A midsummer's day ski!!

In answer to the question posed by the post below, the answer was "no"!

Can't be arsed to write an unamusing account of the event - so here's a link to a funny one instead, courtesey of Mr Haber.....

http://mj-drooper.blog.co.uk/2008/06/22/midsummer-s-day-skiing-4349426

Is that it?.....

20th April - forgot my camera yesterday!

All good things must come to an end – Sunday marked the end of my 2008 ski season.

Aonach Mor on Sunday had considerably less snow in evidence than last week, but offered classic Scottish spring snow conditions – granular, loose and fast. The back Corries were open again, and although I bottled out of the cornice drop from Chancer, Alex (back from a season in France and enjoying a day on Scottish snow) managed a couple of vertical face-first drop ins.

Descending the traverse from Corrie Dubh back to the Gondala Top Station, the snow became patchy and necessitated some grass shredding, before finally running out near the Rob Roy T-Bar.

A trip to the Lakes is on the cards next weekend, and by mid-May I reckon lift served skiing will be over in Scotland. So, if this is it, what are the grand totals for 2008 skiing?

1 day at The Lecht
1 day touring in Corrie Fionn
1 evening tour of Lowther Hill!
2 days touring on the Cairngorm Plateau
3 days at Glenshee
4 days at Cairngorm
4 days at Aonach Mor
5 days at Glencoe
6 days in Slovakia
7 days in Alps
=34 days!

Probably (unquestionably, in fact) my most productive ski season ever. Also the most expensive – if an average lift pass (or the cost of hiring touring gear) is £23, I’ve spent nearly £800 on uplift this season! Bugger. If I’m still in Scotland next year, an all area pass will be a serious consideration – or maybe I’ll volunteer as ski patrol somewhere.

There is a lot of snow in sheltered areas on the hills still, so I reckon a ceremonial hike up and BBQ could be on the cards, weather permitting of course, for Midsummer's Day!

Corrie Dubh Virgin

Me airborne - Shoulder of Ben Nevis in the background

Don Juan on the Climbers' Col

Me again!

Don Juan asks himself "how did I get here?"

The Back Corries at Aonach Mor are one of those places that you hear mentioned in reverential tones by Scottish Skiers. There are other runs that offer a huge adrenalin rush – the Flypaper at Glencoe and the Tiger at Glenshee spring to mind – but nowhere offers such extensive lift-served off-piste skiing as the Back Corries.

Until this weekend, I had never skied the back Corries. I’ve been up Aonach Mor quite a few times but because this is Scotland, it has usually been in whiteout conditions and 90mph winds. To get into the back corries you have to pass over an impressive snow cornice which forms on the ridge between Aonach Mor and Aonach Beag, and there is no way I’m going over an edge like that unless I can see what’s below!

My good friend, the unlikely lothario Don Juan, has been well and truly bitten by the Scottish skiing bug this season and had managed to persuade some of his chums from back home to try their hand at it. This was a brave move; most had never skied before and all of them lived in Northampton.

Another key rule about Scottish skiing: - “Never plan a trip in advance if you’re coming a long distance; wait until a few days before and assess the snow conditions then.”

Unbelievably, the Northamptoners arrived to a blue-sky Scotland with snow-clad peaks and little wind. Driving up the A82 felt like being in a Visitscotland commercial. I’d had to work on Friday while the Northamptoners tackled Glencoe, and when I arrived at Corran Bunkhouse on Friday evening I was relieved to discover they’d thoroughly enjoyed themselves and managed the blue runs from the Cliffhanger Chair back onto the Meall a’Bhuiridh Plateau. That’s impressive stuff for someone who’s never been on skis before.

So, on Saturday morning after a pleasant Friday night watching the students of Northumbria University Kayak Club go skinny dipping in Loch Linnhe at midnight, we piled into the Bongo and set off for Aonach Mor.

The Northamptoners struggled a bit with Aonach Mor in the morning. I think the spring snow they’d experienced at Glencoe yesterday afternoon was more forgiving, and the poma lift which accesses mid-mountain at Aonach Mor starts on snowflex , then passes over a couple of slush patches, dodges round a bewildered ptarmigan or two, and then snakes on up the hill at an increasingly steep incline. This is not an ideal scenario for a new skier, and teddies began be ejected from prams – not thrown from prams, but certainly pushed over the edge of them with a slight hint of resentment.

Don Juan and I went off to ski Warren’s, a rather steep red run with beautifully groomed snow. Given the donkey-like skiing of Don Juan at Cairngorm last week, I was confused to see him disappear down the slope carving perfect parallels, gracefully stopping only to seduce hot snowboarding chicks every few hundred yards.

We then headed for the main purpose of the day – the Back Corries. Don Juan’s mastering of Warren’s had convinced me that he could manage Coire Dubh, but the entry would be a worry. We skied off the top of Warren’s T-Bar and traversed onto the Lemming Ridge, where we luckily found the easiest entry into the Back Corries, the unfairly-named Yellow Belly. This was only Don Juan’s seventh or eighth day on skis, and blood visibly drained from his face as he contemplated the drop in.

Despite its name, Yellow Belly still involves a drop through the cornices onto a steep headwall, followed by a long descent to the Braveheart chairlift. Don Juan went first, and despite a sideways fall (followed by 50m head first plunge) he made a thoroughly decent job of the decent.
The Braveheart chairlift only runs a few days a year, so we were very lucky to ride it. Only one person is allowed per chair despite it being a two-seater, in order to reduce the load on the aging engine. The Braveheart/Mel Gibson connection reminded me of something Tam Cowan said after the actor had been arrested in LA and had an anti-semetic drunken rant at police: “When Mel Gibson did Braveheart no-one thought he’d be able to pull off playing a Scotsman. But look at him now. An alcoholic and a racist. He’s done us proud!”

Back to the main restaurant to meet the others via an entertaining traverse on the steep scarp slopes above the Great Glen. Alex and Jen had serious sense of humour failure – Jen having mistakenly ended up on the Goose red run, and Alex having knackered himself on the poma lifts. I adopted the old trick of being annoyingly upbeat and pretending not to notice their discomfort. This had the sole effect of making me look like a prick, which to be fair is not an unreasonable analysis.

Making the difficult decision to help the Northamptoners instead of going in search of Back Corrie Glory, we headed to the Quad Chair to avoid the poma lifts. Alex made a superb recovery and made it all the way down Easy Rider blue run, including the narrow section at the bottom, with only a couple of falls.

I decided that if the Northamptoners were happy on this run, it gave me the opportunity to revisit the back. I caught a variety of lifts to the summit, and headed on my own to the top of Chancer. Chancer is a proper cornice drop, and a group of snowboarders were kind enough to keep a close eye on me as I plummeted into the bowl. Outstandingly, I managed to stay in control – just – and skied down a bit to catch my breath and stop shaking! The lifts had stopped working now, so I traversed out again and made my way to the top of the Gondola to meet the others.

Funny, skiing, isn’t it? I had one of my days of the season, but the group from Northampton had really struggled until the snow softened considerably in the afternoon. In a way, it was a shame the conditions were so good – I quite like hanging round with new skiers, laughing with them at falls and bumps and dispensing (normally very bad) advice. It's not easy to hang round on blue runs when an off-piste paradise is open on the back of the mountain though – hopefully Alex, Jen, Henson, Jonno and Kirsty enjoyed their experiences and will soon be back to the wonder that is Scottish skiing!

It’s not over yet either…………..

The Church of Cairngorm

Eglise

Disciple Haber and I

Nearly Evensong

Prologue

Two facts worth mentioning about Skiing in Scotland:

• I may have mentioned this before, but the golden rule of Scottish Skiing is “Expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed”.


• During Mid-April, skiing normally consists of trudging up remote peaks to search for a 20 metre snow patch, get one turn in and walk back down.

Therefore heart rates have been increasing, jaws dropping, and more time spent looking at webcams in the office than actually working this week. It is mid-April and the snow is still falling!

Cloudy Cairngorm

Jon has posted Isabel back to Poland, and Don Juan has promised a visit. I skive off work early on Friday and pick them up in Edinburgh. Jon assured me on the phone the night before that he would have all his stuff ready in his car, ready to transfer into my van for the trip North. This was sort of true, as Jon’s Shogun contains more tat than a street full of pound shops.

We transferred nine sacks of assorted oddments, fifty maps, seven skis, and £2.18 worth of change (mostly Polish Zlotys) which would be Jon’s spending money for the weekend. We set off North.

It is fair to say I had a reasonable level of expectation of the snow conditions, and it was a bit of a disappointment that the day dawned overcast on Saturday. Never mind, the snow line extended down to Loch Morlich and the full area was open at Cairngorm.

Avoiding the train we headed up the Fiacaill Ridge Poma, and turned right onto the red run. The light was very flat, and Jon instantly hit an unscheduled mogul/rock/bewildered ptarmigan and fell on his bad shoulder. Not an auspicious start. Don Juan – to his great credit- made it all the way down with a limited number of falls. The snow was like concrete, and we needed to get higher.

The rest of the day was spent tazzing round the creaking Cairngorm lift system in near whiteout conditions, struggling to avoid disused uplift pylons and tardy snowholers. The last run of the day was excellent, however. Jon and I headed to the top station, avoided the gun-wielding piste patrollers and skied down the officially-closed West Wall gulley. It was closed to the visibility, basically we had to feel our way down the top section until clear of the cloud. Once clear, however, there was a lovely run down through untracked snow to the disused chairlift station at the Ciste Car park. Don Juan drove the van down to pick us up.

Church for the day.

The next morning was the start of a scheduled red letter day; the arrival of the Church. We gave thanks that the church had been unburdened from holy babysitting, and reverentially followed him up the side of the Fiaciall Ridge on lovely mountaineering skis donated to the mission for the day by Mountain Spirit (in the sky) of Aviemore.

The Church was a hard taskmaster and made swift progress towards the heavens. Us lardy disciples followed in his footsteps, pausing only to make holy gasps for air.

On the plateau, the Church had arranged for the clouds to part and we were able to survey a fine panorama across to Ben Macdui. Emboldened, we ascended Cairn Lochan and settled for lunch. There were no fish, so we had loaves and snow hare instead.

A whiteout decended upon us sinners as we ate; this may or may not be due to farting (me) and bad thoughts about Bonnie Langford (Haber). Luckily the Church and discipline Haber were able to use a holy compass to guide us to the light at Lurcher’s Gulley.

The snow gods were obviously pleased with our pilgrimage, and had provided us with an enormous bowl of untracked powder to follow all the way back. We gave our praise to the Church, and were saddened that holy mortgages prevented him from leading us on glorious pilgrimages more often.

VanSki

A few trips into the Highlands are clearly not a sufficient road test for a new vehicle. The news that Bids, Mike et Al had booked a chalet at La Tania in the French Alps’ Trois Vallees resort for a week generated the attractive idea of AlpineBongo. An 8-day epic involving an unsuitably small campervan, 8 days, and a 1200-mile trip.

The trip would have been expensive on my own, and although Duncan wanted to come he was representing the environmental consultants he works for at a public enquiry. Luckily, Dunc saw sense and when his turn came for the stand, he got naked and decried his employers as baby-eating drug dealers hell-bent on turning the World’s rainforests into vast oil refineries. Enquiry successfully thrown, we left Edinburgh well-prepared for the enormous journey to, er, Rosyth, some 15 miles distant. A knocking sound from the rear of the van caused worry as we approached the Forth Bridge; luckily further investigation found the cause to be Jon, who had cable-tied himself to the van roof in order to get a free trip across. We threw him into the Firth and made tracks for the ferry terminal.

The Superfast Ferries-branding of the Rosyth to Zeebrugge boat is a bit of a misleading moniker given the ship takes 18 hours to cross the North Sea. Nevertheless, this left plenty of time to get supersloshed and sober up before committing ourselves to wrong-side-of-road driving and avoidance of beret-wearing peasants tangled in long strings of onions.

We had elected to travel via Luxembourg in search of cheap diesel, and tried and arrive there with as much space in the tank as possible. Mission accomplished, we freewheeled into the filling station on a favourable tailwind, with a spluttering van running on vapours.

The satnav took us South through France on a series of comical peage-avoiding diversions, including a lengthy trek up to the Swiss Alps via a sheep-herders track. As a whiteout descended, so did we. The short section of peage near Geneva was avoided by adopting a confused expression, keeping the foot to the floor, and firing shots at the tollbooths from a rocket launcher fashioned from a spare set of telemarks.

After an overnight break in a commodious recycling centre near Albertville (with en-suite lake), we headed up into the Alps for the first day’s shredding. The poshski chalet boys were located bathing in Caviar at a slopeside caviar-bathing facility near Courcheval, and we spent the rest of the afternoon together falling over as the whiteout conditions we had experienced crossing the Swiss Alps arrived in their French counterparts.

Most chalets are run by young hip dudes on a career break, whereas the poshski boys’ one was run by Arthur Hetler and his wife Eva Brown, both pensioners with a deep distrust of van-dwelling pikies. Hopes of free showers and the odd bit of cast-off caviar in a doggy bag were shattered, and we commiserated by taking a sauna in a local hotel and unsuccessfully persuading the Swedish Women’s Naked Volleyball team to come back to the van for a party.

The next day brought blue skies and pretty damn amazing powder skiing. Fresh tracks across the three valleys, and plenty of safe off-piste. Duncan – with relatively few boarding hours under his belt – took to the fresh like a Peruvian oil worker to a whorehouse.

My friend Alex is working as a chalet host in Reberty near Les Menuires, so we decided to head over there for the night. The sat-nav once again took us on a phenomenally dangerous route via several black runs and a short section of Via Ferrate, but the Bongo took it in its stride and we found Alex at another Silverski chalet. This one differed from the La Tania premises by being on the piste, having a Jacuzzi, sauna and log fire, and not being run by the Stazi.

The welcome we experienced was rather different to La Tania, where knocking on the door had resulted in the owner looking at me like I was Gary Glitter asking to sit for a while in the ballpool at the local McDonalds. Beers were thrust into out hands and we ate dinner alongside the guests, and were introduced to the local manager. After heading to the pub, Alex, his girlfriend Lynn, and a couple of other Chalet hosts headed back to the Bongo for a van party on the driveway of an adjacent chalet. The 3.30am party closedown was sufficient to generate reprimands from the chalet occupiers, distressed at a vanload of pikies swigging stolen wine a few feet from their balcony.

This was distressing. Only a few days of living in the van and everyone thought we were gypos. We headed back to La Tania (via signposts rather than satnavs) to meet up with the others.

Van safely parked up, it began to snow – and then snow some more. I woke up and tried to leave the van for a piss; no such luck, a drift had piled up against the door. I climbed out of a window and disappeared into the snow.

The resultant conditions were astonishing; as the snow continued to fall we were forced to more or less stick to the same low-level run. Not that it mattered, the chest-deep snow meant for some hilarious skiing. The next day’s skiing was considerably brighter, and Al and I ventured to the top of Courcheval’s Suisse run, a black of some repute. Gnarly local snowboarders were gingerly testing the virgin snow and looking worried. Al and I noted their concern and decided this was no reason for two unfit lardy amateurs not to have a go. Quelle horreur!

I was on a set of old skis I’d borrowed from Al, far too short and with the DIN settings torqued up for an 8-year old ballet dancer. Needless to say, several faceplants were made and several hours spent poling around for skis scattered in the powder as a result of collisions. We made it down, but with my skiing ability resembling those of a one-legged blind hippo.

By the end of the week, the van smelled worse than Bernard Manning’s jockstrap, and had more disgarded gear strewn about it than 70 Strathearn Road, Marchmont. Time to go home.

Having had a trouble free drive down from the Mountains, we stopped in the extremely picturesque setting of Annency to watch Man U thump Liverpool, at a handy pub. Then the snow started, and followed us! The nice warm night at low levels we had hoped for evaporated and an overnight stop somewhere near Paris resulted in snow in the car park which would (semi-accurately) have been described as “day of the season” if it fell on Glenshee.

Bits of the drive back to the ferry were rather worrying; we wondered if we had been premature in not taking snowchains. I took half an hour off driving to look at some steam trains in Belgium, and this restored my confidence.

Superfast Ferries generated more ammunition for a complaint to trade descriptions by arriving in Rosyth 2.5 hours late. I generated further grounds for dismissal by arriving at my desk 3 hours late with Russell Brand’s hair and the smell of a dead rat. Or someone who’d lived in a van for 9 days.

Birthday Bonanza

SpiderJuan (Mark II)

Bongotastic

Rocks. Careful now.

Normally on my birthday I am away skiing in the Alps. However, for one reason or another this year’s ex-Dundee Uni Sailing Club ski holiday has not happened and I am left with having to organise something birthday-related myself. Bastards.

An initial email out suggesting a long weekend in the West Highlands elicits a flurry of positive responses, so I book the (excellent) Corran bunkhouse for sole occupancy. Predictably a good number pull out when they realise Corran is a little further North than Coventry, which might as well be Vladivostok to Southerners.

I have a quick word with the snow gods, who tell me they’ll see what they can do for the weekend.

After several laps of the Southside of Glasgow I manage to wrestle the Bongo away from the gravitational pull of Pollockshields, and Gus, Bob, Kenny, Don Juan and I career across the Kingston Bridge and head for Corran. The Bongo induces a mystic karma over everyone (or maybe it is Kenny’s farting) and we arrive in no time at all. Paivi, Custard and Annette are already there, and Hunky Duncs, Big Ian and Steve Wright arrive shortly.

Al and Lindsay are travelling up from Macclesfield, so have an ETA of 3am. We do the decent thing and stay up until then drinking heavily, in order to toast their arrival. Around 3 I get a call from a tired and pissed-off Al, whose satnav (“At the third exit, turn left across the rocks and heather. You have arrived at a bog”) has directed him into a ditch. Luckily they manage to escape its clutches.

The Falls of Kenny

The Snow Gods have obviously lost last night’s poker game to the Wind Gods, as Saturday dawns to the sight of ptarmigan, sheep, and small houses being blown across Loch Linnhe. The plan to ski is thus reassessed, and a group of us decide on a hike up the Lost Valley, Glencoe. The Lost Valley is an ace hidden glen, sheltered from the wind and slightly Himalayan in appearance. I wonder if all the Highlands would look like this if the weather wasn’t so extreme?

Halfway up is a river crossing, OK in summer but after substantial snow melt a bit more tricky. I take my boots off and wade across, while Kenny and Don Juan head higher to try and find some rocks to cross on.

A shriek from Don Juan alerts us to the fact that something has gone wrong, although the sight of Kenny bobbing head-first down the gorge also provides some indication.

Kenny hugs a rock in the centre of the river, while Don Juan and I form a chain and haul him out. Luckily Al, Jon and Steve have brought a complete change of clothes – in fact Steve has a complete semi-detatched bungalow in his rucksack. Kenny is warm again, so we nip off to get pissed in the Clachaig.

Snow Gods smile on the Coe

The Snow Gods have obviously been kicking ass in the Weather Gods poker tournament – snow is even visible close to sea level on Loch Linnhe. Topping the access chair at Glencoe ski centre, a vast winter wonderland is evident.

The comedy Glasgae ski patrol are discussing whether to open the Flypaper, Scotland’s steepest run. “Mebbie if ye can still see the closed sign next tae the open one, it absolves oor responsibility?”

By the time Al and I get over to the Flypaper the weather has closed in, and it is whiteout conditions. The Fly is scary enough with visibility, and the freefall sensation when you put in a turn is something else. There is several feet of powder (!) in places, and while my skiing doesn’t look good it feels sensational. The snow is coming down thick and fast- you can even get freshtracks on a poma lift!

Parralel Universe

The fundamental rule of Scottish skiing is “expect it to be shite and you’ll be delighted when its not”.. Nowhere is this more apparent than Monday 10th March at the Nevis Range.

The birthday crowd has whittled down to me, Don Juan, Al and Lindsay – even Bob having opted for a bus home that morning.

There is light drizzle in the Nevis Range Car Park, and the forecast is for 50mph winds. Lindsay is having sense of humour failure, but we buy passes anyway.

The gondola up is comfy, and a fresh coffee is purchased at the top. Snow is falling, but the wind is (by Scottish standards) non-existent. There is acres and acres of powder – and only about 20 people out! One of those rare days where you expect the worse and it turns out epic.

Full-width powder, little wind, and latte-in-a-sofa at the café. Is this Scotland? Long may the Snow Gods be dealt a decent hand!

A-Team to Aviemore!

Fat man strokes Bongo. Disturbing.

"Where's the nearest KFC?"

"You sure there isn't a 1000 ft drop the other side of this ridge?"

I must have been drunk.

Although intoxication is a fairly regular part of my life, the repercussions are normally limited to a bit of a headache, a morning horn, and a strange desire for Irn Bru. It’s very rare they include purchasing inappropriate vehicular transportation devices.

My mate Alex does this, he gets drunk, wakes up hungover and spends money he can’t afford on ridiculous purchases. But even he has never bought a Mazda Bongo on a whim.

The Bongo has a ridiculous name, which is kind of appropriate given the appearance of the thing. It has a massive bull bar on the front, 7 seats (very useful for a single guy), huge spotlights, a roof tent and electric everything. It has a passing resemblance to the A-team van, although I look more like Harold Bishop than BA Baracus. Never mind.

The purchase of the Bongo has con-incided with a work trip to the Caledonian Canal, so I head North up the A9 and watch the fuel gauge move rapidly downhill. Hmm.

Thursday night is spent chez Bongo at Muirtown Basin car park, Inverness, and by the evening I have travelled to Fort William via several site visits. The economy has improved considerably having over-inflated the tyres to 40 PSI and formed an aerodynamic nose cone from oatcakes and Highland Toffee. I drive to Newtonmore to pick Jon up off the train, and we head up to Aviemore for the night.

A suitable overnight parking spot is found on the banks of Loch Morlich, where we consume cheap cider and I begin to wish I’d brought Nadine from Girls Aloud along for the ride rather than Jon. Jon sleeps in the roof tent, dreaming of Bonnie Langford. Which is a bit wrong, because she must be at least 65 by now.

Those lovely chaps at Mountain Spirit Aviemore had organised a demo day on the slopes for Saturday, so we make haste for the thin strips of snow stretching bleakly down Cairngorm. Cairngorm Mountain Ltd seem to have mistaken Jon or I for the Sultan of Brunei (It must be the effect of driving a Bongo) and charge us £28 for lift passes. We are considerably poorer, but the demo day is excellent. I try telemarking (A much better experience than the last time on Ebay skis at Glenshee) and ski mountaineering. Top guys.

An overnight space is found next to a worryingly high River Spey, and we head off into the town to consume a few pints and buy the Mountain Spirit dudes a beer.

Being British, I am very good at binge-drinking. I consider it my duty to uphold this fine tradition. However, either I had a dodgy peanut during the evening or one of the beers was off, as the next morning both Jon and I have hangovers you could sell for scientific research purposes. It is a struggle to get to Mountain Spirit, where I hire Mountaineering skis as a distraction while Jon steals espressos from their machine. It is 11 before we make a start.

Hangovers notwithstanding, the day is ace. We skin up the Fiacaill Ridge, and onto the vast wilderness of the Cairngorm Plateau. Visibility is excellent in between snow showers, and we drink in the view of Ben Macdui and friends before dropping gently down towards Loch Etchachan. After a moderate decent we head round the back of Cairngorm and skin up what I think is the Marquis Well, although my knowledge is patchy. Jon insists we head to the summit and I curse him and my still-present hangover as I slip over on a rocky patch.

The cloud lifts as we head off the summit towards the ski area, and views are spectacular. Half an hour is spent in the Ptarmigan restaurant, warming up and avoiding the Cairngorm Mountain Security staff screaming “PICNIC ESS VERBOTEN!” as we surupticiously eat our sandwiches. The last run of the day is down the West Wall, which although part of the ski area is closed today due to lack of snow at the bottom. There is only a hundred yards of walking, however, and we are able to skin up another closed run called “Over Yonder”, from where a short easy walk back to the car park can be had. The Bongo is waiting!

The worst ski trip in the world ever - Mark IV

Above: SpiderJuan (near the top of the Goose)

Last time Don Juan came to Scotland there had been a savage thaw on the Friday. This time, Don arrived in Scotland to double temperatures and howling South Westerlies. Ho-hum.

Waiting for Don's mate Henson to turn up in Borders books on Buchannan Street, we were bemused to bump into Dominic Mennie who we used to work with but now lives in London. Turned out he was going up into the West Highlands too, so we arranged to meet the next day at the Corran Inn.

Checking winterhighland on Saturday morning, it was pretty evident that there was no chance of lift-served skiing on Saturday. However, Sunday looked better so we hopped in the Astra and headed up the A82 towards Fort William. Corran Bunkhouse was full, so we carried onto Fort Bill and booked into the Bank Street Hostel.

The wind was showing no sign of abating, so we opted for a Wendy Walk up Glen Nevis to the Steal Falls, for some Gladiators-reenactment on the Steal Bridge and a bit of scrambling up the side of the falls. Suitably drenched but having had a top doss, we returned to Fort William and caught a bus back to Corran Ferry to meet up with some mates in the Corran Inn.

Isn't it amazing that you can get a bus to a relatively remote pub (Admittedly on the main road) in the middle of the West Highlands, AND one back at midnight? Top quality public transport.

We got up relatively early on Sunday and drove to Nevis Range, only to be told that the lifts were "subject to review". As we all know, this generally means "Piss off, we're not opening".

However, there was no way that we were having a weekend without some shredding, even if the hill looked pretty marginal. The gondala was running, so we hiked up to the summit from the Snowgoose with skis strapped to our back. Only one decent rucksack meant two pairs of skis on one person, and swapping round the carrying-faffage.

The summit was hidden in an utter whiteout, so we quickly set off down a very icy summit run, which was not much fun. However, the frequent snow showers had provided a couple of inches of fresh on the Goose - so much fun was had. I should point out that Don Juan's skiing experience is limited (about 5 hours in total - ) and he inevitably spent a good deal of the journey on his arse!

Henson meanwhile had taken the sensible option - never having skied before, he booked a couple of hours tuition on the plastic slope and enjoyed it very much. Shame he didn't get to see Scottish skiing in better conditions, but at least there was mainly decent visibility and he had a good time.

Driving back, Glencoe's runs looked to have survived the horrors of Saturday's rain quite well. On checking the computer at home, I was pleased to find out that nowhere had managed to get their lifts open during the weekend - so getting a decent length of run in today was pretty good given the circumstances.

Cheapski!!

Self portrait by Al












Al again. He's not really Australian.

In the grand (year old) tradition of superdrooper Cheapski trips, a search on the Internet had yielded Slovakia as a grand choice for a week of shape-throwing, binge-drinking, and Eastern-European-babe-ogling.

The organisation of a place to stay was entrusted to Lord Haber of Whittington, and thus it was I found myself at Edinburgh Airport on Friday afternoon shuffling towards a flight to Katowice, Poland. The jolly japes about guns in the ski bag had failed to result in airport ejection, and neither had the run-in with security over the lethal weapon (contact lens solution) in my hand luggage.

We flew out to Katowice with an airline called “central wings” – their English name; the Polish equivalent having lots of zs & ys and a distinct lack of vowels. Perhaps if the airline falls on hard times they can sell their English title to some makers of pantyliners. Certainly Centralwings have not yet caught onto the normal airline trick of in-flight food prices; four beers and a snack cost a fiver, enabling Jon, Hunky Dunc and I’s whistles to be warmly whetted prior to landing.

Cunning timetabling had enabled us to land in Poland a full day before the others, and this was spent in Krakow engaging in Gentlemen’s pursuits such as drinking and, er, more drinking. “34-days-work-non-stop-Dunc” flagged early, leaving Haber and I to tour nightspots of the City and admire the fine architecture. Actually, I admired the fine architecture while Jon admired the ample bosom of Harriski-Brownavitch, a middle-aged bar owner in a back-street drinking den. Suitably refreshed, we set off in search of our Krakow hostel and promptly got lost.

“You’re a rubbish mountain leader Jon” I mentioned “You can’t even navigate your way out of a street.”

In an unusual display of violence (although I had also emptied a bottle of ice-tea over him), Jon took this rather personally and launched himself at me. In a far more usual display of ineptitude, he missed and fell to the gutter in a crumpled heap.

The next morning, both nursing hangovers and Jon nursing gutter-inflicted injuries, we managed to meet up with the others after a brief pause to photograph the sex shop opposite our hostel – improbably named after Duncan’s wife Annie-Marie.

To our great surprise, both Jon’s girlfriend Isabel and the booked Minibus both turned up, and we were soon making haste for Slovakia via a couple of laps of Krakow squarely down to driver ineptitude. The journey passed smoothly until we were pulled by the Police just shy of the Slovak border. After convincing them that the Haber travelling with us was completely house-trained and carrying a valid pet passport, they let us go. The driver, who had put on a great display of uselessness in leaving Krakow, was much better at finding out-of-the-way hostels in tiny Slovak villages.

The hostel had been booked for sole occupancy, and was excellent value at £4 a night. It was 15k from the ski slopes, but there would, we assumed, be buses. Maybe not on a Sunday, but the rest of the week would be no problem.

Taxis successfully booked via a beautiful linguistic display from Jon (“Dzien dobry, sprechen zie…do you speak English, por favour?”) and we arrived at Jasna ski slopes a little before midday. Ski passes procured, we hit the slopes for a group run – there were 11 of us by now – down a handy blue. Emily displayed a remarkable talent for someone whose skiing experience consisted of being pushed off the summit of Cairngorm on Ebay skis on New Year’s Eve. A talent that was to impressively get worse as the week went on.

The Jasna ski area turned out to be surprisingly good, more organised than Zakopane (last year’s visit) and with more extensive lift coverage. The upper runs were shut for reasons we found out later, but the middle runs were very good. Lower was icy, but hey – we ski in Scotland, and bullet-proof pistes are a speciality! Towards the end of the day we regrouped in a piste-side bar, although Jon and Emily were absent. Long after dark, Jon and Emily appeared with Emily holding one ski only. It turned out she’d lost it on an upper run, the ski-brakes were ineffective, and Jon had basically piggybacked her down the mountain. Top man.

We decided to maximise skiing time and do some floodlit shredding, which consisted of eye-wateringly fast runs followed by downing a vin chaud or beer and heading back up. Despite Al’s best attempts, I won the races!

Monday : Public transport 0 – transport faff 2

Andy Mort, guru of foreign public transport and hitchhiking, had worked out that there was a bus off Prosiec (our village) to Liptovsky Mikolas (the nearest town) at quarter to nine. From Liptovsky there are plenty of free ski buses to Jasna. We all trooped out and waited at the bus stop, attracting strange looks from the few Prosiec residents who trudged by. That’ll be because the bus didn’t turn up, and we’d failed to read the footnote that said “only runs in time of national crisis” in Slovak. Taxis called, we arrived at the slopes late but still got a good day’s shredding in.

Of particular note was an off-piste route that ended in the trees. The entry to the forest was via a narrow gap around a blind corner, where some snowboarders were busying themselves building a massive kicker. Al went round the corner first. “FUUUUCK” – his hollering echoing of the Tatras’ crags as he made unexpected but very impressive air. The snowboarders were impressed too, “Your Australian friend, he ski good but looks like dick” was staggeringly perceptive.

We caught a horrendously crowded bus to Liptovsky Mikolas and ate the worst Chinese meal ever, before catching taxis to Prosiec.

Tuesday: Public transport 0 – transport faff 3

Andy Mort, guru of foreign public transport and hitchhiking, had worked out that there was a bus off Prosiec to Liptovsky Mikolas (the nearest town) at quarter to eight. We all trooped out and waited at the bus stop, attracting strange looks from the few Prosiec residents who trudged by. That’ll be because the bus didn’t turn up, and we’d failed to read the footnote that said “only runs on National Cabbage Day” in Slovak. Taxis called, we arrived at the slopes late.

The upper lifts still weren’t running, so I hitched my skis to my back and hiked up the last 350m to the summit. Jasna South was a revelation – lovely spring snow, no queues and a great mountainside caff. I severly enraged Al by forgetting to turn up for our dinner date.

Wednesday: Public transport 2, transport faff 1

Andy Mort, guru of foreign public transport and hitchhiking, had worked out that there was a bus off Prosiec to Liptovsky Mikolas (the nearest town) at quarter to nine on Market day only. We all trooped out and waited at the bus stop……you know this bit….and then, to our eternal surprise, a bus turned up. We boarded and sat amongst the Slovak women taking pigs to market, and arrived in good time for a connecting service to the ski slopes. Bugger me.

The shredding today was excellent. A number of us went over the other side, and enjoyed deserted powder-bowls and brilliant sunshine. A bus even took us home, although we did need to bribe the ski-bus driver 10p each to take us back to Liptovsky instead of leaving us in a car park.

Shane, Cath, Dunc and myself decided to try out the local bar in Prosiec, where beer at 40p a pint and vodka at about 20p were not to be sniffed at. Within an hour, we were all hallucinating.

Thursday: Public transport 1, transport faff 0

Andy Mort, guru of foreign public transport and hitchhiking, had given up on guru duties so taxis were procured in time for a decent day on the slopes. Much shredding was had, and the bus driver was bribed on the return to drop us near a traditional Slovak restaurant called “Route 66”.

Friday: Public transport 0, transport faff 0 (no-score draw)

A dusting of snow had fallen overnight in Prosiec, but that did not prepare us for the conditions on the top of the mountain. The whiteout was so outrageous it was almost like a good day at Cairngorm, but with -20 temparatures. Al and I’s plans for cornice drops were (regrettably) abandoned in favour of treeskiing and Vin Chaud. We got a bit enthusiastic on the tree-skiing and ended up on a cross-country course beneath the resort, entailing some uphill walking. Bugger.

Post match verdict

Slovakia is a truly ace place to ski, and bloody cheap. If you stay outside the ski area, hire a car.

Don Juan learns to ski - Lecht and Cairngorm 26/27 January 2008

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!

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.