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.

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!

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!