Creag Meagaidh footnote

A few more days since Meggy adventure.

On Monday Avalanche risk increased from moderate to considerable and a 16 year old Scout was killed while winter walking with his mum.

As well as this heinous but all too familiar accident I have been thinking about close shaves, in particular, falling ice missiles, which are becoming well seated in my subconcious.

I was nervous before Meggy and my ice climbing partners are quick to brush the whole thing aside in acceptance of the risk and seem reticent to even bring the subject up. I, on the other hand harp on about it so much I can hear the unspoken advice loud and clear, "shut up about it and get on with it".

Well I can understand their point. If you dont like the elements involved in the activity, dont do it. I cant have my cake and eat it. Deal with the falling, heavy razor sharp, whizzing, whirring ice projectiles as they bounce or straight line down the face or dont bloody ice climb in the first place.

Right now I am seriously considering this advice.

Winter climbing Creag Meagaidh Feb 2010

With the best conditions in many years due to the cold winter we went to Meagaidh to sample the icefalls of the famous Post Face and the Inner Corrie.

The walk in is about 2 hrs and I developed hot spots on my heals within the first 20 mins which became the worst blisters Ive ever had. With a whole days climbing and a 2 hour walk out my ruined feet would prove quite a bitch.

Especially considering we would be repeating the walk in and out again the next day!

Anyway, the ice was fat and the corrie was busy with all the classics being climbed and everyone taking full advantage of the amazing ice.

I must have seen three climbers with bloody ice wounds on their faces from falling ice missiles. I also dislodged a significant block of ice which missed some poor guy by centmetres. Terrifying!

I took to wearing my goggles at all times to protect my eyes.

Its the one thing I hate about ice climbing but its part of the parcel unfortunately. Seems like madness puting yourself willingly in the line of fire in a thin Scottish gully with ice debris flying down at high speeds.

These missiles really do sound like bullets, making scary whizzing noises, it makes me super nervous and its just a matter of time before you get nailed by something. Ive been knocked out by ice in Chamonix and I went home early with my tail between my legs. It affected me profoundly and i found I just couldnt put the incident to one side like many ice climbers. If the projectile was much bigger I think it would have done permanent damage.

Winter climbing is definitely a love hate thing for me. Give me summer rock climbing any time.

It Sunday as I nurse my heinous case of trench foot and dry off all the soaking winter climbing gear.

Do I really like winter climbing?

TOADS - A Desert Adventure - chapter 1

- - -

The desert sun beat relentlessly on my neck and its radiation cooked my weary brain without remorse. Why should it care, it was doing its thing, we were doing ours.
My comrade and partner for this little misadventure was Nik, it was his chevy that I drove while he sat shotgun fanning himself with his cap and cursing under his breathe.
It was 22 degrees on the dashboard thermo as the sun came up on a new desert morning. By noon we would find out exactly what 43 degrees felt like. I had a pretty good idea and so I kept an umbrella in the boot and wore a Sombrero. I wasn’t about to become another chorizo sausage.

It had been a long morning already. We had been chasing toads across Colorado’s barren desertscape .Those little fuckers move like tiny greyhounds I tell you. After 4 hours and several ingenious trapping devices we had 5 toads, Bufos Alvarius toads to be exact, also known as Colorado River Toads.

These toads have a cunning neurochemical defence mechanism against predators. They excrete a venom from glands on their backs that is orally poisonous to all mammals. If a wild dog or desert fox picks up a Colorado River Toad in its mouth it quickly spits it out before becoming very ill and dying in a slow and agonising fashion, not that theres anything fashionable about a slow death but you get the drift.

My colleague and I are well read on natures psychedelic hallucinogens and it just so happens that the toad venom is amongst the most coveted of natures natural drug alkaloids, DMT. The venom contains 5 Meo-DMT amongst other members of the tryptamine family. When dried, vapourised and smoked this is the worlds most powerful, profound and fast acting psychedelic.
Smoking allows the delivery of the DMT to the lungs in vapour form and cuts out the nasty gasping wheezing foaming death that the venom exhibits when orally consumed.

Now you see our motivation for enduring 4 hours in the dusty colorado heat chasing these reptiles (fuckers) about. By the time we had finished we both had to scrape DMT from our hands. We milked each toad once and returned it to where we ‘d found it, this kept our karma in tact. It can take one of these toads up to two weeks to replenish its venom when milked by these manual methods. A venomless toad is an easy lunch for a coyote so we were careful not to milk them dry.

Toadmilking? Yep, we really were!

With the toad venom drying in the boot we headed East along the long dusty interstate roads through Durango central. Nik popped a tape in the stereo, its amazing how a little music can transform the desert. The ambience of Brian Eno’s music was at complete loggerheads with the harshness of the deserts tough character. Before long the petrol indicator was at red and the 5 litre engine of Niks Chevy was as thirsty as we were.

A crappy gas station appeared on the horizon and we turned into the forecourt when it arrived.

“Howdy boys”, the pump attendant appeared in the uniform oily work gear, “ it’s a hot one today”

“sure is boss, caddies thirsty, fill er up”, I chatted to the pump man as Nik disappeared around the back of the Chevy and rumaged around in the boot.

“where you boys headed then?”, the pump man must’ve noticed our back seat was full of camping gear.

“just a little r&r really, thought we’d head into the desert for some kicks, gonna head into Alamosa and do some camping and we got some friends out here to visit. Who knows where we’ll end up”

“who knows indeed eh, hope you boys is well prepared now, it’s a crazy time of year to be messin about in that heat. Chevy’s in good order I hope. Some kids died out there last year passin through Death Valley when they’re car broke down y’know. Air condition’s life or death out there friend”

“appeciate your concern but were the cars preped and ready, just been serviced. We got water, snake anti-venom, first aid kits, you name it. Chevy’s pretty well weighed down an mobilised for any eventuality, we’ll fill a few cans of gas while where here, we should be right”

“well sounds like ya’ll know what ya doin, Ok that’s $30 dollars for the gas and you want two more jerry cans o gas, thats $70”

“thanks, can you change a $20 for the coke machine?”

“ Sure can son, ya’ll take care now. Watch out for the crazies round here, theres a crew of religious folks set up out West near Monument Valley and they’re a pushy bunch, reckon they’d see the two of you as prime candidates for conversion, godfearin crazies, hehehe”, the pump man fanned himself with his cap and disapeared into his little office to escape the heat.

“Hopefully they’ll stay West and well away from us then, later man” , I bid farewell.

I headed over to the coke machine and spent a few dollars on Dr.Peppers and Sprite to see us through the heat. It was then I turned round I noticed Nik wasn’t there. I scanned the immediate forecourt and there was no sign of him, I figured he must’ve been in the washroom so I waited in the car for a minute. After a good 5 minutes my curiosity got the better of me and I went to investigate, I tell you its just as fucking well I did.

I could hear a commotion as I approached the grimey washroom.

As I swung the door open I saw Nik thrashing wildly on the piss soaked manky floor with an elderly priest.

My mouth hung open in horror as this demented scene played out. My mind stalled for a moment anxious to see who the winner would be before the seriousness of the situation registered with my rational mind.

“what the fuck, Nik, shit”, I launched myself into the flurry of arms and legs and separated them as best I could.

For a priest, the man defended himself admirably but it was clear to see he had in fact recieved an admirals beating. The priest sustained at the very least a broken nose and judging by his rhythmic groaning a few ribs too.

His collar was now a bloody piece of cardboard and it wasn’t long before he composed himself enough to start screaming religious profanities in a loud Irish accent.

“You godless heathen. Hath ye no respect for the crucifix. Blaspheming yank”, the priest managed his sylables through mouthfuls of blood and floating teeth. I noticed a gold crucifix in one of the urinals.

Nik looked ferral with fear at this point and covered his ears at the priests ranting while muttering to himself. It was clear that no amount to diplomacy was going to save us here and the priest started going on about the cops, before I knew it I had delivered my best Joe Frazier impression upon the ranting priest.
I think the whack may have reset his broken nose as he went down. The screaming and holy ranting stopped instantly and there was complete silence in the washroom.

Just me, Nik and the lifeless body of a man of the clothe.

“Oh sweet jesus Nik, what the fuck just happened”, my mind was racing. I had had no option but to silence the priest, the magnitude of the situation was plain to my subconscious and I had acted without conscious intent.

Nik was slumped against a urinal in a sort of daze, as I approached he recoiled as if he didn’t recognise me. He had shit all over his hands and was totally oblivious to the fact that his face too was smeared with doo doo. He had a shitty moustache and I could plainly see his mind had escaped its box!
“ its Ok Nik, its me, what the fuck happened, why...... hey whats that smell in here, no not the shit – { Nik sneared }you’ve smoked some of that bloody toad venom haven you?”

My mind twigged, I could smell DMT in the washroom. Nik, the sneaky fuck had been in the boot while I was talking to ‘pump man’ and had sneaked some DMT into the toilets with him for a dump and a quick hit. The poor bastard didn’t realise the rogue power of DMT and the dose sensitivity factors inherant in its correct use. If he’d been fighting then I would suppose it would be safe to say he hadn’t had enough, but he had been in there for 10 mins which was ample time to smoke it then regain the senses enough to walk back to the car. My mind raced with possible scenarios. I was getting nowhere and needed to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. For this I Knew I would have to wait, Nik looked like a escapee from...from, well somewhere crazy.

We had to leave quickly before another customer of the pump man came in and found us. Imagine walking into a restroom to find an unconscious priest, a guy in the corner looking scared out of his mind with shit on his hands and face and another standing looking extremely puzzled. This was gun country and most people in these situations shoot first and ask questions later, hell, I know I would.

On immediate inspection the priest was still breathing, just knocked out and a little bloody.
I dragged his limp body into a cubicle and layed his holy head in the classic Armitage Shanks toilet bowl chuckling to myself. I locked the cubicle door from the inside and climbed out over the top, this would buy up a little more time perhaps.

I mopped with washroom floor with some paper towls and my foot before grabbing Nik and helping him out to the Chevy. He was shaking violently. The air was thick with the stench of bad juju and human shit. Nik was a non-violent person and I found it very hard to believe that the priest threw the first punch. Hopefully a chemical-sober Nik would reveal something after a short rest.

After washing him up as best as I could I escorted Nik out of the washroom like a fugitive and bundled in the back seat beside the compressed sleeping bags. I noticed the disposable camera on the dash board and couldn’t resist snapping a quick pic of Nik trancing out with a literal shit eating grin on his face.

I chucked the camera in the back and drove off as quick as possible, trying like a whore in a nunery not to create any attention. I noticed the pump man waving to us as we’d left !. There was a old Ford pick-up in the court that must’ve belonged to the priest. It wouldn’t be long before the priest was found.

I took of East towards Alamosa. I remembered that I’d told the pump man our plans so I thought an about turn was in order. With one road in front of the gas station the pump man would see us changing route so I headed North off-road and went behind the gas station before turning south after a few miles of tumbleweed and axle breaking action back onto the main interstate road.

Our plans had changed, now we were headed West, straight for Monument Valley where the pump man had said the religious folks were based. Truth be told this didn’t concern me much. We’d ride straight through Monument Valley, we’d ride through the night.

On the first day of our trip we’d become fugitives. I wanted answers, Nik was gonna give me some when he woke up like it or shit. He slept like a baby in the back seat oblivious to our predicament while I shuttled us along the interstate highway as fast as the Chevy would allow (115mph steady). The longer I drove the more nervous I got. I couldn’t get the priest out of my mind. I had raised my hand against a man of the clothe. How would the law see this? How would the big man upstairs see this? I was sweating like a scouser in a job centre.
What kind of kooky freaks were these people that the pump man warned me about?

I turned the stereo on and Brian Eno came back on lending his peculiar brand of surrealism to what had already been a crazy enough day.

We wanted an adventure and it seemed we were getting one now. The priest/Washroom incident was the metaphorical starters pistol for our little adventure.

2010- No Monoliths just crap TV

I remember watching the sci-fi film 2010 when I was in my late teens and thinking how far in the future 2010 seemed, i'm sure I must have pondered what a ripe old bastard i would be if i made it to that date!

Well here I am, February 2010, I'm 36, proper old to the eyes of a teenager.

Its 2010 and there are no Monoliths hanging over earth ( see film 2010 ), there are no flying cars nor household robots and humanity is more stupid now as it was a century ago.

In fact one look at 21st century television and its hard to believe we are evolving at all; see Big Brother, I'm a amoeboid get me outta here or Strictly Unfathomable.

Its seems to me that without a massive and urgent trans-global indulgence in psychedelic drugs its all downhill from here.

All anybody under 30 seem to care about are Ipods, Iphones and Celebrity Worship, they dont even know who William Burroughs or terrence McKenna were! ( scoff ; 0 )

Well the Mayans predicted something big in 2012 and I'm starting to think they may be onto something.

If human conciousness is a snake ; " its time to shed your skin ".

The Phenomenon of Fedor Emelianenko

Fedor Emelianenko

I've been a big fan of MMA or cage fighting since I was first introduced to it by my friend Ric.

I couldn't take my eyes off it.

So much energy expended so violently with laser point accuracy. Pure RAW aggression skillfully released with killer strategy by specimens honed by a million hours gym time.

These men are competing in the oldest sport known to man, essentially a hybrid modern variant but still very much greco roman wrestling.

Quite simply there is no other sport that compares to MMA, its the perfect spectator sport, all those roman colloseums werent built to hold football games.

To watch a match is to be astounded by what can be delivered and endured by men.

The competitors are monsters but their physical prowess is balanced with thousands of hours of strategy training and drills.

I have trained hard for climbing, cycling or purely for the joy of training for years. I know what can be attained with hard work. However, from experience I am painfully aware of the difference between learned competency and raw natural talent.

I recently saw a series of MMA fights featuring a Russian called Fedor Emelianenko. Ive seen hundreds of fights and hundreds of gladiators but Fedor is a phenomenon and holds a whole deck of natural talent cards.

Quite simply he is like a vortex of fists. He fights like electricity is passing through him. To cut of his head midfight wouldn't change the outcome. The facial expressions of his opponents, on the rare occasion they are concious are a picture of confusion and shock.

Off course he will be beaten, but while he is at his prime an opponent will have to get very lucky.

Another thing that strikes you about Fedor is his physical build. Undefined, bordering on slighly chubby, you wouldn't look twice at him, generally unremarkable. I cant think of a better example of a wolf in sheeps clothing. Lightning fast and hard as iron with a mind like a trap.

If you havent seen him then go and watch one of his matches.

Two years of shoulder trouble: Lessons learned

(arthroscopic pic of my humerus during surgery Sep 09)













Two years ago I tweaked my shoulder while climbing in Dunkeld, Perthshire.

One small mistake, a moments bad co-ordination was going to cost me 50 physio sessions, an MRI, an XRAY with dyes injected, a CT Scan, an Arthrographic Distention injection and a full Arthrographic Capsular Release procedure!!

Two years two months since that minor mistake with co-ordination I sit here at the tail end of 12 weeks rehab after the shoulder surgery. The whole journey has been quite an eye opener and I have learned a lot.

I was fortunate to have one of Scotlands best shoulder surgeons and the procedure went well with immediate improvement in range of motion. The hard part would be keeping the mobility as my body fought hard to dump as much restrictive collagen at the surgery site as it could while I worked against the daily tide with physio sessions.

At 12 weeks I am back lifting weights and riding my bikes, I have even been climbing once and have been given the green light from my physio to start up again, albeit carefully.

So what have I learned??

Well first of all, Patience. During this 26 Month period my shoulder has been up and down. My ability to train my whole body has been hit hard as the shoulder hurt with weights or circuit training. Thus my upper body musculature has wilted and this simply adds to the shoulder problem. Its a vicious circle.

The muscles around the shoulder become weak and the problem joint has no support from essential neighbouring groups.

So I have had to bring my climbing down a few grades, quit indoor climbing and avoid all circuit training for 2 years.

Nov 2009 and its great to be back doing what I like. I've joined a brilliant gym and I'm busy rebuilding myself.

I'm going to armour my shoulder against the rigors of climbing even though I'm well aware that more muscle weight is a climbers enemy.

Its more important to be fit for the big picture and not just one facet of the sport of climbing.

The Accidental Soloist - A climbers inner battle with the risky game of Solo climbing

I have heard climbers talk of a rat that needs feeding. It’s a very apt metaphor for the whole subject of addiction and adrenalin.

However….I wont humour vermin.

I prefer primates, real or metaphysical.

And my monkey has a voracious appetite for adrenalin.

He chatters away, lips a blur most of the time. How he wants action, how he likes the wind in his fur and that thrill that brings the adrenalin. Always scheming, pushing, pressing, planning, getting me to check the weather forecast, is anywhere within reach dry enough for climbing?

I call my climbing partners and text them, are they free, how do they fancy this or that, what do they think the weather might bring. Plans, short term and long, a weekend trip, an early start, a journey abroad.

The monkey has an encyclopaedic knowledge of what pushes my buttons. He is telepathic and plants seeds while I dose or while I’m at my work desk. In meetings at work I drift far away as the monkey recites hypnotic tales of adventure into my bored ear, “You could be doing that” he tells me.

I check UKClimbing at my desk, for the 10th time today, any posts off interest?
In between the online weather checks at mwis.org.uk and my obsessive scanning of UKC I am racking up serious hours on the internet, these hours are logged and may be scrutinised by superiors but the monkey doesn’t care, he tells me I work in the IT department and its my privilege, I suppose he is right, I deserve some sort of virtual escape from the confines of this mind numbing office.

So, this monkey, does he ever sleep, well, kind off. I do get peace sometimes. When I climb high on a rock face fiddling to place gear as my arms pump out he is dead quiet, you wouldn’t know he was there. When I plant my ice axes high above gear he sleeps.
When I swoop through the rush hour streets on my bike he nods. He moans for action and when it comes he is narcoleptic.

We have a tight relationship, the monkey and I. But sometimes he can be trouble.

Once as I waited for my climbing partner in a Calendar carpark for a days climbing in Glencoe the monkey awoke and started to sew his devious seed.

Its 8am, my mobile rings, “Bad news”, comes a voice filled with disappointment.
I sense it immediately and the monkey’s attention is roused.
“Where are you”, I counter.
“Still in Dumfries man, stuck behind a big motorway crash, not even moving!”
“Oohh, you’re joking, shit”
“Its not even moving, I can’t believe it, cant reverse and cant escape, its nose to tail for miles in each direction”
“We were making such good time”

Jimbo is despondent and I agree to give it some time to see if the traffic moves.

I drink coffee from my flask while the monkey goes to work.

“Looks like that’s your days climbing gone to shit? Perfect days are rare.”

I ignore the monkey, fidgeting pensively in the car, I’m in no mood for his chitter, but just what is his angle this time, hmm.

Its 8.30, he must know something now. I call Jimbo.
“Hey, whats happening”
Then the words I was dreading, “not moved for half an hour man”, he sighs.
“Ohhh this sucks”, I am as disappointed as him.

Its looks like he is going nowhere, through chatting with other drivers Jimbo is confident that the tailback is miles long and he is going nowhere for a few hours. With great difficulty we abort the mission, I tell him I will just head home. He tells me that to compound matters he needs a shit and is trapped in the car indefinitely. I laugh and we finish the call.

By the time I hang up the monkey has talked me into completing the journey to Glencoe alone.

“Why don’t you just go up for some scrambling and some fresh air?”

Before I take time to weigh the true intentions of his loaded suggestion I am moving.

I leave the car park turning right and the hairs on my neck are aloft with anticipation. For the whole 90 min drive the monkey is in my ear with schemes, “park the car for the Buachaille and ascend Curved Ridge, you know the Rannoch wall has many easy routes on it, have you ever considered soloing Aggags or January?”.

I’m gripped by the monkeys suggestions and I toil with the concept. The climbing is straight forward but it’s a 3-4 pitch mountain route with all the objective dangers you would expect of an ancient Scottish mountain.

The monkey is quick to explain, “Rannoch Wall see’s a lot of traffic though, it may be the most frequented mountain multi pitch in the Coe, its not so loose you know”

I drive with my head full of questions. I’m not a soloist, especially not on mountain multi-pitch routes. But the car is moving at 70 mph, I’m just along for the ride.

At 9.30 I arrive at the Lagangarbh car park, its full of cars. I see a minibus full of students gearing up as I finish parking, I am quickly out of the car gearing up for the walk in, better be quick to get clear of this large party.

My black Diamond 30 litre is packed for a mountain day but I have no partner and will be pitching no climbs. I ferret through my bag emptying all but essential kit. I’ll need one half rope in case I need to ab-seil off something, I’ll need my shoes, chalk, harness and a small selection of wires for plugging in if I get scared or for building an anchor.

I finish gearing up and with one last check I put the car keys in a zipped pocket. I’m off, jogging slowly I trot past the large group. I pass two others as I move onto Curved Ridge proper, with a wave off acknowledgement I move onwards and up towards Rannoch Wall. My head is still full of chat as I psychically spar with the monkey,
“Am I really going to do this”
“Yes, yes, it’ll be great, its perfect, what a day for it”
“What if there are climbers doing routes”, I wont do it if I find climbers there”
“Just keep moving, your making good time, lets go, go, go.”

As the scrambling steepens and intensifies I pause to gaze behind me for a moment, nobody in sight, great. I flow up the ridge loving every minute of the scrambling, never hard, positive grips everywhere, but always careful, I’m getting fully into gear, into the zone.
I feel so alive. Breathing well. Moving well. Flowing. The chitter chatter of that monkey has ebbed away to blissful silence. He is on the nod.

I pull over a short vertical wall on Curved Ridge and see the Rannoch Wall, its ancient Rhyolite features entice me onwards. The Rannoch Wall is many things but most off all today, its all mine. Deserted. A ghost wall.
Today Its ancient aura is not soiled by noisey shouting sasenachs or by garish goretex.

This is just too much, its clearly meant to happen, that damn monkey was right. I gear up quickly, shoes, harness, chalk bag, some wires and screw gates. I put my approach shoes in the pack and adjust all the contents for balanced movement on the wall. I fine tune the sternum and waist straps on my pack and tighten the Velcro on my climbing shoes. One more gaze down the Buachaille and I confirm solitude before chalking. With a skywards gaze and a deep breathe I am on the initial moves of Aggags Groove.

“Climbing”






My head is absolutely ringing with adrenalin the moment I leave terra firma without rope. Its immediately strange, a grand mountain setting and no rope or partner, unknown territory. I move cautiously, mere metres off the ground the exposure is more than I am familiar with and I am deep breathing to control my emotions. By 15-20 metres my breathing is all that I can hear, its seems impossibly loud in my head. Every hold is tested before fully weighting and moving on. I palm strike suspect looking areas of rock and move with as much precision as I can muster. Every action carries massive significance.

I need to get up this rock and onto safe ground, this is no place to linger without rope. I feel a nagging voice, its not the monkey. Its my survival instinct, its telling me that I need to concentrate on ‘not concentrating’ and allow myself to relax. I ponder what panic would mean in a situation like this and its clear that the mind game is the biggest part of this challenge. I am alone in my bubble.

Then my solitude and concentration are broken by distant voices, I pause, looking down to the base of the wall for the first time, the two climbers I passed have arrived. I am sure one of them is pointing at me.

This interruption is not good. I can feel their eyes burning into me. It feels like a very private moment has been violated. I have snapped out of the zone I was in and need to get back . I have a word with myself actually talking out loud. I’m probably half way, its only been a few minutes since I started the route. I have no idea what route I’m on by now, without pitches the line becomes unimportant, my only ambition is to complete the face to safety.

I forget the voices below and before I know it I’m pulling over the top onto the scrambly ground above the wall. My mind is on fire and I’m ecstatic.

I move up 10 or 20 metres to a level area where I can get a seat and ponder my climb. I sit to relax a minute but my mind is racing as I take in the view over Rannoch Moor, it’s a beautiful day.

It’s been a magic experience that will keep the monkey quiet for a few days.

But there is another voice as I change shoes for the scramble back down. It’s the voice of ‘what if’. As I progress downwards on Curved Ridge my mind is awash once again.
“That was a selfish act” says the voice, “loose rock, a simple slip, a muscle cramp, sudden heavy rain, that was madness, it’s not worth the risk, how could you do that to your wife”.

I cannot disagree and while still basking in the excitement and adrenalin of the climb I feel a little disgusted with myself. Today the monkey got the upper hand, its not been the first time and what are the chances of it being the last?.


The drive home is silent, just me and my thoughts, the monkey has had his fix and leaves me in peace to ponder the concepts of guilt and addiction.