Climbing on Skye with SDMC May/June 2011
(a tragedy in the Cuillin Hills)
(a tragedy in the Cuillin Hills)
“It was the best of times; it was the worst of times”
Charles Dickens- A Tale of Two Cities
These times being the late spring of 2011. May is renowned for the settled weather that Scotland and the Western Highlands in particular, experience at this time of year. Nevertheless, this was no normal year. Here in deepest Devon we were in the middle of a drought. There had been no significant rain for over two months, and even the Government said that a drought existed…. but this news had not reached the distant parts of the kingdom that is the Western Highlands. We encountered the rains as I drove over Beatock summit and it accompanied us all the way to Glen Brittle. Not surprisingly, a large puddle greeted our arrival at the door of the BMC hut and nobody else in occupation. A note in the kitchen from the departing warden, made reference to faulty electrics, which meant no heat unless we got the fire well stoked. The weather had been inclement for weeks with triple the average rainfall for the month of May. The previous week’s hurricane winds, as well as much else besides, had flattened all the road-signs on Rannoch Moor. Tempest would be describing it mildly.
If anything, the weather the next day was even worse. The mist was down to valley level and the winds were gusting strongly across the Cuillin ridges. It was noticeably colder too. Steve along with Lou and Nick opted to climb up into Coire na Banachdich, but somehow lost their exact bearings and besides in these trying conditions, there was little chance of making any kind of progress onto the Ridge. It was a dreich weary team that returned to the hut. During the interim, I had discovered the hut library and a sizable collection of SMC journals. Most interesting was the ‘Index’ at the back of the journal which detailed all the mountain rescue statistics of Scottish mountain accidents for the relevant year. One in particular attracted my attention. Some unfortunate scrambler had to be rescued from Tower Ridge after getting crag fast. The next day another rescue followed on Tower Ridge, to rescue.... the very same walker who they had encountered the previous day. I can only imagine what was said!
Sean on top of Sgurr na Fheadain
As the visitor drives over to Glen Brittle the road climbs over a high bealach with forest to the left, and gradually the full panorama of the Cuillin is revealed, dominated by the hulking mass of the imposing spur of Sgurr na Fheadain immediately ahead. It is readily distinguished by the great gash of Waterpipe Gully, which cuts deeply into the flank of the mountain. In slightly improving weather, we parked the car and climbed down past the Fairy Pools of the Allt Coir’a Mhadaidh. We, being Keith, Bob and myself bound for the great spur of Sgurr na Fheadain. The guidebook description was somewhat obscure but a route materialised out of the mist as we slowly ascended wet rocks, keeping well to the left of the deep recesses of Waterpipe Gully. Bob had climbed it one winter in the company of Martin Moran, but as a summer route, it did not inspire investigation into its deep, damp, dark interior. Although it was described as a grade 3 scramble, we did not trouble the rope and thought the severe grade unwarranted. Keith was not feeling too well and so retreated, while Bob and myself continued to the shapely pinnacle summit of the spur. The way ahead now opened up to reveal a snaking rocky ridge leading onto the main Cuillin Ridge. Bob is not a mountaineer and had no interest in continuing along a ridge which terminated at Bruach na Frithe. Somewhat dejected I turned to follow Bob down into the stony depths of Coir’a Mhadaidh. Steve, Kev and Lou would traverse the ridge in superb conditions and weather later in the week!
“As I slowly retraced my steps back to the hut little did I realise what the ‘morrow had in store.”
Later that day the weather improved quite dramatically, so I took myself together with camera, up past the impressive Eas Mor waterfall, and the enchanting little Loch an Fhir-bhallaich, and into the magnificent hollow of Coire Lagan resplendent in early evening light. I encountered only one other person in the Coire as I focused my lens on the imposing cliffs of Sron na Ciche, tracing the line of climbs, previously ascended many years ago. Moreover, standing proud from the immense cliff was the unique form of the Cioch Rock, easily seen in the evening light, as its great shadow cast across the cliffs. Waterfalls tumbled from high up the cliffs, strongly glinting in the setting sun. It was a Murrayesque moment, as I stood riveted before this ever revealing scene of stunning beauty. Sron na Ciche and the climbs on its colossal cliffs are the reason why so many climbers ‘head over the sea to Skye’, a mountain so big that it has cliffs within cliffs. Climbs on the Western Buttress are in excess of 1000 feet, and linked climbs on Sron na Ciche, the Cioch Slab, and Upper Buttress may exceed this great height. Only the cliffs of Ben Nevis and Creag Meadaidh can stand comparison with these stunning crags, and those are essentially winter venues. Add to this the truly wild rocky setting, almost completely devoid of any semblance of vegetation, then it is indeed a magical place. As I slowly retraced my steps back to the hut little did I realise what the ‘morrow had in store.
Bob was up early and buzzing with enthusiasm, which the weather did its best to dispel. The early promise of the previous starlit night had been obscured by a curtain of grey gloom. Others were up in the wee small hours with big plans and much ambition, and had set off in the direction of distant Garbh Bheinn. A complete traverse of the Skye Ridge was perhaps a ridge too far in these unhelpful conditions. For us, the great West Buttress of Sron na Ciche must wait until after midday before any sunlight crosses the face that would be damp for all the recent heavy rain. It was a little before 12 when we departed from Glen Brittle, and followed the familiar path that led up into the coire, a path much improved in recent years.
As we rounded the coire rim, it was pleasing to note that nobody else was on the crag, or unpacking sacs beneath. The final sketchy track across to our objective was replaced by scree and loose rock all set at a tedious angle, a steep final pull up to the base of these great cliffs, now soaring over a thousand feet above out heads and vanishing into the clouds. The weight on our backs with two double ropes, assorted climbing tackle, camera and tripod made itself felt, and it was with much sense of relief when we could finally unburden and dump the sacs.
Bob was not acquainted with the crag but expressed an interest in climbing the famous Cioch Direct. A cursory glance up the cliff revealed that recent rain channelled down this watercourse and it was literally dripping. I scrutinised the guidebook description which detailed a lot of thrutching in greasy cracks and chimneys. It did not inspire attraction or confidence.
Sean gearing up at the start of Cioch West
This was my first visit to the cliff since I had initially climbed here in the early seventies and now proposed that we tackle Cioch West, a climb with pleasant memories of agreeable open climbing. The start was obvious with 'CW' etched clearly in the rock, and the initial chimney and cracks, although streaked with water, did not look too unpleasant. It was now, having cooled from our ascent, that the cold became noticeable, and every vestige of clothing now worn, including gloves stuffed in pockets. My original memories of the climbing were hazy, but I recall an exposed traverse high up. As I started to ascend, the climbing improved and I was enjoying the technical intricacies, deliberately avoiding the wetter areas of rock. At the steep chimney, it was possible to ascend delicately on small holds that were mostly outside the chimney and consequently mostly dry. A steep pull led to easier and speedier climbing above, and a belay soon gained. Looking across the cliff I saw another climber appear from below on Cioch Direct, and watched fascinated as he carefully arranged his belay in classic textbook fashion, equalising both anchors with care. He suddenly became aware of my ardent gaze and shouted something inaudible that the wind carried off into the depths of the coire.
By now, Bob had appeared, and was keen to get to grips with the next pitch, which terminated in an ear shaped flake that would necessitate either jamming or lay-backing. So I passed over the gear, sent Bob on his way, and drifted back to my thoughts of cold rock and even colder legs. I was secretly wishing for my winter-bottoms back at the hut.
“My fingers were scratching about over a bulge and had located a shallow fissure, much resembling a pianist playing a piano while sitting on the floor…but someone had thoughtfully removed the pedals! “
Above, the climb now skirted off to the right, initially following an easy ledge that led to a steep vertical groove that disappeared up into the Stygian gloom. The climbing transpired to be very pleasant with runners and rests whenever required, and so quick progress to the belay below an overhanging wall. I climbed up for a good anchor and dropped back to the small ledge to bring up Bob. We had now arrived at the crux of the route as the climb traversed off to the left, to unseen progress high above. However, I first had to continue in the groove line, now much steeper, as I bridged up in search of protection. At the start of the traverse proper, a hidden Rock 9 placement revealed itself, and feeling in much better heart, I carefully teetered across, with overhangs above, and much exposure beneath my feet, to arrive at a funny mantle. Before heaving over, I thought about protection, and Bob following behind, and scanned the rock for suitable runner placements. My fingers were scratching about over a bulge and had located a shallow parallel fissure, with me now resembling a pianist playing a piano that had very high legs…but someone had thoughtfully removed the pedals!
At this precise moment, my concentration literally shattered by a loud cracking sound, much like thunder, but the sound just reverberated around the coire for what seemed like an age. I quickly scanned the low clouds for signs of lightening to accompany all this noise. However, there was none.
I turned and shouted down to Bob, “Did you hear that? Thunder!”
“It’s not thunder, it’s rockfall” he replied
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, didn't you hear that terrible scream, followed by distress whistles? I’m off down to help!”
All thoughts of climbing the crux dissipated and I quickly reversed back to the security of my one good nut and lowered back down to Bob. Meanwhile he had unearthed some kind of rounded belay spike that I eyed with much suspicion and backed up with a cam. As Bob is blessed with more generous physique and proportions, I readily suggested it would be best for him to abseil first. We had an easy if steep descent down into Cioch Gully, a descent that required the full length of our 50 metre ropes, interrupted by a small ledge that revealed a glistening red wire gate. Some easy scrambling and another shorter classic abseil finally gained the foot of the crag.
Perhaps half an hour has now elapsed since the accident, as rescue and aid was already in progress. It was only now that we learned the full extent of what was an horrific accident, and that it involved at least four climbers including the man I had spoken to earlier during the climb. There was no mobile signal which was no surprise in this remote part of the Highlands. Someone had been dispatched to alert the Rescue, but that would take at least an hour. By now, people and helpers had materialised out of the mist and much was being done to assess and help evacuate the injured. It appeared that two teams on Cioch direct had been hit by the rockfall, and another pair had narrowly missed being hit by diving into a cave at the crag base.
“It was that big!” he exclaimed, indicating some shattered rocks nearby with his good hand.
After out gear had been stuffed in our sacs, we moved forward to help, and that was when I noticed this harrowing figure with heavily bandaged arm, staring at me with wild-looking eyes. I recognised him as the climber who I had watched belaying so carefully, but now his arm and shoulder were shattered, with smashed fingers poking out from under the dressing.
“It was that big!” he exclaimed, indicating some shattered rocks nearby with his good hand.
I turned round to look.
“No. Bigger than that! That big! It almost killed me! I must have jumped to the side.”
With that, he turned, supported by two rescuers, and hobbled off down the mountain towards Glen Brittle and Broadford hospital. In the press the following day, I noted that he was dubbed “The Ironman!” for his solo rescue and descent.
Fortunately, it now transpired that one of those helping with the injured was a casualty nurse from Bolton, and was best qualified to offer help and advice. Both climbing teams’ ropes had been shredded in the rockfall so other ropes were used to facilitate the rescue of the ‘Ironman’s’ female climbing partner, Carole (Cas), who had sustained head and serious back injuries. She was in considerable pain but eventually with the assistance of Bob and many other helping hands, she somehow safely negotiated the traumatic abseil descent to reach the foot of the crag.
Cas is carefully carried to the waiting helicopter
The plight of the other team above was unclear, but their injuries appeared even more serious, with a suspected shattered lower leg sustained by the male climber (Dirk), and unknown but serious internal injuries to his female partner, Tessa. We could only await the arrival of the rescue services and hoped it would be soon. I could do little so busied myself by taking a few photographs. As I ascended the ground below where the rockfall had occurred, I noted it bore some resemblance to a battlefield, with rocks shattered and pulverised by the impact of the avalanche and the ground much disturbed. A faint groaning emanated from somewhere high above. I felt very conscious of intruding into others suffering but tried to be unobtrusive as I went about my task. Over two hours has now elapsed since the horrific rockfall, when a red Coastguard helicopter appeared, closely hugging the cloud base, as it slowly moved towards us. There were now about fifteen people below the cliff and many raised their arms in the designated ‘V’ shape to confirm that assistance was required. Because of the likely risk of further rockfall, the helicopter hovered a safe distance away from the cliff as it deposited the first MRT amid the rocks and scree.
“The mood in the hut that evening was rather subdued when the silence was suddenly broken by someone shouting my name”
The first rescuer to arrive was team leader Gerry Ackroyd, who I quickly updated about the perceived condition of the casualties. His initial information from the police had suggested that a least six casualties, so it was some relief to learn that we now only had three injured at the scene. A handline had been rigged to help assist evacuating the walking wounded, so the MRT now availed themselves of this helpful aid, to reach the two stricken climbers high above. It was sometime about now that the second rescue helicopter, an RAF yellow Sea King from Kinloss materialised from out of the gloom, and deposited a second MRT down among the rocks. There was nothing else to be done, and with that, Bob and myself departed the tragic scene to return to the hut in Glen Brittle. We descended a little away from the great cliff and as I looked back, I could now distinguish two figures, one in a bright red bobble hat, in the bay below the chimney of Cioch Direct. Two of the rescue team administered first aid. With a heavy heart, I turned and descended the scree.
Cas is carefully hoisted into the helicopter
As we met up with the Coire Lagan track that descended from the Ridge, we encountered Steve, Kevin and Lou, who had aborted their traverse of the Ridge after encountering heavy wet snow and great difficulties at the TD gap, much more akin to winter climbing in this unseasonal summer. They had abandoned their attempt at the Inn Pin. The sun made a belated appearance as we traversed back alongside the sparkling lochan to Glen Brittle.
The mood in the hut that evening was rather subdued when the silence was suddenly broken by someone shouting my name....
“Sean Kelly! Sean Kelly!”
I looked up from reading and recognised Gerry Ackroyd from the rescue team. He had been informed that I had been climbing on the cliff, and was merely checking that everyone had been accounted for. We sat and conversed for a time and it now transpired that the woman climber, Tessa had sadly died at the scene. Surely, the dark mood could not get any worse.
Two days later, I returned with Bob to Sron na Ciche which was still festooned with shredded ropes, and completed our climb in mostly similar, cold damp weather. At the 'Piano' mantle where I had fussed about the lack of protection, there was a gleaming peg lurking just a little higher. We discovered on attaining the top, a crevasse-like terrace traversed the cliff. On the slab above were many perched blocks balanced precariously. Indeed, on the first ascent of Cioch Direct in 1907, there was a major rockfall here, as the route is a natural channel, so care was cautioned.
Over the succeeding weeks, I corresponded with both Dirk from his hospital bed in Capetown and Carole in Glasgow General, and gradually a fuller picture of what happened emerged. Dirk had pulled up on a large block the size of a freezer, when it toppled over. It hit him a glancing blow, but unfortunately his partner Tessa, took the full force, before the block shattered and some of these smaller rocks hit 'Ironman’ Mark, and Cas climbing below. Tessa had been conscious for more than an hour suffering quietly in great pain. Dirk tried to keep her talking but her head fell forward and she never spoke no more. She has suffered massive internal injuries. All three have spent lengthy spells in hospital, and Mark had fingers amputated. Cas forwarded a picture of her water bottle that had been crushed in her rucksack at the time. Her rucksack and water bottle fortuitously must have afforded some protection to her back. Interestingly, there is much proffered advice on UKC forums concerning making the ascent of Cioch Direct with a rucksack, as it seriously impedes progress in the difficult constricted chimney. More scans and physiotherapy lie ahead as their bodies slowly continue to mend. The mental scars will take a lot longer to heal.....
I myself have continued to climb.
Sean Kelly
