Zig-zags and pink skies

Standing on the upper slopes of Zig-Zags, I felt totally at home in my environment. The steep slope, the weather, the ground conditions - none of that bothered me, as I had expected it might, and instead I was filled with a warm sense of what I can only describe as belonging.  It felt as if we had 'mountaineered' to get there and that seemed special - using my climbing skills to go somewhere, to be able to take the more adventurous line up the hill, that's what it's all about for me. 

I was filled with pride as I watched the Simple Chick ascending, roped together with our instructor, Jamie. Her learning curve had been steep but she had risen to the challenge and there she was, approaching the top of her first graded winter route.

Jamie Bankhead leads the Simple Chick on the upper slopes of Zig-Zags

It had all started a few months ago when I turned to the Simple Chick during one of our tea drinking sessions at the wall and simply said, 'Winter mountaineering. Thoughts?'. Soon we had booked two days with my go to MIC, Jamie Bankhead of Glencoe Climbing, who was willing to have me back, despite my turning the air blue on Dorsal Arete last year! The Simple Chick needed an introduction to the wonders of winter with axes and crampons and I was keen to have a go at a little light leading.

Our two days were incredibly different, both in activity and weather conditions, but were both equally amazing. The pink sky seen from Buachaille Etive Beag could never truly be recreated in our photographs, while the whole experience of being there, in those conditions, felt like one of those days that you remember for the rest of your life. What a day for the Simple Chick to do her first winter Munro!

The view from Buachaille Etive Beag

Conditions and avalanche risk dictated our choice for day two, but I had my Main Wall Monday psyche on (well it was Monday!) and led two little easy pitches. The venue was so lovely and friendly, it was a perfect choice for learning in and I think only having two pitches to do meant that my appetite was whetted, not only for more winter climbing, but also for multi-pitch mountain routes on warm summer rock. 

Long Legs gets prepared

We returned via the route we had climbed, which meant the chance to abseil. I was in my absolute element, having been forced to learn to love abseiling in preparation for CWAA (JJ has a lot to answer for!) and was loving the addition of crampons and snow/ice to the mix. It was good to learn about the safeguarding of the party at the anchor and to see a stacked abseil in use and not just in the pictures in Libby Peter's book. The Simple Chick was less comfortable, but once again, she just got on with it, even though I knew she was finding it really stressful. She rocks!

The Simple Chick bosses the abseil

Both the Simple Chick and I came away having had a great two days and it is a credit to Jamie that he ensured that we both got what we wanted out of the experience. On the way home in the car, the Simple Chick asked me what crampons cost - I think we are going back next year!

The boots in the loo

In the late 50s my father, an analytical chemist, went to work at the BACO plant in Kinlochleven. I once asked him what he did there but he claims not to remember. I bet you though, that he could still outline in great detail the days that he and his mates spent in those mountains, even if it was 55 years ago. I imagine in the heyday of the works, he and his contemporaries never dreamed that one day the smelter would stop smelting and that ultimately their place of work would become The Ice Factor, in fact, the very concept of climbing indoors remains totally alien to him.

My dad - judging by my rucksack, sometime in the early 2000s

When I was young there was a pair of hobnail boots next to the 'end' loo. I presume these belonged to my father. Back in the day, so he once told me, your only option for mountaineering boots was to draw round your feet and send the templates to a man somewhere in London; at least by the time my mother was climbing in the early 1960s, Graham Tiso had opened his shop in Leith. One of her favourite stories involves sneaking a pair of boots in diabolical condition into the secondhand boot display and going past the shop every day to see if they had sold!

My parents have endless tales of mountain, climbing club and bothy antics and it transpires that they were acquainted with folk like Robin Smith and Dougie Haston, now firmly in the annals of Scottish mountaineering history. (Said of the former: "He used to down-climb things in his wellies that I could hardly climb up in my climbing shoes"). There was the guy known as 'Bogtrotter', who moved so fast that he failed to sink in the bogs that trapped the following group, and the tale of a Rag Week scaling of Castle Rock in Edinburgh, dressed as a baby, with ropes hidden from the police in a pram. 

But the more I hear about what they did and the more I am able to equate their experiences with my own, the more impressed I become. Earlier in the year I told my mother about a winter trip to the Highlands, she consulted the encyclopedia that is my father and reported back that they too had done those routes. In the 1960s. With crap clothing, no harnesses, long axes and probably a hemp rope... She then digressed into a range of winter tales: inadvertently descending some (Grade II) gully in the dark, the time my dad dropped a small cornice on her head and the piece de resistance, when a girl fell past my father on a winter climb and he pulled off her trousers trying to arrest her fall. 

State of the art gear found in the cupboard!

Mountains brought my parents together too. The male mountaineering house claimed to have an additional housemate who was always 'in Switzerland, in Italy, in the Alps, in Norway', the female mountaineering house, increasingly sceptical of his very existence, began to devise reasons to visit at odd times of day... On one such foray they found a dark haired, blue eyed, tanned stranger in the front room, just returned from the Italian Alps...

My father went to the Lofoten Islands long before there were causeways between every island and my mother's comedy stories extend to Norway, the Alps and the Pyrenees, her favourite involving my father firing up his petrol stove in an Alpine hut, while a cowering Frenchman exclaimed "Il sera un grand explosion!"

More than anything, when I hear these stories and look at their, often black and white, photographs, I am envious of my parents and the adventures they have had, experiences I long for but never seem to have the opportunity to partake in. Rock climbing, scrambling, hill walking, winter climbing or Alpinism, they seemed to have done it all, almost in another life time. And I like the fact that they did these things together; mountains have played a pivotal role in their relationship and I am envious too, that their deep rooted love of these places is something that they have always shared.

I suppose it comes as no surprise to anyone that I love mountains too.