26th April 2011 - Ben Toaig 100km triangle
The day of the highest scoring UK paragliding xc league flights ever for a 92km declared triangle (Mike Cavanagh and Richard Westgate) and the first 100km FAI triangle in the UK by paraglider (me).
But more than that ... what a day!
But more than that ... what a day!
Commiserations to Trias who was so close.
Mike Cavanagh's fantastic pics of the same day are here.
EDIT: The rather long three-way account of the day which didn't make it into Skywings magazine is here
25th April 2011 - Creag a' Chliabhain near Loch Ness to Forfar
a crossing of the monadh liath and the cairngorms...
"do you know any take offs down the farr valley?"
"no"
"going there would put us upwind of the best area according to RASP"
"big crossing to aviemore to start... could be tricky"
"with a forecast this good I think we should take our brains out and just go for it"
"let's go for a look anyway"
slideshow is here
the jewel of Lochan na Gabar in one of the NE coires of Ben Avon
Couldn't resist
Another spring and another dip into the second hand market for a flying toy and 125km for its first flight. What is more it is even nicer to fly than the R09. What a machine!
The flight itself was very straightforward with weak climbs and smooth glides allowing a gentle downwind bimble over the flatlands from our take off at Wether Fell in the Yorkshire dales. It was fun to fly with other gliders all the way - something we rarely get to do in Scottish flying.
I fear I may have done less than my share of the work in our gaggle of four that stuck together until the last few km (ok, ok I pimped horrendously for at least half the flight). This was partly due to the performance advantage and partly due to not being sure of the airspace and needing to stick with others. But it was also because I have done very little in the way of flatland gaggle flying and wanted to see how it worked. The pilot I landed with said later, "I much prefer flying on my own". Haha!
touch down in North Cave in the same field as Dean C
all the lines ... there seem to be a few missing from this glider?
A day out with phil - December 1996? 1997?
“mnnnnn.... i wonder if this is going to hold.....”, I looked at the combination of axes suspiciously, one wedged across the off width crack, pick touching one side and adze the other, cammed by layback pressure on the shaft and then pulled up on the other one hooked over the top. “It worked!....... don’t want to have to do that again”.
Delicately, I transferred out onto the face balancing on a single crampon point for each foot before a further move up allowed a scuttle back into frightened tortoise mode; most of my body was stuffed into the crack. What a game! Phil and I had been summer climbing for a few years together but this was our first proper winter season.
A moment to rest and the chance to look around; above the granite fissure soared vertically into the ghostly gloom. Every surface was plastered an inch thick with jumbo-flaked hoar frost. What a place! Below the dark grey furrow cleared by my labours led down a thirty metre snail trail to the new snow lying deep on the steep slope at the bottom of the crag. I traced the cautious line of our approach around the margin of the coire. All around the wind howled on this wildest of days - although protected from the main blast there were still updrafts strong enough to blow the ropes upwards at times.
Looking straight down through eyes slitted by snow freezing up on my lashes, I could see a distant phil absorbed in his own space; head down, hood up. He was doing the belay shuffle, concentrating on maintaining warmth but attentive as ever to the slack in the rope. The wait was even more uncomfortable as one of his large over-mitt gloves had blown away into the whiteness as we were gearing up. I had given him the option to can the day but he had refused. I grinned at his suffering with the selfishness of the leader; my turn on the cold end of the ropes would come soon enough. “Better keep moving”, I thought and turned back to the problem of the next move.
The hot aches hit phil just below my belay ledge as his frozen hand came back to life after almost a whole pitch of exercise; I had made him wait for quite a while. After a few minutes with his hand stuffed inside my jacket under my armpit his nausea gradually eased.
With slightly less than his normal good humour and mutterings about spare gloves he set off up the second pitch, re-inventing as he went the required vocabulary of winter rock: torques, hooks and even a can opener. The way looked steep and just as tricky as the first pitch but I felt content after my efforts; happy to hand over the responsibility of the lead and confident in phil’s ability to find gear and his strength, much greater than mine, to hang on in the most awkward of situations. After an hour and more it was my turn to ease out the creeping cold from my muscles, dismantle the belay and move upwards once more towards a finish unseen in the luminous whiteness above. Following the comforting tugs of the ropes I climbed fast and loose now, no enjoyment of the moves, ripping the gear from the rock; just the need to get up, get out.
At the summit I joined phil in the full fury of the storm. Neither of us fancied a second trip across the loaded snow slopes below so we declined the abseil and made our way across the plateau and down the shoulder. At times we had to lie down and front point to make progress. We checked later via the summit weather station and for the hour we arrived at the top the average was 88 mph with gusts of 98mph. You could breathe in just by opening your mouth slightly. What a day!
The day has three more snapshots in my mind. The first is the incredible down-going wave that we experienced on the walk out on the lee side of the mountain range which knocked us off our feet as the gusts went from 30 to 100mph in an endless battering - each surge arriving as noisy as a freight train. I have never again experienced anything like it. We were knocked off our feet 20 times as we slogged the deep snow and teetered the boulder fields along the coire floor until we got back to lower ground.
The second is the glory of a shared hot chocolate on our return to civilisation. The transformation of simple things after efforts in the hills is a big part of what takes us there - the rediscovered ability to taste life afresh.
And finally, 18 or 19 hours into our day, a small thud from the front of the car as a broken fan belt punched a hole in the radiator only 15 motorway miles from home. The temperature on the dash rose briefly and then dropped back to normal as there was no longer any water passing the temperature sensor. Phil looked over to me quizzically. I gently urged him on, “we’re nearly home, it’ll be alright”. Five miles later the engine seized.
So what of this as a tribute to phil? Not enough of him as a person is painted here but it is good right now to think back to the old adventures. I’ve never known a more generous, genuine and willing person.
Delicately, I transferred out onto the face balancing on a single crampon point for each foot before a further move up allowed a scuttle back into frightened tortoise mode; most of my body was stuffed into the crack. What a game! Phil and I had been summer climbing for a few years together but this was our first proper winter season.
A moment to rest and the chance to look around; above the granite fissure soared vertically into the ghostly gloom. Every surface was plastered an inch thick with jumbo-flaked hoar frost. What a place! Below the dark grey furrow cleared by my labours led down a thirty metre snail trail to the new snow lying deep on the steep slope at the bottom of the crag. I traced the cautious line of our approach around the margin of the coire. All around the wind howled on this wildest of days - although protected from the main blast there were still updrafts strong enough to blow the ropes upwards at times.
Looking straight down through eyes slitted by snow freezing up on my lashes, I could see a distant phil absorbed in his own space; head down, hood up. He was doing the belay shuffle, concentrating on maintaining warmth but attentive as ever to the slack in the rope. The wait was even more uncomfortable as one of his large over-mitt gloves had blown away into the whiteness as we were gearing up. I had given him the option to can the day but he had refused. I grinned at his suffering with the selfishness of the leader; my turn on the cold end of the ropes would come soon enough. “Better keep moving”, I thought and turned back to the problem of the next move.
The hot aches hit phil just below my belay ledge as his frozen hand came back to life after almost a whole pitch of exercise; I had made him wait for quite a while. After a few minutes with his hand stuffed inside my jacket under my armpit his nausea gradually eased.
With slightly less than his normal good humour and mutterings about spare gloves he set off up the second pitch, re-inventing as he went the required vocabulary of winter rock: torques, hooks and even a can opener. The way looked steep and just as tricky as the first pitch but I felt content after my efforts; happy to hand over the responsibility of the lead and confident in phil’s ability to find gear and his strength, much greater than mine, to hang on in the most awkward of situations. After an hour and more it was my turn to ease out the creeping cold from my muscles, dismantle the belay and move upwards once more towards a finish unseen in the luminous whiteness above. Following the comforting tugs of the ropes I climbed fast and loose now, no enjoyment of the moves, ripping the gear from the rock; just the need to get up, get out.
At the summit I joined phil in the full fury of the storm. Neither of us fancied a second trip across the loaded snow slopes below so we declined the abseil and made our way across the plateau and down the shoulder. At times we had to lie down and front point to make progress. We checked later via the summit weather station and for the hour we arrived at the top the average was 88 mph with gusts of 98mph. You could breathe in just by opening your mouth slightly. What a day!
The day has three more snapshots in my mind. The first is the incredible down-going wave that we experienced on the walk out on the lee side of the mountain range which knocked us off our feet as the gusts went from 30 to 100mph in an endless battering - each surge arriving as noisy as a freight train. I have never again experienced anything like it. We were knocked off our feet 20 times as we slogged the deep snow and teetered the boulder fields along the coire floor until we got back to lower ground.
The second is the glory of a shared hot chocolate on our return to civilisation. The transformation of simple things after efforts in the hills is a big part of what takes us there - the rediscovered ability to taste life afresh.
And finally, 18 or 19 hours into our day, a small thud from the front of the car as a broken fan belt punched a hole in the radiator only 15 motorway miles from home. The temperature on the dash rose briefly and then dropped back to normal as there was no longer any water passing the temperature sensor. Phil looked over to me quizzically. I gently urged him on, “we’re nearly home, it’ll be alright”. Five miles later the engine seized.
So what of this as a tribute to phil? Not enough of him as a person is painted here but it is good right now to think back to the old adventures. I’ve never known a more generous, genuine and willing person.
Maybe I’ll squeeze into dusty old rock boots and go back to that climb in summer.
As for winter, I will always remember it as it was.
As for winter, I will always remember it as it was.
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