A View From Coire Etchachan
On first glance, Coire Etchachan seems unremarkable. On a map, a horseshoe of tight contours; on land, a chunk cut out of the vast Cairngorm plateau, smoothed and rounded by glaciers of a time long passed. Flanked by two footpaths, one above and one below, the corrie sees its fair share of hill-goers as they cross from one to the other, sometimes staying a while at the bothy in its centre.
This corrie, in spite of the many peaks which stand proud nearby, sits in my mind as the heart of the Cairngorm mountain range, and the times that I have found myself here I have always made a point of spending the night, not just hurrying through. This place, isolated and breath-taking, is a place where lessons and inspiration have found me. Not in the way that deadly weather, and nightmarish peaks can teach and inspire, but instead in more modest, and almost unremarkable ways.
The first light of day, spilling lazily over the hills to the East, shone through the thin fabric of my one-man tent as I woke. My sleep had been intermittent through the early hours as powerful gusts had come barrelling down the steep sides of Coire Etchachan, shaking me awake before my mind could fully embrace any chance of rest. I had hoped to find refuge here from the westerly winds that had been forecast through the night, but little did I know, still inexperienced in my mountain adventures, that the wind rarely runs clean in the Cairngorms, but instead can twist and become fierce through the undulating terrain, often dropping into nooks and crannies to wake unsuspecting campers.
Swinging my feet out, and reaching for my boots, I took in the morning air. Despite my unsettled sleep I woke invigorated, my tiredness carried away by the gentle light which washed over the rocks and heather of the corrie. The bothy behind my camp-spot lay silent, its small window keeping the interior dark, letting the occupants enjoy a few more hours of sleep. I had arrived late the previous evening to find the bothy full, and so took relief in the knowledge that I’d brought my tent as a backup. When morning came I commended myself once again, I couldn’t ask for a better place to wake up. In that fresh morning air, my unsettled sleep was quickly forgotten, and the tent which had shaken and flapped through the night was now sheltering me and my rapidly cooling cup of coffee from the final remnants of wind.
In spite of my efforts my coffee became cold before I could finish it. Chucking the remainder away, eager to get up and moving, I packed some essential kit and stowed the rest inside the tent. I looked upwards. The clag had begun to obscure the corrie’s high edges, dampening the sunlight and eliciting a foreboding air. I had my map, I was confident in my direction, and perhaps most important, I was unconvinced by the stories of a large spectral figure believed to roam this path. My enthusiasm, not to be stifled that morning, stayed with me as I set off upwards.
It was not long till I found myself returning back into the corrie, considerably lighter on my feet than on the long slog up. I had reached my desired summit, and retraced my steps back, making surprisingly quick time thanks to my fresh head and morning coffee. As I descended further the familiar little bothy became visible, and so too did two figures in bright colours. As I came close to level ground, between the largest of the cliff faces and the bothy, I began to make out their bulging rucksacks and bright helmets. They were looking at a small book, then looking up, some pointing, discussing, and back to the book. As I approached I recognised them from my brief glimpse into the bothy the previous evening and, recognising me, we chatted briefly and asked what each other’s plans were. One of the pair pointed upwards, towards the back of the corrie, and told me they were going to climb up. I looked, and for the first time inspected properly the vast face of near-vertical rock that rose high above us. Cracks and seams ran from bottom to top, large blocks cast shadows which darkened the rough stone, and low cloud loomed above.
I don’t remember the exclamation I made in
response, probably for the best, but I do
remember thinking that this pair were on
some kind of suicide mission. I knew the
gist of rock climbing. Naturally I had heard
about climbers, I had heard described what
rock climbing involved, and I had even seen
Tom Cruise pulling some crazy rock climbing
stunts in one of his Mission Impossible
movies, but in this moment the reality of
what was involved came together in my
mind. These two people, who I had just been
wishing a good morning, would soon be
clung to this dark rock, clambering with their
hands and feet above a vertical drop instead of just going round the side like I had done. I could see that they knew what they were doing, I had no concerns for their safety, and yet I could only think it absolute madness as I packed away my tent and set off home.
Almost 4 years later and I was back, though instead of looking up in bewilderment I found myself looking down, my wildly beating heart not yet convinced by my feelings of relief. “Safe!” I shouted down from my hanging belay, my hands doing a final, shaking, check of the slings that held me in place. Two thirds of the way up the wall, now safe and secure, I allowed the reality of the pitch I had just climbed to take shape in my mind. I suppose it was something of an outer-body experience, so far as to say that my hands and feet had ceased to be body parts, but rather opposable lumps on the ends of my limbs, their sole purpose to grip to the rock and jam protection into cracks. Out of sight below me, my belayer had reliably paid out rope, following the process required of him, stoic and patient. High above, without a shred of stoicism or patience, I had crawled my way up the face like someone lost in the desert might crawl to water, my mind fixated on holding tight to the rock. From the safety of my belay I came to realise that, despite it being a challenging pitch, perhaps the most mentally challenging climb I had found myself on, it had actually been perfectly fine. With my trusty friend belaying, and my muscle memory for placing regular pieces of gear, I had been entirely safe the whole way up.
Perhaps, whilst in the grips of perceived danger, our minds lose track what we are capable of. The carefree acrobatics that I might have pulled off at an indoor climbing wall were nowhere to be seen so high off the ground, not even conceived of as I reached and pulled my way upwards in fear of what was below. Similarly, my knowledge of the reliability of climbing gear, and the abilities of my belayer, had well and truly vacated my mind. High on the rockface I seemed to have transformed back into my former self, down on the ground, thinking it madness that anyone would approach this vast slab of rock and begin to climb.
Sat comfortably (relatively) in my harness, I began once more to appreciate where I was, taking pleasure in the air beneath my feet and the light and shadow of the landscape that stretched out before me. It was the first hanging belay I had experienced, and I took pride in my neat organising of the ropes as I lay them to and fro across a sling, belaying up my friend bit by bit until he came into view, struggling up and securing himself next to me. I didn’t know it then, but in a few days’ time I would be recounting this climb to a friend who hadn’t made it along and, without thinking, I would describe it as “fun”.