Behind the scenes of The Great Mixed Climbs of Scotland
In this article, photographer Ryan Balharry takes us through a day on Beinn Eighe, capturing images for The Great Mixed Climbs of Scotland. He explores not only how he gets the shot, but the equipment he uses and his motivations for a transition into a career in photography and filmmaking.
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Years ago, in the early days of my climbing, my good friend Amillious gave me a copy of The Great Sea Cliffs of Scotland as a birthday present. Leafing through the pages, the images caught my attention, and I imagined one day contributing to a similar project. Aimillious worked with Guy Robertson, Scotland being the small world that it is, and he suggested we should meet. At the time, the thought of climbing with Guy was entertaining, like a pug running with greyhounds.
We first met while shooting The Vicar in Coire an Lochain in the Cairngorms. Guy’s legacy in the Scottish winter climbing community is well-founded, but I was pleasantly surprised to meet a humble, funny man who acts years younger than his age. His love for not just climbing but also the history, people, and, in particular, the writing surrounding Scottish climbing is immediately obvious.
Since then, we’ve shared a rope many times, primarily focused on routes for The Great Mixed Climbs of Scotland, but we’ve also had some great days just climbing in Glen Coe and on Creag Meagaidh. I’ve learnt to trust him with anything conditions-related, having frequently found ephemeral conditions contrary to my expectations. Our photo mission to Beinn Eighe to capture the elusive Sundance—a route Guy had put up with Ian Parnell in 2008—was no different; I was sceptical to say the least.
At the first sign of a potential weather window, the scramble to find a partner began, and a charming young man and good friend, Samuel Brown, came to mind. Sam was keen to get out and try some harder routes, although not having climbed that season, he was a little nervous. I reassured him with some general words of encouragement that had no bearing on the climbing. Things like ‘Be grand’, and ‘Guy is nice’.
Deciding how to shoot a route isn’t an exact science; for me, at least, it’s dependent on the weather, the line’s aesthetics and technical difficulty, access to the top, and the surrounding landscape. More often than not, my plan changes on the day—how does the crag look? Are there interesting features like icicles that would add drama in close-up? Or an incoming storm that would add tension in a wide shot? Is there a crux move that would be missed from afar, or are exposure and situation the photogenic elements? There’s always a compromise to be made, and often this means taking more kit than necessary to keep the options open. In this instance, Guy’s knowledge of Sundance, a stable weather forecast, and a focus on the book kept it simpler.
Like most winter days, a sluggish early start gave way to excited chatter on the drive North-West, as we sipped coffee and tried to pack in some extra calories. Unlike most Scottish winter days, it was still and dry, the stars and tarmac sparkling as we headed into Torridon. Walking up the south side of Beinn Eighe was arduous; the scree was frozen solid and glazed with verglas, although the moon lit our way. Sam and Guy glided ahead, while I puffed behind with my excessively heavy bag containing 100m of static rope, a full rack, camera, lenses, drone, and the usual paraphernalia you need for winter climbing. That’s the best excuse I have, anyway.
We summited, my bald head gleaming like the white-capped Munros standing proud in all directions. The morning sun poured into the glens, and the sense of being alone in a wild place filled me with peace. Energetic conversation followed on seeing the great chimneyed arête of The Great Game in perfect condition on A’ Mhaighdean to the north—one day. The Great Game is a route of nearly mythical status, an unrepeated VII,7 on a south-facing buttress in probably the most remote location in Scotland.
We had decided Sundance deserved a dedicated photographer and shelved the idea of using the drone, which would have meant Guy pausing mid-crux while I tied him off and faffed around. This approach involves progression through the stages of Guy’s comfort levels: ‘How does that look?’ he’ll shout down enthusiastically. Then, calmly: ‘I’ll need to get moving soon.’ Followed some time later by: ‘Have you got it yet?’ as I try to steady my freezing bear-like thumbs on the controller. Less calmly: ‘Hurry up, man!’ And finally, my favourite: ‘Get that fucking thing out of the sky!’ To be honest, it takes an impressively long time to get to the latter.
Camera-wise, I shoot on a Sony system. The A7IV is my main camera for climbing photography and film work; it’s an impressive hybrid offering brilliant photographic and surprisingly good video features. Normally, I use a 28-200mm lens, particularly when filming. Although not the best at any range, its versatility allows for an impressive range of shots when there’s only scope for one take. In this instance, with Guy willing to hang around on the route, I opted for a 24-70 F2.8 for the close-up and top-down shots in addition to a 14-24 F2.8 for the wide and landscape shots. Switching lens hanging on a rope can be challenging, particularly if the weather is bad, if snow or rain gets on the sensor, or if it can’t be rectified easily on the rope. Personally, I like the F2.8, which allows for a shallow depth of field and creates a lovely blurry background. This can add a sense of exposure and focus the viewer on a particular placement, hold, or expression on the climber’s face.
The drone did come in handy for finding the line of the route, though. To optimise light on the crux for the photos, we started on pitch two, Guy and Sam descending in advance on my static, the focus of the day being on the images, not the climbing.
Anticipation of a lean rock route, hopefully with some ice, had set the scene for a relaxed, quick and fun day, but we plunged into a cold North Face plastered in rime, verglas and chandeliers. Even Guy was surprised by the conditions, and he requested any peckers and hooks I had on me. His rock-focused rack was now screaming ‘Run out!’ Usually, when mixed climbing, a balance must be struck between carrying the full ‘iron kilt’ and taking too little. If you know the route is likely to be ice-free and have dry cracks, nuts and cams are perfect. For most big ice routes on the Ben, you can get away with ice screws and a few nuts for comfort. Truly mixed routes are trickier and require more peckers and hooks that can be coaxed into thin cracks, as well as a few screws, some cams and a lot of nuts. Standing on the belay looking up, it was clear Guy was a little nervous. Protection was going to be hard-won in deep, verglassed cracks.
Very few, if any, ice tools are designed to take the sustained abuse of Scottish mixed climbing, and just before he set off, Guy noticed a disconcerting wobble in the head of one of his axes. Sam’s offer to swap his new tools was dismissed because they didn’t have leash clips on the pommels. Leashes prevent losing a tool completely if you drop it, but they can get tangled with one another and/or the ropes. Both techniques have their advantages, but personally, the idea of losing a tool on a big run-out terrifies me—and perhaps Guy, too, judging by his response. I was sporting a brand-new pair of Edelrid axes, gifted to me at the end of the previous season. I had gazed at them all summer, my enthusiasm and anticipation for the first swing building through the seasons. ‘Want to use these?’ I said semi-reluctantly, knowing it was the only sensible option.
Over the next few hours, Guy set about his craft, demonstrating years of experience in a composed and classy fashion. His composure and systematic approach made the route look easy, as he dug out gear placements that, even if I had found them, I wouldn’t have thought to exploit in such a way. Slow but deliberate, he took time to work out the options before committing confidently to the next move. His endurance and efficiency made light work of the steepness and small foot placements. It looked sensational, and a big part of me wished I were climbing.
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‘Never make your hobby your job’ is a well-known saying, and one that pendulums to and fro in my mind regularly. In the latter years of my engineering degree in Edinburgh, I developed a chronic back problem, and years later was diagnosed with an inflammatory autoimmune disease called Ankylosing Spondylitis. At the time, working a desk job came hand in hand with heavy use of strong painkillers. My diary entries from this period don’t make for inspiring reading. I worked odd jobs for a year and saved enough for a van, then travelled Europe for six months, during which time my fondness for photography, specifically portraiture, grew. In a world obsessed with image and imperfection, capturing the essence of someone in their element has become a real joy.
My world had collapsed around me the day I returned to Scotland. Unpacking the van at night, my delight at seeing my best friend’s dad and brother approach soon shattered into a feeling our language is incapable of explaining. Pain flooded through me, memories raced, questions, disbelief. My best friend had taken his life that morning. I had met Lawrence in primary school, the only other boy in my class of six. We spent almost every day together throughout our childhood, on the road to becoming men. In the months that followed his death, riddled with regret and loss, I escaped to the hills and began climbing, my relationship ended, and I was diagnosed with my condition. Although the diagnosis was helpful, I knew there was no cure, and pain would remain a big part of my life. When Covid hit, I think many people questioned their role in the world. A search for purpose and a deep need to live, not just exist, gripped me, and still does. Inspired by my newfound love of climbing and by Hamish Frost’s work, I began my journey into mountain sports photography. I stumbled around in the dark for a while, annoying old friends and making new ones.
I got my first opportunity through Kevin Shields, who at the time was transitioning from years of adaptive climbing with a prosthetic ice axe to climbing without it. I was excited to take photos and prepped religiously the night before, although in all honesty, I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing.
Ping! A text from Kev: ‘Wanna make a wee film, too?’
‘Yeah, great idea,’ I had replied instantly.
So … how do I record a video? I got the camera manual out and started reading; it seemed straightforward enough. Pressing the red button was the gist of it. A few calls, and I located a microphone in Newtonmore. Kev was fun, patient, and passionate, but most of all honest. The short film we made was picked up by Rab and premiered on their YouTube channel. It took me weeks to make, learning to edit and realising all my mistakes during the filming. I’m still proud of Time for Change. Although it far from does Kev justice and is technically full of mistakes, it captures him and a moment in time I will always treasure.
As my career and my own climbing developed, there came a point where the job had to take priority. The battle between climbing for myself and work has been raging since. Regardless of my condition, taking images in the mountains is hard work, but equally rewarding. It doesn’t vary much from the standard climbing experience: it’s cold, physical, scary, exhilarating, and existentially pointless. The big difference is the mindfulness I find when climbing for myself. Work will always be work, regardless of how passionate you might be about it; the responsibility of delivery makes mindfulness elusive.
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Back on Beinn Eighe, the crisp, clear air gave way to views to the west, revealing the stunning landscape of Coire Mhic Fhearchair and the hills beyond. Sundance is a near-perfect line to shoot; it lends itself to close-up action shots and wide-angle landscapes, though it was pushing the wide-angle to fit Guy and the landscape into a single frame. Repositioning and swinging around, I found a few spots on the pitch to focus on. Some thin, steep climbing leading into an overhanging icy roof. As with any story, it’s important to set the scene and give context. For this book, each climb is its own story. What’s it like to climb on Beinn Eighe—the rock features, exposure, isolation? You want to capture what it feels like, the detail and the emotion. Is it insecure and runout, or safe and powerful? For wide establishing shots, I waited for him to be bunched up to minimise the effect of distortion, which occurs at the edges of a wide-angle, fisheye lens. With distortion, the subject is stretched as if being sucked out of the frame, like something from Star Trek. It looks pretty bad, but can’t always be avoided. Keeping the subject close to the centre of the frame or compressed in a tight move helps reduce the impact.
As Guy moved through the crux and battled with thick verglas and drooping icicles, I watched in dismay as my axes got a proper Scottish mixed baptism. It was hard to stay focused on the camera as he smashed through the ice and pulled over the overhang. Shooting close up, straight down a burly section of climbing was a unique and tense experience, so close to the action yet so removed from the climber’s experience. Holding to get the shot in my mind, always keeping the other eye on the climber to make sure I’m not in their way. That’s the aim at least. I try to minimise my impact on a climber’s experience and gauge the level of engagement the climber wants with me. Of course, this is dependent on the focus of the shoot. Documenting a dangerous first ascent and a commercial product shoot are the extreme ends of the spectrum. (In Wales, a few years ago, I was so focused on my wide-angle lens that I didn’t realise how close I was to Miska, who was climbing. Through the lens, she appeared at least a metre away, but as I moved away from the eyepiece, I realised the lens was almost touching her face. She smiled and, slightly bewildered, asked what I was doing—a fair question.)
As Guy approached the belay, he was quietly jubilant, although the climbing hadn’t been particularly technical. It’s always thrilling to see someone doing what they truly love. It doesn’t have to make sense or be quantifiable.
I flew the drone from my static to grab a few landscape shots, then watched Sam battle his way up. His enthusiasm and laughter were infectious, making for a great end to the day for all of us. They made light work of the final pitch, and we regrouped on the summit, buzzing.
Packing the bags away as a deep red sunset gave way to darkness, Guy returned my axes. The picks were significantly shorter than before; in fact, the entire front tooth was missing from one. ‘I hardly swung them,’ he said in astonishment. The Edelrid steel must be softer than we had thought. Reviewing the photos and seeing Guy squint to protect his eyes from sparks goes some way toward explaining the reduced sharpness of the previously razor-sharp picks.
I always look forward to editing images, not because I like the process, but because I want to see if I captured what I had seen in the moment and, more importantly, how it felt to be there. It’s not always the case, and it’s not always the best pictures that do this. Sometimes a technically flawed picture reveals so much more than a perfectly composed, sharp image. How often do you look back and laugh, cry, or remember things after seeing a crappy phone image or a film shot years ago? For me, memories are stored in the moments we most often forget to record: the frost on the windscreen early that morning, someone sleeping in the car, the chippy on the way home, or friends sprawled across a living room, surrounded by dripping-wet winter kit. But for a book, images can’t be personal; they need to be relatable and inspiring, transporting the viewer, along with the words, to that cliff. Selecting just a few images from the day is challenging and not my strong point. It’s a skill I’m working on and comes with confidence; often, what I think is the best image won’t make the top ten in the climber’s eyes. Art is subjective. Almost always, my favourite image from a trip is one that captures the humour, the memories, the sense of adventure and camaraderie, not the action itself.
Beinn Eighe is a special place for me. I was four when I first summited in a snowstorm, fuelled by chocolate and following my parents’ footsteps.
And that day, many years later, with Guy and Sam remains one of my fondest: mixed climbing, good friendship, and Scotland at its finest.
Images
All photos © Ryan Balharry