High points
Polar medal recipient Phil Gribbon tells the story of his life amongst mountains in his new book, Wild Wanderings. In this extract, he recalls a climbing trip to Skye
Climber Phil Gribbon’s life in the mountains
The Great Prow was hidden in the shadows of the blue mountain. The Western Isles shimmered in the sheen of the calm seas. The sharp sgurrs of the Black Cuillins cut the horizon in an evanescent row of teeth. The heat of a summer’s day reflected from the ridge. Above the Blaven – Clach Glas col, sitting in the heather and shading his eyes from the glare, the Professor looked at the north wall of the mountain.
Blaven had been untouched for years. Its potential had been discovered in the end. It was the familiar story... The old guidebook had tried to preserve its anonymity: uninspiring low-grade routes, names like East Face, Central Buttress, and Northern Ridge, linked with the pioneers, Abraham, Pilkington and Naismith. It was a lost land, full of doubtful Diffs and impossible Mods. Its mysterious aura remained intact, surviving the cryptic journal entries inserted by inveterate newroute exploiters who snatched out the minor lines. The well-worn trade routes of Glen Brittle controlled the Skye climbing scene. Blaven was a mountain that was forgotten...
The Great Prow sits astride the east ridge of Blaven. It is a big angular pinnacle, a dark dolomitic tower of weathered gabbro that juts out from a banded curtain like the battered bow of a monstrous longship. A symbol of affirmation raised to the heavens in a gesture of sublime indifference, it derides and challenges in the same breath.
The Great Prow breaks into the broad, tilted avenue of boulders below the bealach. Its blunt profile rises for over 300ft in a series of overlapping and overhanging creases interspersed with brief slanting ledges. On one side there is a massive slab, on the other a splintered sliver of rock, both suspended over an overhanging pedestal. A faultless line runs beside the cloven splinter to a final headwall, the direct line to a twisted figurehead framed against the sky. Red deer wandered undisturbed on the mountain. The Great Prow was unique and inviolate.
One day four climbers stood at the base of the splinter, laughing hysterically.
They had been bitten by the midges and burnt in the sun. Their energy had been sapped in the pulsating furnace of Sron na Ciche. Their amusement at the imaginary belays lurking in its shade had palled in Coire Lagan. They knew that cool asceticism could be practised afresh on the walls of Blaven.
They each now made admirable excuses. Some years before the Professor had conceived the route in the dank flank of this lonely hill. He felt that he had justified himself and having gathered a competent climbing quartet below the cliff he just wished to tag along and use his camera. Teeser had not remembered his belaying gloves and the Mighty M’oose was too lethargic, so Superspan who owned a pair of PA climbing shoes was the automatic forerunner for the route, and besides he was long, leggy and decidedly levitatious.
The problems were immediately noticeable. The first pitch was an over-hanging crack. Superspan soon was 30ft above the scree. The spectators grinned, but the leader groaned from his perch while he runnered a rotatable chockstone, rattling within the crack. He was being forced outwards, away from the blank left wall and the ragged right edge of the crack. He tugged at a second jammed stone, swinging and bridging until he could stand on it.
Lodged below an awkward bulge, he extended his illusory inches to reach far up the crack, his toes flexing on the sloping holds, but always he was being pushed out by the bulge. Quickly, he created a rapid sequence of crucial moves with a runner appearing close at hand. Grasp a side clasp on the left edge, find a real handhold on the rock above, and then he was on the steep slab, creeping upwards.
‘Mild vs’ he shouted, but the Professor, gripped in anticipation, raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
‘Stand away. Below!’ It was an imperious command, announcing the flight of a stone shower that arced parabolically down towards a sulphurous impact on the scree. ‘C’mon. Next.’
The crack continued up the second pitch. Confidently he called down, ‘This is no bother.’
‘Sure, sure, we know,’ ventured the Professor, but without conviction because he had been treated to similar gross understatements on other occasions.
They watched as Superspan made an expanded swing out on to an exposed edge, and then a layback into the crack. They were glad he gave a cursory acquiescence to tradition by placing a runner, before backing
Blaven had been untouched for years. Its potential had been discovered in the end
into the steep severe scoop that funnelled up to the notch where the splinter abutted against the headwall. The ascent of the 240ft crack was complete.
Three-quarters of the party were soon draped on the Great Prow. ‘What a wonderful scene’ thought the Professor, who couldn’t see a thing. Untying, he stumbled out onto the scree with his head down and quickly snapped some frantic photos of the dwindling figures. He could see that Superspan was having a troublesome talk with his second, who was remonstrating disgustedly with his leader’s choice of belay, a loop of rope draped over a jumble of rotten flakes. A quick testing flick on the loop released a downward cascade of tiny sharp spikes. The Professor ran for cover again.
The crucial third pitch ran diagonally across a vertical wall. It was a spectacular traverse rising in a rampant catenary to the skyline. Twin grooves strung along the wall marked out a fragile line of weakness as the route freed itself from the splinter’s clasp and touched tremulously on the web of space.
The traverse held animated time. With outstretched limbs Superspan began a slow, sidling shuffle, his toes seeking out minute holds pitted in the groove. Pale peeled fragments trickled down the cliff. Teeser, who was paying out the rope, watched carefully, while the Mighty M’oose dozed unconcernedly, and the Professor shook his jammed camera in abject fury.
The traverse led on to the stepped slabs that ended below the final nose.
Up there Superspan paused to savour his situation before pulling unhesitatingly on a jammed block perched on the edge of space and moved up into the sunshine.
Well did the Professor remember that day on the Great Prow. The tremendous holding power of the coarse gabbro that helped the feeling of tension to disappear and be replaced by an air of relaxation. How satisfying had been the traverse away from the splinter!
A car rumbled across the bridge by the shore of Loch Slapin. A burn winding through Glen Sligachan looked coolly inviting. A white cumulus cloud towered up beyond the stained screes of the Red Hills of Skye.
The Great Prow stood mute in the silence of the centuries. Wild Wanderings: A Life Amongst Mountains is out now
published by Luath Press at £9.99.