Dave Felce is a member of the Glenmore Lodge Office Team. You may well speak to Dave when you pick the phone up to chat. Dave wrote this article more than 20 years ago. But who would know. The timeless nature of this account of a truly inspiring ski tour adventure in the Cairngorms shows us all the power and impact of backcountry skiing in Scotland. Alas, the images are a bit more recent!
Over to Dave....
"This is not extreme ski; it probably wouldn’t rate much more than an easy red in most resorts. But this isn’t most resorts. It’s no resort at all. There are no queues; there are no lifts to queue for and this certainly isn’t a groomed and manicured piste.
This is the much sought after Tailor’s Burn descent from Ben Macdui in the Scottish Cairngorms. The only way to get here (short of a handy helicopter) is an eight kilometre trek from Glenmore, near Aviemore, or an even longer journey from Mar Lodge on the Braemar side. Carry your skis in, or learn the subtle power of the cross-country skier’s diagonal stride. Your choice. Except it probably isn’t, as conditions are rarely perfect. Prepare yourself for a lot of both, just in case.
Oh, by the way; I forgot to mention the climb of over 600m from the valley. Unavoidable, whichever approach you choose. Axe and crampons useful. Good here innit?
Why, in fact, be here anyway? Because this is it; this is the mountain experience that all skiers secretly yearn for, but relatively few have the good fortune to realise. From my position on the corrugated, wind-sculpted surface of the plateau, superlatives are lost trying to cope with the awesome beauty and dramatic grandeur of my surroundings.
Across the imposing valley of the Lairig Ghru, into which I will shortly begin my descent, a series of craggy snow bowls breaks the line of another ridge of immaculate, blue-white summits. You just know that there’s no-one else out there. The mind constructs a climb here, a descent there; peak after peak of un-skied snow. Hey, you could play here for a long time! In the far distance a succession of glinting peaks gives magnitude to the view. In all probability I can see clear to the Nevis range, on the West Coast. This is the stuff of dreams….
Of course, it’s not always like this. Yesterday, for instance, I skied two and a half hours into the teeth of a howling gale. Frequently blown over, battered and chilled, my clothing stiff and my face drawn into a rictus with the intensity of my efforts. And all for around four kilometres of progress, visibility varying from ten metres to zero, my companion’s blue jacket the only flash of colour in an otherwise relentless hail of spindrift, snow and drizzle.
Garbh Coire bothy, shown on the map as an ‘emergency bivouac’, was not the sort of place you’d want to linger, even in less testing conditions. Little more than a garden shed, it took several minutes of determined snow-shovelling before we could pry the rickety door open enough to squeeze in. A thick layer of snow carpeted the floor and gusts of spindrift whistled through the numerous gaps in the insubstantial planking. Barely room for four, even at a pinch. Some good Samaritan had left a dusty miniature of scotch on a grubby shelf; we grinned at each other and left it intact. Anyone forced to stop here would have need of it.
A break-neck return with a following wind, but no improvement in conditions or visibility, saw us back at Corrour Bothy in about forty minutes flat. Bruised, pummelled and eyes raw from peering into the gloom, we were pleased to find our more sedentary companions had a pan of hot water ready for a brew. After four days of unremittingly harsh weather, conversation naturally turned to thoughts of a tactical retreat on the ‘morrow. Not that this was a particularly appealing prospect, either.
Which brings us to this morning. My initial foray outside the sleeping bag was purely limited to firing up the stove and brewing tea. Fortunately, cunning design ensured that only my fingertips were exposed to the chill of the hut during this operation. A quick glimpse towards the grey light of the window was enough to convince me that the trudge out to Mar Lodge roadhead was the only possible prospect. A few more minutes dozing before breakfast….
‘Hey chaps you’ve got to come and see this!’ Roger was outside the bothy in a frenzy of photographic excitement.
e wasn’t kidding. Gone were the mists of earlier, the entire valley bathed in the golden light of a perfect winter dawn. The summit of Ben Macdui glistened enticingly, set against an azure sky. This was what we came for; it just had to be done.
The climb from the hut was not without interest. Twinkling reflections had hinted at ice, and I was not mistaken. A little over one third of the ascent covered and the angle of the slope was to great to be attacked directly on skis, even with the grippy climbing skins (like giant strips of Velcro) affixed. I resorted to a combination of edging and giant, diagonal traverse lines, backwards and forwards across the gradient. Hot, sweaty work, and not especially pleasurable. Finally, there was nothing for it but to shoulder the skis and kick steps for the remainder of the climb. Not for the first time I thought ruefully of my harscheisen and crampons, left at the bothy in the interests of saving weight….
The summit was awash with sunlight and, better still, deserted. To the North one could discern the early parties approaching from Glenmore, but for the moment the mountain was ours, alone. A moment for quiet contemplation in this fantastic realm of white and blue.
But not for long. On with the skis again and a short traverse along a broad ridge to the South-East. Dodging ice-rimmed boulders; edges clattering for purchase where unrelenting gales have stripped the rock bare of snow.
So now I stand, poised on that ill-defined boundary between ridge and slope; viewing, not without some trepidation, the magnificent sweep of the snow bowl which constitutes the entry to my planned descent. It is actually surprisingly easy. I swing my upper body to the right, the tips of the skis veer downwards and the first tentative turn carries me in a broad arc across the fall-line. Looking upwards towards the summit, a corniced lip, almost the length of the ridge, presents an interesting prospect for the more daring. Rather you than me!
This is just so nice. The snow is, if anything, better than the best piste you’ve ever skied. And there are no other tracks. These are the first turns that anyone has carved on this pristine, crystalline carpet. Planting the pole and edging to a gentle halt, I’m torn between conflicting desires. It’s tempting to just point the skis downhill and go for it, in a thrilling rush of scudding edges, chattering tips a decisive dabs with the poles. But it’s too good to waste. I never want it to finish.
I compromise with a series of wide, linked turns, revelling in an increasing fluidity I never knew I possessed. The only sound is the bite of metal edges scuffing through the surface. That, and my breathing; chest thumping with excitement as the bowl funnels into the burn proper.
And funnel it certainly does. Slowly at first, then more perceptibly, the angle steepens and the walls of the burn encroach threateningly, forcing shorter, tighter turns. Faster, knees flexing to absorb the bumps; each turn sending a spray of sugary crystals skyward. Where will it end? Surely at some point I’ll run out of skiable snow? But not just yet. The gully narrows to a gun-barrel, wind-blown edges nearly joined into a full tube high above my head. This is truly exhilarating, absorbing skiing.
I become aware of the shadowy forms of skeletal heather, fleetingly tugging at my clothing on either side and, just as suddenly, I’m out…. On to the broad heather and rock-strewn slopes leading gently down to my base on the valley floor.
As I pause, blinking, in the bright sunlight, I take a last glance back up the improbable line of my run; before carefully picking my way between the boulders and heather roots to the welcoming sanctuary of the bothy".
Truly a day to remember.