THE C.U.M.C. meet on Nevis was nearly over when Mike Pybus and I decided to climb Gardyloo Gully. Gardyloo is one of the steepest of the Ben’s gullies, and in summer forms a rock climb of great severity. However, in winter, when filled in with ice and snow, its character is greatly changed and it provides two unique features, namely, a large chockstone under which it may be possible to pass by means of an ice tunnel; and above this, in most winters, an overhanging ice bulge, the difficulty of which changes from day to day, it being a relatively easy ice problem one day and an impasse the next.
We made a late start, and it was noon before Mite and I had left the S.M.C. hut in the Alt a’ Mhuilin glen. The other party of three had set off up a climb on the Trident. Observatory Gully was icy, and although a party had been up it only three days previously, fresh steps had to be cut. At the foot of Gardyloo Gully we decided to rope up, but through careless handling the coil of rope was dropped and went careering down Observatory Gully. I started off after it and glissaded to the bottom without seeing it. Having descended fifteen hundred feet already, I thought I might as well go on down to the hut and collect .html rope. In climbing up to the foot of Gardyloo for the second time I found the first rope, lodged out of sight in an avalanche runnel. Mite, meanwhile, had been laboriously cutting steps up Gardyloo. We roped up and ascended slowly as the snow was ice-hard and only the pick of the axe made any impression on it. As we reached the small snow platform below the tunnel we both remarked that it would make quite a reasonable place for a night out, little knowing how narrowly we were to escape such a fate. The tunnel, being fairly free of snow, was passed through easily. Seventy feet beyond, we were under the notorious ice-bulge – twenty-five feet high, greenish- black, overhanging and bearded with icicles. On either side the walls of the gully rose precipitous and ice-bound. Mist swirled in the gully., making it appear an enormous vertical funnel of ice. Every now and then through a gap in the mist the slopes of Carn Mor Dearg opposite loomed up eerily. The ice-bulge is only a hundred and twenty feet from the summit, and the other party, when they reached the top, bellowed abuse and exhortations down into our gully. We replied in like manner.
Mike began the attack on the ice-bulge from the side, with vigour. He used the piton hammer to good effect, but subjected myself to a barrage of heavy blocks of ice, which was not over soothing to my temper. He climbed eight feet up the side of the bulge and then moved out on to its overhanging face. Twelve feet up, his foot, which had developed a distracting clonus, started to slip on the ice and only a rapid withdrawal prevented disaster. After that we took it in turns to hack holds on the bulge, but the going was very difficult as hand- holds in overhanging ice are hard to use and one’s hands rapidly become numb. We managed, however, to reach. a point from which we could see over the top of the bulge, but suddenly we became aware of approaching darkness. We did not have a watch with us, but we must have spent four hours battering at the bulge. We were faced with making the decision between forcing the bulge, after which a formidable cornice would have to be tunnelled, and retracing our steps down steep ice slopes in the dark without a torch. Disappointed, we decided to retreat. We ate some chocolate, our first meal for twelve hours, and descended as fast as possible in the murky gloom, each man leading through in two-hundred foot pitches. A storm was coming up and cascades of surface snow had filled up our steps cut on the ascent. Once, when I was the full length of the rope below Mike, I heard a clattering sound and saw him careering down the gully attempting to dig the pick of his axe into ice. I prepared myself for the shock. When he was about level with me, Mike succeeded in jamming himself across an avalanche runnel. This was fortunate as there was a nasty drop over a rock face below us. This episode made us continue with greater caution; but searching for hidden steps while descending on ice, in the dark, is tedious and exhausting and is always fraught with danger.
It was approaching midnight by now and we could faintly hear the others calling from Coire Leas fifteen hundred feet below. They had descended to the hut, and 6nding us still out, had waited for some time and then set out as a search party’. Our progress by now was very slow, as we were bitterly cold and the strain of our method of progression was telling. My thoughts concentrated on how we should fare for the rest of the night roped to our axes on the ice slope. The prospect was unsavoury in the extreme. Then I heard Gordon Donaldson yelling in the corrie below. Soon we were able to make out his " Will o’ the Wisp" headlamp, coming up the slope at an inhuman pace. In due course he reached us, complete with rucksack containing splints, bandages and rum. Only the last of these was utilised. After this we descended rapidly, in comparison with our previous .rate, as we were guided by Gordon’s headlamp, while ’he himself stood out on the ice- slope and pranced about on tricounis, chamois-fashion, All the time the wind was getting fiercer and a blizzard threatened. Once a mighty roar from the black precipices above us momentarily struck terror into our hearts. Various oaths were uttered as we realised that part of the cornice had avalanched. Fortunately only a few hundredweight of frozen debris came shooting down the gully and caused no harm.
We descended, without sense of time, till I saw a black mass looming up below me. The same mass was blaspheming vigorously ’and demanding that vast quantities of the rum be poured down an expiring throat. It was Rick, who duly drank the remainder of the precious beverage. He and John had been digging large steps for us so that the lower part of Observatory Gully was rapidly descended. Once back in the S.M.C. hut a good brew of stew and " Mummery’s Blood " brought back a sense of gastronomic security. Lying in my bunk, warm and replete with stew, I listened to the wind shrieking down the frozen gullies and round the crags and wondered just what it was like up there. I did not worry for long.
Moral? Take a torch as there is not always a yodelling mountain dervish with one to help you. [Thoughtful readers may discover others. – Ed.]