Something
Stoer’ed by Brian Mattock, July 2003
“Patey you sandbagging bastard”
was the thought and maybe even said as I wobbled toward the top of the “crack
up the left of the slab”. Slab! Hewitt you moron, it’s a
vertical wall, and the only use for his guide was emergency toilet paper. I
teetered over the crux on the Old Man of Stoer and relaxed a little when I saw
where the brilliant bit of route finding went next. Okay Patey you were a
‘talented sandbagging bastard’.
It had
started on the Friday evening two days before; ‘Who’ fans will be pleased to
know that it was the 5:15 train to Lichfield, back to John’s, final sort of
the car and a three hour bash up the M6 to Peter Calvert, my ex landlord from
Newcastle days, in Brampton (Carlisle). It was late but we had brought tequila
and Peter had glasses. I mean how much sophistication do you want. A brilliant
evening chasing the worm, Alabama 3 and Sisters of Mercy led to bed and
oblivion.
Up Saturday
and some joys of Borders driving after some speed testing on the old A74; a Ford
Mundane estate ‘two up’ with gear and surprisingly mild hangovers will do
125 – its official. I think Gav’s still got the PB at 130 with top down;
that’s if we don’t count what our bikes did when we discovered this
delectably neglected bit of highway. Fun up and over the A9 and A86 to the
rendezvous at the Altguish when it all becomes apparent that the Rannoch meet
has derailed big time. Only highlight of Altguish was sight of a couple cruising
south on a Honda Goldwing with the bike on the cranked over on the footpegs and
the stereo on max, bags of style - go for it dudes…
Onto
Harbour Inn in Ullapool where everyone starts to appear and the stories unfold.
A great place, great staff, great food and the team all led to a great evening.
The bullshit flowed and John and I found ourselves getting into conversations
about the Old Man of Stoer. No one said bad things and it just goes to show how
selective memories can be – ya bastards.
The quiet
reunion at the breakfast table in the morning speaks volumes of alcohol consumed
the night before. John and I were not too bad but we noticed Big Al and Tim slip
away from the table after being faced down by their fry up.
Goodbyes
said, we headed North. The car park by the lighthouse was like parking in
London. Jesus how many teams are doing a sponsored climb – are they going for
a record on the summit? Fears were groundless as we walked in to find one team
about to start the terror-lean traverse. The sea was calm the weather perfect
not too hot – bugger we had no excuses left.
The first
omission from the Ken Howcrap guide book was found, the descent is from hell. I
think I’d rather do Tree Mud Rock (Tremadog) in the dark on a skateboard in
the rain. In fact doing this descent in the dark would be better so that you
could not see just how far you were going to go. But no one had tampered with
our stupid optimism and we made it. The two young punks starting the route (hmmmm
they seemed to have bother with that easy 4a first pitch traverse…) let us use
their rope. We thought we were cheating a bit but figured that when they had
finished and packed up we would have to swim back so... Kitted up I launched out
over the sea and promptly got my arse wet as the combination on incoming tide
and rope stretch dunked me – bugger! I rip across the rope faster than Bruce
Lee in an effort not to get any wetter. The sack is next to come across with
John’s shirt in it as he gets smart. He’s feeling a bit smug as he’s
lighter - but not light enough and
so he enjoys a cold bum wash as well. Hah!
Safety on
the island we up and launch out on the easy traverse after nearly launching Ken
‘Howhard is it to write a guide’ in the sea. He includes a climbing picture
of climbing on the Old Man but eventually we work out it is some other random
route. Anyway first pitch; ‘easy traverse’ my arse, I wobble up a tough move
on full reach to get a jam and a ‘friend 4’. Then a scuttle left and bring
John across. He teeters round and tries to follow the ‘tall mans’ way but
can only get his finger tips on the salt encrusted sandstone. Waaghh! He’s off
and anticipates an early bath. The ‘friend’ holds and he works out the
‘small man’s’ way lower down – so much for 4a.
John’s a
bit detuned and starts to get mugged by the overhanging jam crack at the start
of pitch two. It’s not good and the ‘Old Man’ is giving us a good
slapping. I finally show it my Higgar Tor gritstone jamming pass and it gives
way, we’re finally on the route. Ken ‘No witt’s’ guide would be more use
as a Woolworths shopping guide as we basically work out the way up as Patey
would have done. Then comes that crux – we really are in respect of it now.
Then the marvellous rising spiral traverse – like climbing a double DNA helix
around it an insane position on the overhanging North face. You think that the
whole stack should just tip into the Atlantic and you’ll be the first thing
that hits the sea. A final VS crack lands up to an easy finish on the summit wow
we’ve done it, but to get down? A full 150 ft ab leads to an earlier terrace
followed by a traverse onto an abseil off a ledge of very very old pegs –
eek!. We’re both down and relieved now all we have to do is swim the
Atlantic! It’s kit off, everything in the rucksack and launch across wearing
nothing but a rope. I’m so cranked I’m sure my shoulders don’t even get
wet as I maniacally breast stroke across. The rock on the land side feels safe,
warm, safe, friendly, and safe. We haul the sac across both pulling to keep it
out the water; we make it - just. John swims over, like me, wasting no time to
admire the view from the sea. We’ve made it…
The day is finished by a meal at Lochinver
in the biggest, weirdest hotel this side of the Munster’s film. You know its
where American teenage horror films are done – or should be. We carry on South
in time for a bun in Achiltibuie and no room at the inn. Never mind, we get the
big Ford Mundane organised on the beach and watch the Summer Isles in the
midnight light with a brew in one hand and a single malt in the other; even the
midges stayed away. Does it get any better than this – I don’t think so.
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