Mountain Pro magazine - final issue

As you may have already seen, it's the last hurrah for our climbing and mountaineering quarterly. If you've ever tried to give a dirtbag climber a deadline, you'll understand me when I say it sometimes felt like herding cats, but they were passionate, bristling-with-ideas-and-energy cats and I'm genuinely sad to see the title go.

Due to the vagaries of timetabling, I didn't get the chance to say goodbye and thankyou on the 'welcome' page, so I want to thank everyone who wrote, photographed, reviewed and was interviewed for their input to the magazine, here and now. Thank you.

Of course I'm biased, but it felt to me as if the title found its voice over the last couple of years. I consciously moved it away from a previous competitor, to give both them and us some room. I can only hope this was appreciated - it certainly didn't affect the bottom line either way. We didn't do listicles, and partners like JMT, MHT and Vertebrate lent further gravitas to proceedings. We even paid (never a lot, but better than some) for articles. We ran pieces by name climbers, rank outsiders, and those inbetween... and our magazine and I hope the wider culture was better for it. I'm originally from an independent music background, and the ethos is not so different - know your niche, play straight, pay it forward. A friend and colleague described it as a 'thin Alpinist' - I think she was being a touch generous... but I know we were doing something right, because I started to see some of our ideas mirrored in neighbouring titles. They wanted some of what we had. And I know because of stories and emails sent from readers on every continent. I really liked that about a digital mag; that it could, and did, end up anywhere and everywhere.

However, these are tough times for magazines that rely on advertising... even those with healthy 5 figure readerships. There were other factors that I'll save for another time, but the publisher did right by the title and gave it an extra six month's grace.

Click on the image below for the last ever edition of Mountain Pro magazine. There's also a good back catalogue - just scroll down a bit. Everything is free to read.

Dark Days

This was written a few weeks ago, and the pictures taken in early January over a 24hour period between Glen Coe and the Port of Appin. Given events of the last few days, it seems a pretty naive experiment now, but whatever, I'm throwing it to the wind.

To my own mind at least, we've crossed some lines... so be as kind as you can to each other out there. Don't drunk tweet, bite your tongue before trolling. There's only us left, and language matters. And if you want to even begin to understand what's happening, follow the one true god. Follow the money.


Shortly after Christmas we walked above Balquhidder on a fine cool winter’s day with deep light, shadow play on the hills, glowing green and red and a hint of snow white above us. I breathed in the life of trees deeply, cradled their presence in my neural network like the roots held the soil, fed back to each other and maybe even to me? Permission for a few hours to bend, not forced to break. A reminder of rest, safety, home. We’ve been trying to get somewhere else, buy a house. Turns out that wasn't sustainable.

The next day we went into the city. The streets slowly filled with the bored, the drunk, the rich and the poor, all buggered and beggered by it all. I watched the eyes of those who walked past the homeless, embarrassed to blankness, voided credit card hearts. My daughter moaned to see mickey fucking mouse one more time, and instead I gave her a pound to give to the old man slumped outside Schuh with a dog. Rats on a concrete ship.

I take my daughter to a ‘fun day’ held between a scrap yard full of twisted metal and a motorway. It’s run by Good People who Mean Well in a church car park. There’s not a blade of grass in sight. This is normal. But we are the lucky ones - the wrong class maybe but the right colour at least, enough money to eat well. Our homes have yet to be bombed, our friends have yet to be taken to the gulag, our bodies have not been ransacked for organs.

We try to teach our girl about about Usnea, old man’s beard - tinder, antibiotic, a lichen cure for ills from athlete’s foot to strep throat and flu. We may yet achieve escape velocity, but there’s no place deep enough in the woods that we can hide from this octopus, no place that can resist.

But in my cornered mind on the darker days, we have to prepare. She must learn to cut wood, navigate, self rescue and self defend, grow, kill, gut and cook food, write code and speak Mandarin. She may have to do more. It’s a big ask, to make plans for war. The terror of parenthood, and the burden of children. The war we waged on the world came home, didn't it.

There’s an idea that if you ignore our certain bitter end in a fart of crocodile tears, famine, dis-ease, anomie, digital atomisation and chemical rot, then you are running away, turning a blind eye, avoiding the painful and inevitable; that you are, sin of all sins, a coward. But what if all that was a distraction, fake news, a temporary aberration from another normal. What if the weather was all you needed to know? Then only a tree bending in the wind with it’s roots in the ground would be real, and all the concrete and glass in the world would be a mirage.

Rest with me a while. I need to catch my breath here, lean on this branch, before we try again.

3 by 4

Balquhidder was a family day walk shortly after christmas, and the little'un was tired so we didn't get as far as the lochan. I only had the X100T, but I like this little camera, and managed to grab a few that felt ungeneric enough to post here, and caught the feel. Just like with music - I couldn't care less about picture perfect, what I want is vibe - lens flares 'n all.

Click to make big

On new year's day, with a tiny weather window and no hangover I went out to dust off my Munro bagging habit, making for 2 between Killin and Crianlarich. After the long sit of the festive period, I think I wanted the walk and the camp more than the tops themselves to be honest. So the ticks themselves were unimportant, but nice things happened on the way to, from and inbetween Sgiath Chùil and Meall Glas.

The inconvenient truth when you split childcare is that it's all about the timing - and more so than ever in this start/stop winter season. A furtive but watchful eye, a 5am start and a whole lotta huffing and puffing through fresh meringue saw us on Meall Lighiche and Sgùrr na U-laidh just before the most recent thaw. I'm not sure our route onto the second was entirely orthodox, but I was proud of my mate Mick, who breathed through cramps on a chossy, steep and nasty slope to break through to the ridgeline vista. We really are so lucky to have these spaces. A superb winter mountain day, the second best of the season so far for me, with a few shots to show off at some point, but four for here and now.

Hope you're enjoying your time out too.

Hot Rocks, Alpine Butterflies

In february 2016 I went to southern Spain to take a short alpine skills course with Richard Hartley of Spanish Highs. I published a shorter, more technical piece about the trip in Mountain Pro, but a longer feature is now out in the February 2017 edition of The Great Outdoors Magazine. That makes it time to share a few pictures here that might not have seen the light of day before.

DPS of The Great Outdoors Magazine feature

DPS of The Great Outdoors Magazine feature

This time I've focused on the location as much as the activity. I've probably done more walking in Spain than anywhere except Scotland, long before the vanities of blogs, facebook and twitter. Falling in love with the Sierra Nevada in my twenties got me into the hills back home, so it's part paean to the place, part history lesson in mountain resistance and part tribute to a genuinely fantastic teacher - Richard Hartley.

If anyone reading this is considering taking a course to further their confidence and reach in the outdoors, Richard is the real deal - a bone fide mountain man, perfect hydrid of wildebeast and meta-aware, eyes-in-the-back-of-his-head safety guru... and one of the most chilled, least egotistical pairs of hands around. Going away for this type of thing makes it into a bit of an occasion too, so you don't take it for granted and forget everything you learned when you get back. And, of course it's a beautiful place, somewhere that Richard clearly loves, which made the whole thing work in the way these things should. I'm more than happy to recommend him and his team, no strings attached. Find out more, here: http://www.spanishhighs.co.uk/

I'll leave you with a sentence from the TGO piece, which hopefully gives you a flavour of what I'm on about, and because it's my party and I'll do what I want.

A little like our hosts I think, I find it impossible to remain unaffected by the anarchic magic of this region; a spirit of independence leavened with mutual assistance that defied Franco and the Catholic Kings before him. Those are also mountain values, and they seem fully at home and at ease in both people and place here.

Click to make big:

PS - I've also got a big photo of the Cairngorms, a Wild Walk and another feature in the safety supplement of the same issue.