Alladin's Couloir

.

It was one of those mornings where getting out of bed seems like an almost impossible task. I was warm and comfortable and still half asleep. "It’s still dark." I said to myself. "Only postmen and cat-burglars get up in the dark." What’s more, it was unpleasantly cold outside of the duvet. I thought about the freezing run to the shower over cold floorboards. I thought about the unholy, shivering purgatory of drying myself in the arctic chill of my unheated bathroom.
The day’s planned activities had entirely lost their attractive glamour of the night before, when I had been discussing them with Scott. I toyed with idea of phoning him, but what could I say? "I’m sorry Scott, I know I was all bristling machismo and reckless bravado last night, but now that I’m all cosy under my TOG 24 duvet and its slightly chilly in my flat, I don’t want to go extreme snowboarding anymore." Hmmm. It sounded pretty damn feeble, even to me, and would undoubtedly elicit the withering contempt one of Scott’s infamous raised eyebrows. Should that eyebrow be accompanied by the offer of a half of shandy or some kind of fruity cocktail… well, the shame would eat into me for months.
No, I would just have to grit my teeth and brave the elements. Just leap out of bed and jump in the shower. Get it over and done with. No time like the present… Come on, like ripping off a plaster… Although, if I don’t brush my teeth that will give me another two minutes in bed…
By the time Scott had arrived, I had somehow dragged myself vertical, ingested a quantity of Shreddies that would have killed a lesser man, sucked up a pint of coffee and presented myself on my doorstep with a hastily gathered collection of sports equipment. Scott slotted my snowboard into the roof-rack and turfed my pack into the boot of his rusty old Volkswagen. Soon we were rumbling up the A9 on the way to Aviemore – his skis and my board humming musically in the slipstream above us.
I was awake now, slowly coming to consciousness as the dawn broke over Fife, and I felt a renewed enthusiasm for our venture. The plan was to ride Aladdin’s Couloir in Coire an t’Sneachda in the Northern Corries of the Cairngorms. A steep, sinuous gully which often holds a good thickness of snow, we felt it would be a great descent on skis or board. Many years ago, it had been one of the first winter climbs I had ever done. It occurred to me belatedly that Aladdin’s was a popular route for many novice winter climbers and that this may cause us problems. Trying to ride down a route that somebody was trying to come up would not be fun – I didn’t fancy trying to ollie someone’s climbing rope halfway down an extremely steep descent like Alladin’s Couloir.
By the time we arrived at the car-park at Cairngorm Ski Resort, the morning had blossomed into a bright, sunny day. A few heavy white and grey clouds hung in the blue sky, suggesting that the weather could go either way, but we chose to be optimistic and threw on our rucksacks enthusiastically, eager to get onto the mountain and away from the ski-lifts.
We took the well trodden path that heads west to the Northern Corries. Quite soon, however, we left the path and headed up the Fiachaill ridge, which forms the eastern side of Coire an t’Sneachda. This corrie, unlike its neighbour Coire an Lochain, lies hidden on the approach until you get quite close. As one climbs, the corrie slowly reveals itself, the sheer black and white cliffs rising upwards as you draw closer - a gradual unveiling that never ceases to enchant me.
About an hour and a half after leaving the car we had reached a point where we could get a good look at the couloir. I felt that familiar stirring of butterflies in the gut as I gazed across at it. I hadn’t remembered it looking that steep, perhaps it was our viewpoint that was making it look so precipitous? At least the run-out didn’t look too bad. There was just a chance that, if I messed up, I’d slide to a halt before I hit those rocks at the bottom.
At this point, there was enough snow for Scott to put on his skis and start skinning across the plateau. I followed in his wake, cursing this disadvantage of snowboards and promising myself I would learn to ski. Fortunately it was not far to the top of the couloir from here and by the time Scott had pulled the skins off his skis, taken a swig out of his water-bottle and had an initial peek down the couloir, I was standing next to him, un-strapping my snowboard from my pack.
Before putting the board on my feet I climbed down the gully a short way, to see how steep it really was and to check out the condition of the snow. I was relieved to see that the gully didn’t appear quite so absurdly vertical from this angle, and looked like it would be within my abilities. The snow was reasonably good too; soft, even spring snow that had formed into a well consolidated pack. It should provide a predictable descent.
A predictable descent is very definitely a good thing – there’s nothing like suddenly hitting a patch of ice in the tightest part of steep gully to remind a chap of the fragility of his mortality. I smiled briefly to myself as I recalled such a moment off the back of the Grands Montets in the French Alps. That had been a very hairy moment indeed; but as with most hairy moments that end happily – it was nothing but funny in the rosiness of retrospect.
Stomping back up to the top of the couloir, I returned to where Scott was stepping into his skis. I strapped on my board and stood ready.
"After you."
"No, no, after you."
We both wanted to go first, but courtesy meant we both had to offer the privilege to the other. My graciousness eventually crumbled, however, and I edged closer to the lip of the couloir. Fortunately there was no cornice to negotiate, but it was still very steep and the view down to the rocks below was unsettling. The first turn in these circumstances is always a nervous moment, but the predictable quality of the snow gave me confidence and I’d soon linked some nice turns into the narrowing of the couloir. Fortunately, there were no climbers on their way up.
Lower down the snow was not quite so well consolidated, and little white slabs sloughed off, trundling downwards until they broke up into fragments. These slabs were only a couple of inches thick, however, and presented little danger to the skier or boarder.

As the blocky crag to our left dropped away, the couloir opened up and became less steep. Pulling out onto an unexpectedly large slope of untouched snow, I let rip - carving out sweeping, exhilarating turns on its smooth surface. I failed to supress a laugh as I tore over the pristine snow, free from all thought but the pure joy of speed and skill. It was the best moment of the day... Hell, it was the best moment of the last six months!
Reaching the jumbled rocks that lurked so menacingly at the foot of the slope, I popped a joyful ollie 180, slammed to a halt and turned to watch Scott follow me down. By this time he had exited the tightest part of the couloir and was coming down fast in that "comin’-to-getcha" stance that skiers seem to have when they are charging over beautiful unspoilt snow off-piste. He pulled up hard in front of me. The goggles went up, the grin cracked.
"Ha, ha! Pretty good, eh?"
"Pretty good." I agreed.
"Worth getting up in the dark for?"
"Definitely worth getting up in the dark for."
Indeed, the very next weekend, I would be up in the dark again and heading for ‘The Couloir’ in Coire an Lochain.