A tale of two weekends - ESTC goes to Braemar
March 2005
By Sarah Montgomery
My tale of two weekends is a story of one place and four seasons within seven days. It also involves a pair of new boots and 5000 sets of antlers. So let me begin…
*** part 1 **************************
The Braemar Telemark Festival has always appealed, and finally we made it – although we nearly didn't. It was quite a struggle getting there – highlights of the journey north included James frazzling his glow lamps corkscrewing up the Devil's Elbow after grinding to a sudden halt when a lorry blocked the road, and Alan Gilchrist being towed at 20mph by a tractor – backwards! However, the heavy snow falling on an established base raised our hopes, and when we got to our wooden cabins at the Braemar Lodge Hotel it all looked looked very promising indeed for the weekend to come. We cracked opened some beers, chomped on Cathie's pizza, and had a laugh and a vote for most miserable photo on our Tele Fest ID cards. (Martin's, if you want to know.)
So, it was all set for the next morning, with a full schedule of festival workshops and races awaiting us… however, so was a howling gale. We knew it was forecast, and had been just hoping that it might not happen. But David was driving north that morning and phoned to say he couldn't get through to Glenshee and was turning back, and a check on Ceefax told us there were 50mph winds and the ski centre was stormbound. So we hummed and hawed and did that British thing of drinking lots of tea, and in the end we just decided we couldn't sit in our cabins all day, lovely as they were, so went for a drive up the hill to see what it was like anyway. Not surprisingly, it was… windy. We went to the café at the ski centre and joined the huddle of Alan G, Tony from Tele-masters and the other instructors, and it didn't look like much was happening as the lifts were all closed, so we did some more humming and hawing, and in the end decided to cut our losses and go for a tour on a route that didn't look TOO dreadfully wind-blown.
We parked the cars on the Braemar side of the ski centre, and were reassured to find Aberdeen Mountain Rescue Team doing the same thing – perhaps we had the right idea, or if we didn't, at least we'd have some pretty reliable help at hand! Our crew comprised Martin, Tom, Clare S, Craig, James, Cathie, Tracey and me. We followed a line up Turkey Gully, below Carn Dubh, and actually found some pretty nice snow which took us up to a reasonable but not too hurricane-battered altitude. Craig gave Tracey and Cathie an impromptu ski tutorial, and the rest of us had fun playing about and practising our turns. After a couple of hours, we stopped for some lunch, but it was a rather chilly, spindrift-in-yer-hood experience, so once we'd played about some more and skied over a small cornice a few times, we packed up and headed off back towards the car, doing a bit of heather hopping in the lower reaches and taking off the skis just a short distance from the bottom. In that way that you do when you feel you've practically been to the Arctic and back in a few hours, we felt quite satisified after our wee tour, and we got back to the cars windblown but happy that we'd made the best of a not very promising day.
When we got back to Braemar, we had a quick cup of tea and then most of us headed out to The Shop – any self-respecting member will know the one I mean. There followed a fascinating pyschological study of The ESTC Ski Buyer, which held me in such rapt attention that I spent about an hour and a half there although I'd only gone in to buy a tube of skins glue for Caroline. Ski Buyer 1 was of the 'just tell me what I should get and I'll get it. But make sure you throw lots of things in free. And make it snappy, and Alan, stop distracting the shop staff, we’ve got a ceilidh to go to' variety. Ski Buyer 2, was of the 'tell me in detail about the different types of ski which might possibly be suitable, and let me ponder for rather a long time while I make up my mind. And Sarah, what do you think? And now I've made up my mind, finally. But oh, actually, I think I'll change it again. Shall I?' variety. Both came to equally satisfactory conclusions, fortunately.
The festival ceilidh on the Saturday night lived up to its promise. A torch-flame-lit procession was headed up by a pipe band, sparks flew in the wind and Mar Lodge glowed invitingly in the distance. As we arrived at our destination, there was a moment's disappointment for some of us realising the ceilidh was not taking place in the lodge itself, but as we stepped into what at first sight appeared to be a tin shack, we quickly realised we were in a magnificent (or grotesque, depending on your point of view) hall, festooned with antlers in absolutely every direction, a staggering sight. They say there are about 5000 pairs, and we were challenged to spot the single sheep's skull, but none of us found it. The hall was jam-packed with people of all ages, and we were a bit worried there wasn't going to be enough food, but we stuffed ourselves with venison, fine cheeses and puddings galore, until we totally immobilised ourselves just in time for the dancing. But Clachan Yell turned out to be a brilliant band, and they got everyone on their feet, with even Tony deciding he could dance and actually enjoy it. Perhaps the oddest part of the evening (apart from Alan wearing kilt and thick Norwegian sweater and not expiring with the heat) was every half hour or so when two young Swiss telemarkers invited groups of people together to repeat a little series of words, take a sniff of snuff, and then hit each other on the head. (All very bizarre, but if you want to know more about this Clare is the person to ask!)
The next day went pretty much to plan. We met up with the other teleskiers at Glenshee, assigned ourselves to instructors, and got taken out for a 'workshop', which was basically a lesson on piste. Excruciatingly, our first run, when our instructors were sizing us up, was down a horrid, thin, icy slope. I almost fell down a hole which wasn't there, through sheer embarrassment, and definitely felt like I was in the wrong group and how could I ever think I could do a tele turn? But it got much better after that. We found some fantastic snow, we picked up some good tips on making sure we could see our hands, stamping out imaginary cigarette butts… and NOT taking a rucksack suitable for a three-day tour on a morning's piste-bashing!… and we started linking the turns. We had a good laugh as we spotted Alan's group, which included Tracey, and told them to treat each other gently, and then Tom left us at one point to take part in the Exodus race which had been postponed from Saturday, and achieved his target of not coming last. In the afternoon we carried on skiing and had a wonderful time until the winds got too strong again, the temples began numb with cold, and the small bumps on the Coire Fionn tow started to become of Himalayan proportions and totally invisible in the spindrift. We bumped into Mark Thomasson and his daughter, and all agreed it had been a really good day.
But that's not quite the end of part one of my story. James and I were driving on to Aberdeen that night, so we stopped off in Braemar on the way back north from Glenshee. It was six o'clock, the shop was very quiet, and Colin was in relaxed mood and plying cups of coffee. He remarked on the fact that it was nice to see someone still wearing leather ski boots, so that was my cue to say "Well, actually…." An hour, lots of measuring, and some thermal thingummyjigging later, I left the shop with a pair of T2s. Lovely blue ones.
*** part 2 **********************
In five days our little bit of world can certainly change. Sunday's storms turned into the week's rains, soaring temperatures and continuing strong winds. As Jim and I drove once more over the Devil's Elbow on a Friday night, it seemed scarcely believable that just a week earlier we'd been fighting to get up that hill, and wondering whether we would ever make it. It was almost dark, but even in the gloom we could see that the hills had been completely stripped of their lovely white blanket, and Glenshee was a sad sight. We arrived at Muir of Inverey a little doleful, but were cheered by the sight of Geoff and Jayne and a warm and welcoming hut, and were soon immersed in a happy hubbub of chat, gossip and plans for the coming day.
We had come with plans afoot, courtesy of Colin and the boot-buying session. He'd told us that the gullies of Bheinn a Bhuird were the place to look for durable snow cover, so with this in mind we'd brought bikes and wellies, and the next morning we left with Martin and Cathie and set off up the hill. Colin had given us some advice about how to carry our skis on our bikes, but in practice we each devised our own unique ski transportation method and the only unifying factor seemed to be that we all found it bloomin' hard work. My skis ended up in the traditional 'v' on the rucksack and threatened to hoick me off my bike every time I went under a low branch, while Cathie had hers horizontally and threatened to chop in half any passing walkers. The guys, predictably, devised complicated systems with ropes and bungees that took hours to put together but were actually annoyingly far more practical and offered less threat of death. Apart from low-lying branches, our main obstacle on the four miles of track was a river crossing. Cathie evidently has feet and lower legs of iron and crossed the freezing clear green snow-melt in a pair of flimsy trainers, but the rest of us resorted to the softie option and changed into nice big pairs of gumboots, which I have to say felt like 5 star luxury and is to be highly recommended.
I haven't mentioned the weather so far, but I should have added that it was far too warm that morning to be doing things like cycling up hill tracks with rucksacks, skis, ski boots and wellies on your back (if not warm enough to make glacial rivers a temptation). In fact I was almost dead by the time we flopped in a sweaty heap under some trees and dumped the bikes, and the idea of there being any snow anywhere at all seemed quite absurd. However, once we started walking further up the gully, a broad flank came into sight, absolutely on cue, and what an encouragingly white sight it was. I'd put on my new ski boots by this time, and was very preoccupied by what they were feeling like and whether I should do up this buckle or that buckle, and what about the power strap? Or should I leave them all totally loose, or have them just a bit tight? In the end I let them all run loose, but you live and learn and by the time we got to the top of the col my heels were blistered and my ankle bone was raw. Ouch!
It had been quite a slog up the hill, but I gradually began to forget the pain as we traversed the top for a distance, and then found the second gully we'd been looking for. A broad top led to a narrower middle section, and then invited us further down the hill. And what fantastic snow awaited us! The very best of the spring stuff, so flattering (or maybe it was the T2s), so lovely, and in sunshine too! We whooped and shrieked our way down, and when we got to the bottom there was no question, we just had to head back up for more. Another plod, a bit of a panic when Cathie's binding came apart, but a quick fix and we got to the top of the first gully again. Another brilliant ski down, in snow that felt like velvet, with the sun just beginning to dip beyond the horizon and bring a peachy glow to the landscape. Quite beautiful, wonderful, one of those special days.
We walked the last part down to the bikes, and I sat back on the saddle with some relief. It was getting late and very dark, and I didn't have time to start doing creative things with bungees and string, so I stashed the skis on my rucksack again, and hurtled off down the track. I was acutely aware that my head was very close to the 'v' of the skis and became paranoid that my ear was going to get chopped off by a metal edge as I hurtled rather too quickly into a pothole or had an encounter with a passing pine tree, but it's amazing what you can see by moonlight, and as long as Cathie steered a straight line in front so did I. We got back to Muir of Inverey at 7.45 and the hut was full of people eagerly awaiting the annual dinner. It was a merry occasion with fine pheasant, good wine and cheery company, and it wasn't long before I collapsed in a heap in front of the fire.
The next morning I planned to take my boots back to the shop and get the inners remoulded – I'd known I needed to do this, so wasn't surprised they'd given me problems – but I wasn't feeling at all well so I decided to take the morning easy and sat outside in the sun for a very agreeable hour or two. The hut custodian dropped by and told me all about how they'd got lots of grant to do the hut up, and how the official opening was in a few days' time, and I have to say it did look fantastic and the kitchen in particular is much improved.
Although I still wasn't feeling very energetic, I got on my bike, and peddled off to the Linn of Dee. I pushed on along the north side of the river, towards the Invercauld Estate and off road, and despite my reluctant start began to feel my enthusiasm returning as I absorbed the beauty of the day and the landscape. I bumped in to Geoff and Jayne, who were heading in the other direction, and they warned me to avoid the puddles ahead as they were all full of frogspawn. Heeding this advice, I carried on and enjoyed a wonderful ride through a landscape of old and newer pines and birches, went up past the imposing outline of Invercauld House itself, and came out at the lovely old Brig O'Dee. A quick scoot down the road to Braemar, and I celebrated the uncanny warmth of the day with an ice cream, marvelling again that just a week before I'd been frozen to the core in a ferocious Arctic wind. The ride back to Muir of Inverey was quiet and very pretty, and I stopped to take photographs and absorb the views of the river and the hills unfolding. It had been another memorable weekend.
Sarah Montgomery