueled the sustained ascent to Stob Coire Sgriodain and the far side of the round, which proved agreeably amenable to skis. The 10 km jog from Corrour back west along the Abhainn Rath carrying skis and boots had been less so, but it then led us up onto Sgurr Eilde Mor to marvel at the closeness of Ben Nevis standing out in the sun across the deep glen. Somewhere in those hours time had taken on a different meaning. There was now no rush nor rest, only a relentless continuing beyond questioning, a flow state.
We cache the skis, then descend steeply in crampons to a col before tackling the out-and-back to An Gearanach. This blocky exposed crest is one of the more involved sections of the famous Ring of Steall route; a brilliant summer romp but several degrees more serious in winter, in the dark, and with 21 hours elapsed. The wind is getting up, it’s harder to stay warm and Es seems tense on the ridge. “I’m not happy with this exposure”, he says suddenly, “I’m going back”. For him, the delicate balance of fatigue, risk and reward has shifted. My ego flares in frustration: I’ve been feeling relatively decent. My legs are tired, but they were tired after the first six hours and haven’t gotten any worse. I feel galvanised by the goal, only a handful more summits, I have enough food and water - what now? We confer briefly as spindrift swirls around our two points of light. Es starts to return along the ridge to easier ground and our skis; I will continue the short distance to An Gearanach and then catch him up to make our next decision.
Moving faster now I feel a burst of unexpected energy. There is base defiance in this - the stubborn child who refuses to go to bed though exhausted - but also something loftier, something special. This is our longest day, for endless hours we have been committed to the present, we are bound to the landscape through deep immersion. I glimpse new depths, a timeworn impetus which has been propelling humans onwards against bodily languor for millenia; the psyche over the flesh. I feel solid on this terrain, an axe and a ski pole and a good knowledge of these mountains in all conditions. But how many hours have we spent on ski edges near precipices? How many exposed traverses on firm neve above killer drops? Between us Es has more hard alpinism to his name, but recently I have spent most time moving on this sort of winter terrain, especially on skis. Though our communication has long since receded to the monosyllables of necessity we have been a well matched team. How long will my own drained body and concentration remain trustworthy against accumulating fatigue? Jeopardy is tiring: our fortitude has been slowly depleted over almost a full day now. How close to a dangerous edge - metaphorical or real - are we?
By the time I catch up to Es the right choice is obvious - the only choice. Some would have realised this immediately, and maybe I did too, but selfish denial had - for a moment - hijacked me. We will go down. Certitude is calming. Splitting up now would be anathema, an asinine egotism. We are both strung out, tired, atop a winter Munro in the dark: even taking the easiest bailout route is not straightforward. Our objective is not complete, but our reasons for being here are more than an oval on a map. We are probing ambition, exploring our reach. Though no rope connects us we are a mountaineering team; our combined efforts have brought us here. Each man’s peaks of euphoric ease and tired troughs have been managed collectively. Success is a shared concept.
We get out a lightweight bothy-bag shelter on the summit of Stob Coire a’ Cairn and sit down for a bite. The wind is still strong so we don’t rest long, just enough time to confirm our route of retreat - to Kinlochleven. Wind buffets the walls, and the fabric imparts a red hue to everything inside: we are a tiny red bubble of light in the indifferent darkness. With a clarity that will stick with me for a long time I realise that this isn’t failure. This is the objective. This is the joy of doing. We have found what we seek.
Es Tresidder descending from Stob Coire Easain at sunrise
