liathach

Unfinished Business

Part One of Three March 2006

I still wonder, looking back, what was my exact emotion at that moment? Disbelief, I suspect, was uppermost in my mind. Bewilderment, perhaps. I cant remember feeling angry, although I should have. Angry with myself, and with the circumstances.

I had planned this trip for months, pored over the map, noted my route in excruciating detail, leg times, bearings, grid references. I had kissed goodbye to my wife and daughter and driven all the way from Rotherham to the station at Tulloch in the Scottish Highlands. Parking there, I had checked my gear for the last time, changed into my winter clothes, left the note on the dashboard, in case I failed to return, and walked onto the platform to catch the train up to Corrour.

There I found a surfeit of engineering workers, and a worrying amount of missing track. In my eagerness to head out to Ben Alder for a solo round of five Munros in midwinter, I had failed to check the maintenance timetable for the line. Feeling foolish, I returned to my faithful, weather-beaten old Sunny, and pondered my next move. I drove back into Fort William, bought a map of the Glen Shiel area, on impulse, and headed north. Perhaps that classic South Ridge Id driven past so often would offer some redemption.

Morning found me parked at the Cluanie Inn at six. In the process of getting changed, I accidentally leant on the car horn, for which I still feel sorry. The occupants of the inn must have jumped out of their skins! By seven, I had climbed 1000 and, as the sky lightened, I stripped off my Buffalo, and stood semi-naked by Loch a Mhaoil Dhisnich, letting the sweat cool to an icy tingle on my back, as a herd of deer cantered across the snow and over the Druim Shionnach ridge.



The snow was in awful condition on the summits, the unseasonably warm temperatures turning it into a slippery and unstable mush. The cloud was down too, and it was a surprised ptarmigan that turned to stare at me on the ridge approaching Aonach air Chrith, before plunging into the gloom. Just then a gust ripped the map from my hands and I watched despairingly as it disappeared from view. I peered down a steep bank of rotten snow sloping to the cliff edge, and saw the fugitive map, caught in a crack and flapping in the wind. I edged down the snow bank on my backside. The thought dawned on me that no-one knew where I was. If the snow gave way, if I slipped, if I tripped over the edge in a clumsy attempt to halt my descent, it was an awful long way to fall. People would look in all the wrong places, and I wouldnt be found until the spring thaw.

I grasped the map and scrambled back up to the ridge. By the time I reached Maol Chinn Dearg, Id had enough. An accumulation of disappointments crowded in on me. Bad planning, poor conditions, pointless risks. My winter trip for 2006 was over. I tramped down Druim Coire nan Eirecheanach, disturbing a bustling flock of hardy little snow bunting. But Id be back for Ben Alder next year, and this time Id check the engineering works.

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Part Two of Three Feb 2007

The following winter found me on the train to Corrour. I reached the Halt in the early evening gloom, and set off for the eastern end of Loch Ossian. There was little to see in the darkness to draw the eye, but I sensed the weight of the wilderness around me. Past the youth hostel I walked, along the southern banks of the loch, until the hunting lodge was reached. It felt surreal, walking by such comfort in this wild environment. I glimpsed the paintings on the walls, and imagined the roaring fires, the laughter and bonhomie inside, as the privileged occupants entertained themselves.

I was not entirely comfortable with the thought of finding a decent camp site nearby. Experience had taught me that, if the ground is soft and level, then it must be a bog. So I was delighted to find, in the pine woodlands, a perfect site; flat, sheltered and cushioned with pine needles, it was practically idyllic. I ate and slept well, disturbed only by the snuffling of a pine marten under the fly. But at three in the morning the alarm woke me. My reasons for waking so early were twofold. One was because a full moon lit the landscape, and I wanted to start my walk under its beams. Secondly, and rather more urgently, a low pressure was swarming up the country, and I had four mountains to cross, and a bothy to reach before it hit.

For now, the moon shone down, making the bogs, streams and lochans sparkle and dance. The mountains glowed around me as I reached the lower slopes of Meall Glas Choire. The air was still, and tasted icy and fresh. A strange noise broke the silence, sounding for all the world like a trials bike being gunned across the valley. It took me a while to realise it was a ptarmigan calling over the fells. As I climbed, a breeze began to tease around me, and cloud began to thicken as the morning light slowly seeped into the sky. A dull dawn spread across the mountain. Nearing the summit of Beinn Eibhinn, I felt the breeze strengthen. I tried to calculate mentally the wind speed at my back, 20, 30, 40 miles per hour as the weather began to turn.

At the summit, I turned east, and the storm broke onto me. I couldnt open my eyes, such was the force of the spindrift ripping into my face, and my sunglasses offered no help, fogging instantly. I stood no chance of making it as far as Aonach Beag, and knew it was time to get off the mountain while I could still stand in the wind. I descended as quickly as I could, my clothing plastered with snow.



My attempts to stay ahead of the weather had been fruitless. By seven in the morning, I was almost back at the tent and my trip was over. Somehow, it didnt feel like a failure, though. I was realistic enough to know that some things you cant control. Id taken a chance, and it hadnt paid off, that was all. At least, I thought, I can get some rest in the tent. The only train available that Sunday was late in the evening so there was no rush. When I reached the woods, the wind was now swaying the trees, and to my horror, I noticed something that had escaped me in the nights darkness. Over my tent leant a huge uprooted pine, held up, it seemed, by some very slight branches of a fellow tree, and its memories alone.



It creaked back and forth above the tent, and I knew that, even if I was foolish enough to crawl inside, Id never sleep. Instead, I packed up swiftly, with an eye on the tree, and headed west along the loch.

The wonderful Beth Campbell at Corrour Station kept me plied with fine food and pots of tea for the best part of the day, as the storm seethed outside. I passed the time chatting to a bothy-hopping group from the Venture Trust, who do invaluable work, helping youngsters find value in their lives and move away from the lure of drugs and crime. For children and young adults who have a poverty of choice and opportunity, this organisation seeks to support them in making real changes, and building a new future. I hope that some of them return to the mountains, and feel the attraction that draws me back year after year.

Catching the late train, I drove back to Glen Coe that night, and the next day I was high on Bidean nam Bian, grappling with the graupel*.



I watched a sullen sod bully and shout at his group of youngsters on Stob Coire nan Lochan, and thought of the contrast with the patient Venture Trust supervisor. And I remembered my first day on the summit of Bidean, a day of blue skies, crisp snow and distant, gleaming vistas. A man from a nearby group turned to me and asked Is this your first time up here?. I nodded, and he said Were going now. You should have it to yourself for a while. Precious minutes freely given and gratefully received.

As for my trip, Ill be back this winter, hoping for high pressure and regular trains. Ill walk the ridge to Aonach Beag, cross the Geal Charn plateau, sleep in the bothy and climb the Long Leachas beneath the moon. For now, Ben Alder looms in my mind as a monochrome negative, brooding and luminous in the lunar light.

* graupel - Graupel is both denser than ordinary snow and granular, in both cases due to its rimed exterior. The combination of weight and low viscosity makes fresh layers of graupel unstable on slopes, and layers of 20-30 cm present a high risk of dangerous slab avalanches. In addition, thinner layers of graupel falling at low temperatures can act as ball bearings below subsequent falls of more naturally stable snow, rendering them also liable to avalanche. Graupel tends to compact and stabilise approximately one or two days after falling, depending on the temperature and the properties of the graupel.

Part 3 to follow