Scotland, Feb ’22: Hiking Buachaille Etive Mor

September 15, 2022October 1, 2022Leave a comment

Sunday 13 February

This was to be our biggest mountain day of the trip. Buachaille Etive Mor is Britain’s most photographed mountain due to its perfect triangular form and solitary position between the heads of Glencoe and Glen Etive. It stands tall over wild Rannoch Moor, and although it looks like an archetypal mountain when approached from the east, it’s actually an undulating ridge with four separate summit peaks rising along its 5-mile length, two of which are Munros.

We’d hoped that the conditions would be favourable enough to ice climb up that triangular eastern face, but the wind and avalanche forecasts didn’t look too good so we decided to “hike” up the steep north face. I got up at 6am, had porridge and coffee and got ready, and eventually managed to rouse the morning-phobic Ryan. We drove the short distance up the Glen Etive road to rejoin the Glencoe road and parked in a roadside car park due north of the Buachaille.

Waiting for the snail to get out his shell

We set off south at 8am, just as the morning light crept in. We crossed a footbridge over the river Coupall and passed the iconic white Lagangarbh hut, a tiny cottage set low against the dramatic mountain backdrop that the Scottish Mountaineering Club use as accommodation. We followed the footpath south across heathery moorland, which rose gradually towards the base of the mountain. We reached a rushing stream that flowed down to the Coupall from Coire na Tuilach, the corrie whose back wall we would be climbing, and started the ascent up its wet, rocky bank.

It was a steep hike up the little river, and as is so commonly the case, the path disappeared about halfway up. We hopped between rocks as snow started to appear, thickened, and eventually covered the ground. After what felt like a long time the river disappeared and we reached the bottom of a very steep snow slope at the back of the corrie. Ice axes in hand, we hacked our way up through the knee-deep, soft, yielding neve, which felt so solid that we decided there was no need for crampons or ropes.

It was dramatically steep and very exciting, like nothing we’d ever done before. At the top the gradient quickly levelled out and we pulled over the edge onto the foggy ridge just after 10am, exhilarated by the climb and eager to see what was next. There was a marked difference in temperature once we were no longer sheltered by the corrie walls, so we pulled on coats and quickly headed east towards the summit of Stob Dearg, the Buachaille’s highest and most easterly peak – the top of that perfect triangle.

The cloud hung in a low, flat curtain just above our heads, and as we climbed it swallowed us up. We eventually reached the summit just before 11, having tramped up a kilometre of awkward, bleak terrain that varied only between thick snow and uneven rocks, having seen none of the surrounding landscape – which we knew would have been breath-taking – due to the increasingly damp clag. Pleased to have summited but slightly underwhelmed by the cloudy Stob Dearg, we headed back (depressingly) the same way. We passed a small group following our tracks to the top and agreed that it was nice to have been the first up the peak that day.

We passed our own footprints coming from Coire na Tulaich and continued southwest along the claggy ridge towards Stob na Doire, which was about a mile away. I was furious at myself for breaking my own rule – don’t let a down jacket get wet – as I’d underestimated the light snow and done just that, so I pulled on a waterproof and accepted that I deserved any damp-related suffering that would doubtless ensue. The most interesting things we saw (snow, rock and clag had all ceased to be interesting) were animal prints – most likely fox, ptarmigan or grouse and excitingly, given the immense size of them, golden eagle. Eager not to fall off the edge of the ridge, we walked on a bearing across flattish snow in near white-out conditions – the only distinction between the ground and the sky was the slight grey tinge of the all-consuming cloud.

The gradient increased steadily as we approached Stob na Doire, then steeply, requiring some awkward clambering over large rocks and careful guesswork as to whether each footstep into the snow would meet solid ground or a gap between boulders. This section seemed to last forever, and I distinctly remember noting that just then I wasn’t having a particularly enjoyable day. Time seemed a distant concept, and we were relieved when we suddenly appeared at the summit at 12.10pm.

We hurried down the peak’s long, steep, rocky southwest face into a col between Stob na Doire and Stob Coire Altruim. Pleased to feel like we had finally made some ground and noticing that the clag was just starting to thin a little in places, we crossed the col, keeping a safe distance from the obvious cornice that had formed over the ridge’s north side. The short climb to the third summit was over nice, predictable snow, which was much more enjoyable than the uneven rocks going up Stob na Doire. We reached the top at 1.10pm.

There was less elevation difference between Stob Coire Altruim and Stob na Broige, so the kilometre between the two summits felt fairly relaxed after our Stob na Doire ordeal. Here the rocky, snowy ridge narrowed significantly in the middle, making for quite an exciting and aesthetically pleasing traverse between the peaks, and the cloud occasionally lifted slightly to afford us dramatic views over the stunning, bleak glens a long way below. We reached the small, circular stone shelter at the summit of Stob na Broige at 1.30pm, then retraced our steps back to Stob Coire Altruim and the col.

The path back started somewhere in this col but it wasn’t obvious where, so avoiding the cornices we took the most agreeable-looking way down. We scrambled down into a huge, sheltered bowl and decided it was time for some food, so we stopped to share a hot flask of Ryan’s special spicy noodle-couscous mix, the perfect winter mountain snack. Feeling significantly perked up, we continued north down the steep snow slope, found a lone set of footprints and what looked like the path, and eventually descended to rockier, grassier ground.

From here the way down was just as awkward for a while, necessitating the use of ice axes for stability as we climbed down wet slabs. We were glad to have descended below the cloud line, which meant that we finally had clear views over the dramatic, immensely proportioned golden-brown glen. We were careful to keep left of the steep river that flowed white next to us, not fancying a difficult crossing or a long tramp across boggy ground at the bottom.

The slope levelled as we reached the wide valley base, and the obvious, narrow path arced right across undulating grassy, mossy, heathery ground, following the white River Coupall northeast. We walked for about 2km through the valley, feeling very small between the hulking golden masses of Buachaille Etive Beag and Buachaille Etive Mor. At one point the path ran along a narrow ridge with a sheer 6m drop-off either side, making for an interesting and varied walk back to the van, and I was excited to spot a herd of well-camoflagued red deer munching away low down on the slopes to our right. Eventually we reached the main road and walked along it for a fairly unenjoyable kilometre, keeping as far out of the way of the whizzing traffic as possible.

We got back to the van about 4pm, just before the daylight began to ebb away. Delighted with our successful big mountain day, we drove back through the Pass of Glencoe to the Co-op at Ballachulish, grabbed some snacks and went back to the Signal Rock car park (see post from our previous trip for more on Signal Rock) in the Glencoe pass – I just can’t get enough of the place. The car park is owned by the National Trust for Scotland and quite refreshingly, they allow respectful overnight camping. Surrounded by trees and tucked into a corner, we sorted out some kit, then walked a short distance along a well-pathed forest track to the Clachaig Inn for a celebratory pint.

The pub was modern and cosy, with some interesting mountain art and old ice climbing gear. I assume they do well from just our car park, let alone the actual hotel guests. We enjoyed a cold cider, managed to resist the food, and walked back to the van through the dark trees for a tasty dinner of tortellini in tomato sauce with leftover veg. Safe to say we slept well that night.

Glencoe: Scotland Day 1, Sep ’20

October 23, 20201 Comment

We drove up to Scotland with ten days of freedom, no concrete plans and enough tinned soup to keep an army going for a week, and we came back (reluctantly) with twinkly eyes and tartan hearts.

The drive up from the New Forest was uneventful and went unusually quickly, for a seven-hour journey. We stayed in a layby on a quiet road about half an hour into Scotland and woke early the next day to drive to the West Highlands, stopping briefly on the bank of Loch Lomond to admire the mountains and the vast, choppy blackness of the water. Our planning had been as comprehensive as “let’s go to Glencoe and see where we end up”.

Glencoe

As we approached the Highlands, hills turned into mountains and foresty, swampy, heathy wilderness crept up all around us. The horizon grew higher until rugged slopes towered over the smooth road, which snaked around the valley floor as if frightened of treading on the toes of the giants. We had reached wild country, where hulking masses of great grey rock reign over dramatic glens carpeted by reddish-purplish-brown heather and the kind of yellow-green grass that thrives on harsh weather, poor soil and general hardship. My favourite place.

No words could do justice to the drama and excitement of the route that is flanked by the impossibly mountain-shaped Buachaille Etive Mor, the towering Three Sisters, and the strikingly insignificant whitewashed Lagangarbh hut, which looks imminently susceptible to being devoured by its barren backdrop. Despite having visited a couple of times before (the very reason I insisted on returning), I gawped all the way to the visitor centre at the far end of the glen.

Here we learnt about the history of Scottish mountaineering, mountain rescue, avalanches and the infamous 1692 massacre of Glencoe, in which the McDonald clan were murdered by the same soldiers that they’d housed and fed for two weeks. The centre is newly refurbished and really interesting, and the big relief map shows how Glencoe is just one part of an immense landscape.

We drove back the way we’d come and parked by a waterfall just up the road from the Three Sisters to take in the scenery. I was keen for a decent hike but Ryan wanted a bit of a rest as we wanted to climb the following day, so after a few photos we drove back towards the visitor centre. We parked off the road and did a short, waymarked trail through a fairytale-like forest of towering pines and lush broadleaf trees that took us to Signal Rock, a big mound purportedly used by the McDonald clan as a beacon. I squinted through the trees in an unsuccessful search for a pine marten, and after a bit more gawping at the wild glen we drove through its western “entrance” to Glencoe village.

The village is a funny, quirky little place with a small shop, a couple of cafes, a museum and a village hall. We parked on what I suppose is the high street and paid £3 each to visit the folk museum, a heather-thatched old croft cottage with some really interesting displays of Highland weaponry, clothing, toys, trinkets and tools. The bulk of the exhibits were in the two big rooms that made up the entire building, and a couple of outbuildings housed some other interesting bits.

On the way back to the van we stopped at a Himalayan market held in the unlikely location of Glencoe village hall, which was a deluge of colour and exotic ornaments, jewellery and clothing. Then, after a brief search – it’s not signposted – we found the impressive Glencoe massacre memorial monument.

Having decided that we’d climb Ben Nevis the next day due to a one-day window of clear weather, we drove half an hour north and camped in a quiet, pretty spot just outside Fort William. We had a humble dinner of pasta and spam in a tomato sauce and planned our route up the mountain’s North face, which would be a scramble/rock climb up the famous Tower Ridge. I look forward to writing about that…

Endnote: having researched mountaineering in Glencoe, Buachaille Etive Mor in particular has moved right to the top of my list of mountains to climb. We’d have liked to have done it this time but decided that Ben Nevis via Tower Ridge took precedence, so rather than travel back on ourselves (we wanted to head further north) we’ve firmly resolved to return at our earliest convenience…

Scotland, Day 2: The Highlands – Glencoe

January 3, 2019January 3, 2019Leave a comment

Monday 10th December

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I woke up in heaven. We were nestled at the base of Buachaille Etive Mor, a towering, perfectly triangular snow-topped mountain, with just a small coppice between the van and a wild, open plain surrounded by rugged peaks. The horizon glowed orange, which turned from pink through lilac into the cool blue sky above, and the air was dry and crisp.

Sunrise

Buachaille Etive Mor

Björn at home

Once I’d stopped staring, morning admin commenced. This consists of changing the bedroom into the kitchen/living room (ie. turning the bed into the rear-facing seats and putting the table up), eating porridge, drinking coffee, tidying things away, making packed lunches (jam sandwiches on every trip, without exception – quick, cheap and highly transportable), brushing teeth, attempting to tame hair, packing daysacks and coming up with some kind of plan.

From the moment I decided to go to Scotland, I knew I wouldn’t leave without immersing myself in Glencoe – an area I’d fallen hopelessly in love with the previous year. Our Ben Nevis map doesn’t quite cover this area, so we went to the Glencoe visitor centre (usually well worth a visit, but this time the majority of it was being renovated) to pick up an OS map. We also did a bit of Christmas shopping in the small National Trust for Scotland shop, most notably buying a “wild haggis” toy (now called Hamish) for Nellie, my naughty black lab. Apparently tourists swear by haggis sightings.

Is this the perfect house?

The River Coe

Two of the three sisters

Glencoe hike

From there we headed back to a roadside car park at the base of the three sisters of Glencoe, part of the Bidean nam Bian mountain range of complex peaks, ridges and crags. It’s clearly a popular spot; I was bemused by a coach-full of handbag-clutching, vans-wearing tourists that stopped to admire the view through their iPhone cameras before deciding it was too cold to hang about and scuttling off.

We followed a path between the left and middle “sister” ridges, Beinn Fhada and Gearr Aonach, which saw us scrambling over rocks, squeezing through gaps, peering down at waterfalls over sheer edges and generally being awestruck by the dramatic, serene beauty of the place. The sisters towered over us on both sides, cold, hard rocks stood in front waiting to be scrambled over, and behind was the valley of Glencoe in all its wild, rugged, sandy-yellow winter glory. Oh Scotland.

Halfway up and so happy

He’s happy too

Looking back towards the main valley

Eventually we reached the end of the path, which overlooked a long, bathtub-shaped plateau surrounded on three sides by curving, steep-sided ridges. We sat on a rock enjoying our jam sandwiches, then clambered down. It looked as though there was once a river (or glacier?) running through from the narrow end with the snow-topped ridge, which had carved out the valley and left thousands of loose rocks that were awkward to walk on, and there were huge, house-sized boulders scattered as if giants had thrown and left them there.

I couldn’t resist the lure of nature’s playground, so I had a quick climb on a too-tempting boulder plonked in the middle of the plateau. As the path didn’t seem to go anywhere we headed back along the same route, stumbling down the uneven paths and grinning as we bashed knees and scuffed elbows on sticky-out bits of rock. Fortunately there was barely anyone else on the path, so our ungainliness went unnoticed.

Snug as a bug

Playtime

“The bathtub”… what a hiding spot for a herd of catle

Back at the car park we found a tourist information board, which informed us that we’d walked along the Lost Valley (Coire Gabhail). The “plateau” was where the MacDonald clan hid stolen cattle in the 1600s – I have no idea how they mooved (not even sorry) cows up there – and fled to after some escaped the famous Glen Coe massacre of 1692 (fascinating and heartbreaking bit of history, google it).

Breathtaking

I wish we’d found this before the walk!

Red deer at Glen Etive

We left the car park and drove back to the 12-mile dead-end Glen Etive road where we’d stayed the previous night. Glen Etive is where the Skyfall (James Bond) house was set/CGI’d onto, and I’d read that it’s worth a visit because of its remote beauty. It’s a stunning valley, less well-known than Glencoe, flanked by imposing ridges darkened in places by deep green pine forests.

I was desperate to see red deer on this trip and I’d been looking out carefully since we’d got to the Highlands. So a few miles along the road, I could barely contain myself when we came across a couple of people hand-feeding carrots to a young stag. We stopped, and when they left I slipped out the van to try and get some photos.

The rest of the herd were down a bank by a wide, shallow river, guarded watchfully by a majestic stag. I snuck down the bank and moved diagonally through the trees to get a better shot without approaching the deer directly; the stag kept an eye on me as his herd grazed and drank from the river. It was so surreal – I’d have been thrilled to see one red deer at a distance, let alone a whole herd at close range. The light was fading so I had to hold the camera super still; I would have got better photos in better light, but I don’t care – I’m delighted. The deer are even more wildly, gracefully beautiful in person.

My mind was blown

…and my heart stopped

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Eventually I tore myself away and we drove back to Glencoe between towering, silhouetted ridges against a navy blue sky. I loved that drive; I found the mountains bearing over us in the dark simultaneously humbling, ominous and comforting, as if we were both at their mercy and under their protection. We stopped for supplies (notably wine) at the Co-op in Ballachulish, near Glen Coe village, then went to Kinlochleven to book an ice climbing session at the indoor centre for the next day.

That done, we stopped for the night in a layby on the south side of Loch Leven. The blackness of the water merged with the dark silhouette of the huge ridge that lay on its north side, which was interspersed at loch level with the twinkling lights of occasional buildings. We appreciated the twinkly lights while eating sausage casserole and planning for tomorrow.

Another good day.