Tag: munro

Scotland, Feb ’23: Hiking Ben Wyvis

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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.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Hiking Buachaille Etive Mor

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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.

Lochnagar, May ’19

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Last time I went up Lochnagar I couldn’t see a thing for blinding snow, cloud and ice. No crampons, broken compass, zero visibility, precipitous ridge, 10/10 could have died. During a visit to the Cairngorms in May I went up again to see what it looks like.

We started at the Spittal of Glenmuick and went up the same route as last time, following a straightforward gravel track which goes through a greener-than-green wood and up a long, gentle incline. It cuts through a few sweeping miles of high, heather-covered moorland, then becomes a less gentle incline and turns into a slabby path. It gets steeper still and the slabs disappear, leaving hikers to carve their own routes up the scrambley, bouldery rocks. As we climbed snow appeared, thickened, and soon covered everything.

We hiked/scrambled our way along the long, icy, rocky ridge which curves in a C-shape around a bleak, high tarn. The ridge drops precipitously down to the still, black water, exposing an intimidatingly sheer, dark granite face, and as we followed it round I was struck by the distance around the top to the summit. I realised that it was quite a feat to have climbed this munro in the middle of winter with zero visibility and minimal gear.

Eventually we reached the trig point, which stands proudly on a high outcrop, and stopped to gaze dramatically into the distance. We watched the mountains’ reddish-brown heather carpets fade to hazy blues and lilacs as they stretched out to touch the 360degree horizons, interrupted only by snowy peaks, and we could see for tens of miles all round.

I can’t think of a comparable landscape – at least not one that I’ve seen. Mountains often seem to envelop everything, standing high and imposing, shouldering each other as if competing for space. This place is different; equally dramatic, but in an open, rolling, panoramic way. If Glencoe in the Highlands or the Southern Fells of the Lake District are great white sharks, the Cairngorns are blue whales. Majestically vast, gentle and quiet. On a clear day.

We indulged in a picnic of olives, houmous, pitta and other posh bits (I didn’t even have porridge) and a cup of tea at the summit, then headed down the path which rolls over the hump-like southeast side of the ridge and lies parallel to our route up. We headed in the right general direction, then followed the path down along a crystal clear river. The snow retreated as we descended past lush, green vegetation and rushing waterfalls, and we found ourselves in a wood carpeted and roofed with unbelievably bright green foliage on the edge of Loch Muick.

The walk back was long and pleasant, along the flat, birch-lined north bank of Loch Muick. The rich trills of birdsong and the crunch of our gravelly footsteps emphasised the absence of background noise, and if I didn’t have a flight to catch I’d have been lured in for a swim by the still, dark water. We saw a herd of red deer in the open moorland beyond the loch and failed to identify several birds before returning to the pine wood by the car park, de-kitting and driving off [very, very] reluctantly.

With equal reluctance I caught my flight back to Manchester, lungs longing for more mountain air but chest otherwise empty as, once again, I’d left my heart in Scotland.