Sunday 5 February

We awoke to an incredibly tranquil view over Loch Glascarnoch, whose glassy surface reflected a sky of blue-grey that melted to lilac-pink at the eastern horizon, betraying the previously uncertain existence of the Scottish sun. The air was strangely still and the steep brown slopes across the loch were capped by snow which seemed to glow in the morning light. It looked like a good, clear day for a hike. Given Ryan’s ongoing blister situation, we decided to tackle the relatively easy-looking Ben Wyvis, which was just down the road from our scenic overnight spot.

The Ascent

We drove east for 10 minutes and stopped in the car park for Ben Wyvis mountain and nature reserve. We had our usual disagreement over timings, as I’d hoped for an earlier start but Ryan – who is generally immovable before 8am and will often complain on being disturbed until around 9 – appreciates a lie in, so unfortunately the hike began about 10:30 with some sourness. The first section took us on a clear path which followed the rocky, birch-lined Allt a’ Bhealaich Mhoir river through verdant pine forest for a couple of kilometres, then popped out onto open, grassy heathland at the base of the mountain, which loomed ahead looking bulky, steep and rugged.

The gradient continued moderately for another half kilometre, then steepened as the path began to wind up the western side of the hill. We stopped a couple of times to de-layer, snack on cereal bars and take in the growing view behind us over rolling, heather and forest covered hills, which were backed by snow-capped mountains that stretched for tens of miles across a clear horizon under a layer of flat, pale grey cloud. We powered upwards, still in a silent state of bitterness which thankfully started to dissipate with altitude and the emerging view.

The path zig-zagged up the steep mountainside for a hot, sweaty mile and the view seemed to grow with each turn. Over the valley between Ben Wyvis and adjacent Tom na Callich we could now see distant mountains to the southeast – the Cairngorm plateau – which spanned the skyline in broad, hazy swathes and stood out against a bright, yellow-orange glow hanging beneath a flat ceiling of thin cloud. We stopped for a quick chat with a friendly man out with his dog, who told us that of all the several times he’d climbed Ben Wyvis, today was the clearest. Happy at this news, we continued up the steep path and reached An Cabar (946m), the first summit of the range, at about 12:30.

The wind hit us quite suddenly at the top, so we layered up and quickly continued northeast along a wide, icy ridge towards Glas Leathad Mor (1046m). It was a little slippery, but not quite enough to warrant pulling out our crampons. We munched some sandwiches – I had peanut butter and jam and Ryan had cheese – and tramped up the long, easy slope for another mile to the next summit, passing a few other hikers and heeding the sign back at An Cabar that told us to keep to the footpath to protect the sensitive flora. The wind was so bitter that even through my gloves my hands were stinging, so I balled them up and shoved them under my arms.

A sunken trig point marked the snowy summit of Glas Leathad Mor, which we reached at 1pm. Along the ridge the view had developed into a 360 degree panorama of distant mountains, some snow capped and all stretching in hazy layers under a smooth, striated sky that looked as though it had been painted in several shades of blue-grey watercolour. The brush strokes parted occasionally, revealing a pale blue canvas that faded to orange near the horizon. It was almost as lovely as the land.

An Unplanned Summit

Now for my confession: I hadn’t been in the Ben Wyvis area before and the hike was a last minute plan, so – my research having confirmed that it was a beginner-level hike on easy terrain – we’d gone up without a paper map. I wouldn’t normally condone this, but the weather looked so reliably clear, the mountain so whale-back-shaped and isolated, and the route so well-walked that we were quite comfortable with just a phone (we had a power bank and charger) and a good sense of direction. This of itself wasn’t an issue, but it meant that we hadn’t planned the hike as meticulously as usual, so at the summit of the munro I gave Ryan the familiar and perhaps inevitable look that suggested “shall we just pop up that other mountain over there”.

He capitulated and off we went over the back of the hill towards Tom a Choinnich (953m), a munro top one mile to the north. It was a straightforward but fairly steep yomp down into a col and up the next snowy mountainside, but the decision was controversial enough to rekindle some of the morning’s tension. After half an hour of relative silence we were at the next summit, which is where we made what was, with hindsight, the wrong decision.

The Bog Slog

We had three options: retrace our steps back the way we came (which I intensely dislike doing), take a path that would take us back to the van via a long, c.8.5mi detour around Loch Bealach Culaidh, or follow a drystone wall with what looked like a path running alongside it that headed for the van as the crow flies. With Ryan’s blister in mind, we picked option 3, hoping that the path would continue, or at least that the terrain would be relatively amenable.

The path did not continue and the terrain was not even remotely amenable. We clambered awkwardly across a large, icy boulderfield, following the wall for half a kilometre until it just stopped. What was type 1 fun quite quickly slipped firmly into the type 2 category, but we decided that we’d gone too far to turn around so continued in a straight line – firstly downhill across more awkward rocks, then through damp, knee-high moss, grass and heather. Hoping desperately that we weren’t a) damaging the vegetation, and b) being scrutinised by distant onlookers, we slogged across the landscape, slowly and as carefully as possible.

Under other circumstances the colourful, diverse vegetation underfoot would have been fascinating and the mountain scenery breathtaking in the yellowish afternoon light, but at the time the route we chose was simply long, awkward and wet. With every step requiring a high knee and careful foot placement, the going was slow and I felt terribly guilty about deviating from the path. After what felt like an age we reached a stream that cut a little valley into the wild scrubland, which provided some relief as we felt a bit more discrete lower down. We followed a deer path down river, frequently treading in bits of bog and at one point tiptoeing along a small but sheer, muddy drop above the water, and reached the edge of Garbat Forest after a couple of long, arduous miles.

Garbat Forest

We followed a dilapidated fence south for another even boggier mile, then clambered warily over a very rotten stile that led us into the forest. According to the map on my phone, the fire break we’d found should have led us to a path that would cut through the woods and rejoin the path we’d hiked in on, but it looked like neither the fire break nor the path had been used for a long time as both were overgrown and wet. We had another awkward mile ahead.

Despite our exasperation at yet more trailblazing, the forest was fascinating. Tall, densely packed pines formed a canopy above an undulating, mossy carpet, which was reddened by years’ worth of fallen needles, and hundreds of twiggy offshoots harboured masses of pale, green-grey lichen. These offshoots stuck out from the tree trunks and made passage quite difficult as they were both prolific and pointy, so we slipped through carefully – sometimes deploying Matrix-worthy manoeuvres – in an effort to minimise damage and remain unstabbed, while also avoiding huge marshy areas that somehow submerged the trunks without drowning the trees. It felt ancient, atmospheric, serene and slightly eerie.

In the absence of a path we ducked and side-stepped our way through the forest in the general direction of the van, stopping a couple of times to observe some fallen trees that were in the fascinating process of being absorbed by moss, grass, lichen and an enormous ants nest. Animal paths provided the most accessible routes but seemed to start and end at random, so it took a while for us to reach the high wire fence on the edge of the forest. We climbed over it and rejoined the path we’d walked in on with some relief, then tramped the final, easy mile back to the car park along the river.

Recovery

We de-bagged and drove back to the Loch Glascarnoch pull in, slightly giddy at the relief and excitement of having climbed another munro, but more so at our adventurous choice of route. I was impressed that my boots had kept my feet almost completely dry despite the bog-trotting and I expressed my empathy towards Ryan, who had decided to test his new trail running shoes and as a result had wet feet – which I have a particular enmity towards – all afternoon.

We stuffed our shoes with newspaper, cooked a notably delicious Thai green curry and settled for the night, feeling victorious at having extracted ourselves from that difficult terrain, but also ever so slightly disappointed that we’d made the decision to chance the route in the first place. Another lesson learnt.