vThe last few weekends have brought unprecedented (in recent years) amounts of snow to the Scottish Hills, and my incessant raving about the sheer brilliance of it all has inspired my good friend Don Juan to make a visit. Don Juan’s never skied before, but does ride a motorbike so I figure he must be good at balancing.
Some weeks ago, we set a date of January 27/28 for Don to venture Northwards. That’ll be the Jan 27/28 that immediately followed the “Great thaw of January 26 2008” then. Yes, in true Scottish skiing-style, Friday has brought double-figure temperatures to even the highest summits, and all that lovely white stuff is thawing so fast that parts of Speyside already resemble an inland sea. But more on that story later.
Don arrives in Glasgow on Friday evening, where we head out for a few jars. In the Chip (the bar bit, we’re not classy enough for the restaurant) we lapse into conversation with an interesting couple called Kevin and Karen, and a mention of skiing elicits another conversation with a drunk lad called Eric the Viking. Eric may be a bit drunk, but he is every bit as enthusiastic about the wonders of Glencoe as I am, and many glasses are charged to its name. Eric disappears when his even drunker friend Dougie attempts to snog Karen, who is more bothered about her husband’s lack of interest in the situation than Dougie’s attempts at pulling.
Far too many drinks later, we stumble out into the wild streets of Glasgow and find our way home.
The next morning, we find ourselves heading Northwards in the trusty company Astra towards Aviemore. Fuelled by a Maccy D’s sausage and egg mcmuffin, we admire the flooded wastes of the Tay and Spey valleys and pitch up at Aviemore Tourist Information Centre. The enlightened woman behind the counter informs us that the ski road to Cairngorm is under water, so advises the Lecht instead.
I normally avoid the Lecht – it’s a bit too far and not very challenging – but as a beginner’s resort it’s ideal. Don is able to procure a beginner’s lift pass and all equipment for a bargainous £17, which is tremendous value. Much hilarity is had by Don falling over a lot, and generally getting smoked on the slopes by five-year old skiers. He sticks at it, though, and impressively is the last one on the hill at the end of the day. The Lecht staff have to physically carry him off the magic carpet lift and into the base station to return his equipment. The French assistant in here is having an animated conversation with some French tourists in her own language, so for a minute it feels very alpine. We get outside into a dark, slush filled car park with howling rain and the feeling soon goes!
We book into a very nice B&B in Aviemore, and head out on the town in search of hot snowboarding chicks. The Winking Owl offers hot chickens instead, which is a start. They also have a beer called “sheepshagger” – popular with visiting Aberdonians, apparently.
Hot climbing chicks are found in Café Mambo, who have been defeated in their attempt on Ben Macdui today by the weather and elected to get sloshed instead. They can’t leave because their car is stuck on a newly-created island amidst the rising floodwater! We consume much beer ourselves, before a group of Edinburgh lads muscle in on our action, although they do buy us whiskies to compensate. Don Juan and I decide that champion skiers like ourselves should retire in preparation for a morning’s skiing tomorrow, but its still half midnight and we have to wake up the B&B owner to let us in.
The next morning is mild – but crucially DRY! Our initial attempt to access the ski road is thwarted by the Caspian sea having migrated to Rothiemurchas, but the back road from Boat of Garten is passable to we get up to Cairngorm eventually. Don Juan blanches at the considerable cost of equipment hire and lift pass compared to the Lecht, but is still very keen to get up on the hill. I reckon that the ptarmigan basin is a logical next step from the Lecht’s nursery slopes, so we get ourselves together and board the train. Despite my love of all things flanged (that’s wheels I’m talking about there) I’m no fan of the train – Cairngorm seems very commercialised and doesn’t have the clubby feel of the other Scottish ski areas, but it does seem to have retained snow.
We emerge from the Bakerloo line at Ptarmigan station, and I discover to my horror that the Ptarmigan Basin is closed due to high winds. Thanks for telling us that when we bought our lift passes, CG! This means that Don (Who’s ski experience remember consists of three hours on a nursery slope) has to face a blue run to get down to Coire Cas. We adopt the unconventional technique of me skiing backwards and holding him in a snowplough until the traverse.
The traverse is a good confidence-building run for Don, as the long runout means he can flatline it down and not worry about stopping.
Don’s skiing improves fantastically, and we make it down to the zigzags with him doing comparatively few falls. By the time we arrive at the Coire Cas T-Bar, things are looking good. We get on the T-Bar (at the second attempt!) and another good run down the Cas is had. I head up for a fast run down, and make a tit of myself while showing off by trying a jump in the Gunbarrel, catching an edge and doing a spectacular face plant.
Regrettably, Don has booked himself on the 1545 train home from Glasgow. I reckon he’d assumed Scotland was probably not much bigger than the Isle of Man, and hadn’t reckoned on the three-hour drive back. We reach Perth an hour before the train is due to leave Glasgow, and make an executive decision to head for Edinburgh instead and pick the train up there.
Don is very happy though, and I am pleased to have made it out into the hills despite the thaw. Dossing around on the nursery slopes with Don has been a top doss – next time I’ll hire telemarks and we can both fall over all day!
Sunday 27 January 2008
Headtorch skiing on Lowther hill - 23rd Jan
So, after an exhausting weekend of trans-Scotland skiing (well, Glenshee on Saturday and Glencoe on Sunday) I'm at work feeling mildly depressed about being in an office and not a mountain.
Katy the receptionist calls and says a "Jon Haber" is on the phone. This is untoward, as the Jon Haber I know has a perfectly functioning mobile, with my number on it. For him to call me at work via the switchboard must be important. It is.
"The large amount of precipitation currently hovering over the boarders would seem to be falling as snow" says Jon. Actually he doesn't say that, but that's his gist. What he really says is a series of inappropriate jokes about masturbation, followed by a 15-minute reminice about his time in the Scouts.
Eventually the crux of his arguement comes clear; he is suggesting a trip to Glenshee to ski the Tiger in the dark. With headtorches.
The man is clearly mad. I am aching all over from the weekend's exertions, it is Monday night, and Glenshee is at least two hours drive. I politely decline the offer, worrying about the safgety aspect of being on a munro during the small hourse in gale force winds and blizzards. Nevertheless, when I stand outside my Glasgow flat at 9pm that evening, there is a full moon and it is cold and still. This is the first time since I moved to Glasgow last September that it has stopped raining, so my enthusiasm for a midnight slide grows.
An examination of online OS maps reveals the closest hill to Glasgow that looks to have been hit by heavy snow is Lowther Hill, near the village of Wanlockhead. The villages in the Lowther Hills are odd places which hold random records - oldest post office in the world, highest pub in Scotland, fattest West Highland Terrier, greenest piece of shortbread - you know the sort of thing. Lowther Hill it is! Bursting with enthusiasm, I arrange to meet Jon for an afterwork headtorch ski on Tuesday evening.
Predictably, Tuesday is mild and absolutely pissing down. This is not suprising given that on average it rains for 465 days a year in Glasgow, but I cling onto the hope that it will be cold enough for the rain to be falling as snow on the hills. After work I jump in the company Astra and point it towards the M74 - I am due to rendezvous with Haber at Abington services.
To say the Haber’s timekeeping cannot be relied upon is an understatement on a par with "David Cameron's an opportunist dickhead", so I settle down at Abington services for a long wait. Motorway service stations being the place they are, I get propositioned by several lorry drivers and 25 illegal immigrants try and climb into my glovebox, but I stoically ride this out and Jon turns up about quarter to eight.
Fired up on Fruit Gums, we hit the M74 in convoy for the projected short distance to the Leadhills junction – which turns out to not actually have an exiting–the-motorway option and necessitates a 50 mile u-turn via the Lake District, or thereabouts. Of course, Jon’s Shogun is (as ever) running on vapours, and he looks relieved when we finally pull off the motorway.
Climbing towards Leadhills through the Southern uplands, the extent of yesterday’s snow cover is apparent, as is the extent of today’s snow loss. There are big drifts, and big expanses of heather. The car thermometer hovers at a balmy 6 degrees.
We find the car park in Wanlockhead, and park up in the rapidly melting snow. It’s raining heavily, and we tog up in waterproofs. Jon has come straight from work and is still wearing his shirt and tie, but you can’t see that under the layers of ancient Berghaus. I only have downhill skis so strap them to my rucksack with boots inside it, but Jon has telemark skis so gets away with a lighter bag. A surprising amount of snow is still visible as we set off up the hill, pausing only for heavily-scripted pieces to camera. A jibbet is passed beside a cemetery, which does not bode auspiciously.
We trudge through wet snow uphill for a mile or so, when to our surprise stumble upon a well-made road complete with tarmac, road markings, crash barriers and snowpoles. No traffic has passed over it recently given the snowdrifts and lack of tracks. It does not seem to be on the map, and we wonder if it’s either a closed road or an Armageddon-like situation has occurred in the last hour, and we are the only ones left on earth. The thought of having to somehow reproduce with Jon and thus save the human race makes me physically sick, and it is some time before we are able to set off for the summit.
Given the post-apocalyptic theory about the road, we are unnerved to find the summit contains a radar station, with eriely-buzzing transformers. We get out skis on quickly, and are pleasantly surprised at being able to move in the wet snow. John even manages a telemark turn! We quickly reach the disused road, and do a mixture of skiing and walking until the time comes to take the path back towards the car. Needless to say, locating the path proves impossible (neither of us brought a compass either) and we end up having to walk back up a boulder-strewn gulley to find the path. Which luckily we do.
The best skiing is actually the last section back down to the car, which is very wet but pretty substantial drifts. We hit the road at 2315 and I’m in bed in Glasgow an hour later.
Katy the receptionist calls and says a "Jon Haber" is on the phone. This is untoward, as the Jon Haber I know has a perfectly functioning mobile, with my number on it. For him to call me at work via the switchboard must be important. It is.
"The large amount of precipitation currently hovering over the boarders would seem to be falling as snow" says Jon. Actually he doesn't say that, but that's his gist. What he really says is a series of inappropriate jokes about masturbation, followed by a 15-minute reminice about his time in the Scouts.
Eventually the crux of his arguement comes clear; he is suggesting a trip to Glenshee to ski the Tiger in the dark. With headtorches.
The man is clearly mad. I am aching all over from the weekend's exertions, it is Monday night, and Glenshee is at least two hours drive. I politely decline the offer, worrying about the safgety aspect of being on a munro during the small hourse in gale force winds and blizzards. Nevertheless, when I stand outside my Glasgow flat at 9pm that evening, there is a full moon and it is cold and still. This is the first time since I moved to Glasgow last September that it has stopped raining, so my enthusiasm for a midnight slide grows.
An examination of online OS maps reveals the closest hill to Glasgow that looks to have been hit by heavy snow is Lowther Hill, near the village of Wanlockhead. The villages in the Lowther Hills are odd places which hold random records - oldest post office in the world, highest pub in Scotland, fattest West Highland Terrier, greenest piece of shortbread - you know the sort of thing. Lowther Hill it is! Bursting with enthusiasm, I arrange to meet Jon for an afterwork headtorch ski on Tuesday evening.
Predictably, Tuesday is mild and absolutely pissing down. This is not suprising given that on average it rains for 465 days a year in Glasgow, but I cling onto the hope that it will be cold enough for the rain to be falling as snow on the hills. After work I jump in the company Astra and point it towards the M74 - I am due to rendezvous with Haber at Abington services.
To say the Haber’s timekeeping cannot be relied upon is an understatement on a par with "David Cameron's an opportunist dickhead", so I settle down at Abington services for a long wait. Motorway service stations being the place they are, I get propositioned by several lorry drivers and 25 illegal immigrants try and climb into my glovebox, but I stoically ride this out and Jon turns up about quarter to eight.
Fired up on Fruit Gums, we hit the M74 in convoy for the projected short distance to the Leadhills junction – which turns out to not actually have an exiting–the-motorway option and necessitates a 50 mile u-turn via the Lake District, or thereabouts. Of course, Jon’s Shogun is (as ever) running on vapours, and he looks relieved when we finally pull off the motorway.
Climbing towards Leadhills through the Southern uplands, the extent of yesterday’s snow cover is apparent, as is the extent of today’s snow loss. There are big drifts, and big expanses of heather. The car thermometer hovers at a balmy 6 degrees.
We find the car park in Wanlockhead, and park up in the rapidly melting snow. It’s raining heavily, and we tog up in waterproofs. Jon has come straight from work and is still wearing his shirt and tie, but you can’t see that under the layers of ancient Berghaus. I only have downhill skis so strap them to my rucksack with boots inside it, but Jon has telemark skis so gets away with a lighter bag. A surprising amount of snow is still visible as we set off up the hill, pausing only for heavily-scripted pieces to camera. A jibbet is passed beside a cemetery, which does not bode auspiciously.
We trudge through wet snow uphill for a mile or so, when to our surprise stumble upon a well-made road complete with tarmac, road markings, crash barriers and snowpoles. No traffic has passed over it recently given the snowdrifts and lack of tracks. It does not seem to be on the map, and we wonder if it’s either a closed road or an Armageddon-like situation has occurred in the last hour, and we are the only ones left on earth. The thought of having to somehow reproduce with Jon and thus save the human race makes me physically sick, and it is some time before we are able to set off for the summit.
Given the post-apocalyptic theory about the road, we are unnerved to find the summit contains a radar station, with eriely-buzzing transformers. We get out skis on quickly, and are pleasantly surprised at being able to move in the wet snow. John even manages a telemark turn! We quickly reach the disused road, and do a mixture of skiing and walking until the time comes to take the path back towards the car. Needless to say, locating the path proves impossible (neither of us brought a compass either) and we end up having to walk back up a boulder-strewn gulley to find the path. Which luckily we do.
The best skiing is actually the last section back down to the car, which is very wet but pretty substantial drifts. We hit the road at 2315 and I’m in bed in Glasgow an hour later.
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