Black Mountains and Bristly Ridges – A Welsh Summer

A month after scrambling the rocky pinnacles of the Cuillin I found myself on quite different terrain in Wales. The Black Mountains are a group of old sandstone hills at the eastern end of the Brecon Beacons, straddling the border between Powys and Herefordshire. Being the nearest big hills to home they have proved a convenient place to maintain hill fitness during the summer lull in my munro bagging campaign. With their long, flat tops these are great mountains on which to string together long routes. Over two separate outings in July and August I covered some 55km, taking in the range’s five northernmost ‘Hewitts’ (Hill in England, Wales, Ireland above Two Thousand feet) enjoying wonderful views in all directions. To the west is the unmistakable outline of the giant Pen y Fan, to the east the magnificent countryside of Herefordshire and to the south a vista stretching all the way to the Bristol channel. My first trip out in July left me with sore legs though. After June’s exertions in Skye, I made the mistake of putting my feet up for a month, neglecting even basic stretching. Unsurprisingly, launching straight into a 31km Black Mountain yomp wasn’t the best way to reacquaint my leg muscles with the hills!

Black Mountains, 2014

So, before July’s second outing – this time to North Wales – I paid a visit to my physio, Retha Welding, who helped work out the knots in my knees. I’ve been having occasional physiotherapy for a year or so now and have benefited from it enormously. I’m prone to problems with my ilio-tibial band and Retha has shown me various strengthening, stretching and foam rolling exercises to control it. With my legs back in shape, I drove up to Snowdonia on the last Friday in July, reaching the Ogwen valley by tea time. The weather forecast for the next day was poor so I decided to take advantage of the remaining daylight and set off around 4.30pm to climb Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr, two of the most famous Welsh 3000ers. I soon reached Bwlch y Tryfan and faced a decision. Should I ascend Glyder Fach directly by the Bristly Ridge (a grade 1 scramble) or should I take the easier scree path to the top? Having recently completed more challenging scrambles in Skye (albeit in a group and with a guide) I decided to go for the ridge. The conditions were perfect; warm, dry and no wind. However, it was late on a week day and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Had I encountered any difficulty I would have been on my own. Happily, the scramble was not that hard and I was able to find my way to the top intuitively, following the more polished and worn rocks. There was however one slight moment of nerves where I had to down climb awkwardly at a very exposed section of the route. A slip there could have had potentially very serious consequences. Placing my feet and hands with extreme caution, and seeing a precipitous drop to my right, I was acutely conscious of the danger. I completed the move safely though and before long was on the summit plateau.

Snowdon from Glyder Fach, July 2014

From the top I enjoyed incredible views south towards Snowdon and across the eerie summit. As I crossed Glyder Fach and continued on towards Glyder Fawr I experienced a tremendous sense of freedom and intense happiness, basking in the evening glow and the solitude. These are two of the most popular mountains in Snowdonia and I was blessed in having them all to myself on a warm summer’s evening. Since passing a group crossing Bwlch y Tryfan for the Miner’s Track I hadn’t encountered a single person and wouldn’t bump into any other humans (though some hardy sheep loiter on the tops of the Glyders) until completing my descent through the Devil’s Kitchen. I count myself extremely privileged; most visitors to these summits have to share the experience with dozens of others and plenty have to contend with more typical Welsh weather. As I reached the summit of Glyder Fawr I realised what a challenging navigation exercise this would have been in less clement conditions. The summit terrain is extremely haphazard and confusing. It is as if a giant has somehow scattered sharp boulders like confetti on the mountaintop. Picking a route through this in poor visibility or driving rain would not be fun.

Pen Yr Ole Wen: time to get off the mountain

Despite the warm, sunny weather, the risk of precipitation was on my mind. It had been a hot and humid week across the country and thunder storms were forecast overnight. As I began my descent from Glyder Fawr the sun was beginning to set and darker clouds were beginning to draw in. I knew I had ample daylight to get off the mountain but with the risk of a storm on my mind I began a very speedy descent. It’s incredible how quickly the sheer joy and pleasure of being alone on a mountain top can give way to fear, particularly with the apprehension of a storm. The descent through Devil’s Kitchen was very atmospheric. The name is apt and its black crags only added to my mild sense of dread. At the edge of Llyn Idwal I passed two climbers packing up their ropes. We exchanged hellos. From the smiles on their faces I could tell that they had also seen the weather forecast for Saturday and were taking great pleasure in profiting from the evening’s weather window. Thankfully, neither rain nor thunder came until the early hours of the following morning so it was with relief that I arrived back at Ogwen around 9pm, my car the only one left in the car park. The next day was spent at leisure in Betws y Coed browsing through outdoor shops and sitting in the pub reading. Outside the rain pelted down for most of the day and I felt some satisfaction in having already bagged two peaks the evening before. In retrospect, heading up Bristly Ridge completely on my own might not have been the most sensible move. While it’s only a grade 1 scramble some of the lines are harder than others and I’m not sure I chose the easiest. The equally famous Tryfan remains on my tick list and I think that when I return for it I shall wait for a busy Saturday and climb in company.

While my two forays into Wales in July haven’t upped my munro count, they have (I hope) helped to keep me in condition to resume the campaign in Scotland in the autumn. But that’s not all. They’ve also taken me across one of the best scrambles in the UK, given me a sunset view of Snowdon that I will never forget and led me across remote sections of the Black Mountains where the SAS come to train. Once taking on the challenge of the munros it’s easy to fixate on that goal to the neglect of other mountains (not to mention other aspects of life). My trips to Wales this summer are in many ways a welcome break. They remind me that munros are not the be all and end all and all mountains are to be savoured.

Six Months of Real Mountains

Half way through the year and with the Cuillin munros recently completed, it seems like a good time to take stock of my progress in the mountains this year. The big difference compared with 2013 is the frequency with which I’ve managed to get up to Wales and Scotland. Over 12 days since January I have covered a distance of one hundred and fifty eight kilometres, climbed thirteen thousand four hundred and fifty metres in aggregate (roughly one and a half times the height of Everest) and and added twenty one munros and six furths to my tally.

Cuillin, June 2014

My trip to Skye earlier this month (a full account of which is posted to my Walk Highlands page ) undoubtedly marks a high point in my experience of the mountains of Scotland. The exposed scrambles and roped climbs involved in attaining summits such as Sgurr nan Gillean and the Inaccessible Pinnacle will remain firmly etched in my memory forever. Sharing those memories with friends and colleagues recently (e-mailing them links to my Flickr gallery of the Skye trip ) elicited some interesting responses. All admired the photographs, many were stunned by the beauty of the landscape and a few were of course alarmed at the thought of heading into that sort of terrain for fun. The most interesting response came from an Austrian colleague. Whilst admiring the pictures, he suggested that if I wanted to climb a ‘real mountain’ rather than a ‘hill’ (which he observed was almost rivalled in height by a hideous looking Arabian skyscraper called the Burj Khalifa) then I should head to Alps where he would be happy to suggest some via ferrata for me to try.

Inaccessible Pinnacle, June 2014

It was interesting for me to see how the mountains of the UK are sometimes perceived by people who have grown up in the shadow of much higher peaks. I had no hesitation in explaining to him that while the mountains of Scotland pose no danger of altitude sickness they are certainly not be underestimated and should be approached with the respect and caution that any mountain deserves – especially in winter. It’s easy to forget that many munro days (especially on the West coast) start at or near sea level. Routes are frequently pathless and the weather, well…. (I’m sure there’s a German word for ‘dreich’). I pointed out to my Austrian colleague that an ascent of the Grossglockner (Austria’s highest point) begins at a car park that itself is located above the 2000m contour. Thus, the climb to its summit involves around 1900m of ascent. By contrast, a full traverse of the Cuillin ridge involves around 3000m of climbing (about the same as a climb of the Matterhorn from Cervinia). Of course alpine ascents and munro bagging are not to be compared. These are different objectives with high altitude, snow climbs and glacier crossings changing the equation altogether. But it’s easy to see how the relatively low altitude of British mountains can deceive people who are used to loftier ranges.

Bla-Bheinn, June 2014

One thing the alpine climber doesn’t have to contend with is the dreaded midge. During the week in Skye I had my first encounters with Culicoides impunctatus and was extremely glad of my head net. OK, I’ll admit that it’s not a look that’s likely to take off on the catwalk any time soon but it’s a really effective way to keep the little buggers at bay. The onset of midge season also seems to coincide with the mass arrival of tourists in the Highlands. I noticed on the drive to and from Skye many more cars and caravans on the road than I had seen earlier in the year. So, despite my desperation to bag more munros I expect to delay my next visit to the Highlands at least until September when I hope the midges will be biting less, and the roads will be quieter.

4.45 am and 636 miles to home

In the meantime, I will set my sights on Snowdonia. Having enjoyed the scrambles on Skye so much I plan to take on Tryfan and the Glyders later in July. My sense of achievement in upping my munro count (from 3 to 24 in the space of a few months) is sometimes matched by feelings of frustration that the mountains aren’t a little bit nearer. A weekend in Wales means 5 hours in the car each way and a Highland trip (whether arriving by plane or train) is inevitably a wager on the weather of at least £200 in non-refundable fares. That said, being in London has its advantages too. It’s clearly too far to reach Scotland by car in a weekend and the flight options are good. In October a new service to Inverness opens from London City so with any luck, this coming winter will see a couple of weekend expeditions into the Cairngorms.

Since starting this blog in March I have received 350 views from readers as far away as Malaysia and the United States. Whoever you are, thank you for reading. I look forward to sharing more mountain adventures with you in the months to come.

24 down, 258 to go

Incompleatist, 29 June 2014

 

 

 

 

Preparing for the Cuillin

So far this year I have managed one big mountain trip from London every month. In June, I face my biggest challenge yet: the Black Cuillin. Britain’s most fearsome and impressive mountain range, my ambition is to climb all eleven of the munros on the main ridge during the course of the first week in June. I will join a group guided by Richard ‘Paddy’ McGuire, with whom I climbed Blaven in October 2012. As exciting as a single traverse of the entire ridge would be, I suspect that for the moment, such an undertaking (even with a guide) may be a step too far. Splitting the ridge into sections, I hopefully stand a better chance of bagging all the principal summits and gain some route flexibility to work around the notoriously fickle Skye weather.

Dreaming of Skye, original LNER lithograph by Austin Cooper

When I’m not climbing mountains, I’m often thinking about climbing them – and I have been dreaming of the Cuillin for nearly two years. I will never forget my first sight of them, from the shores of Loch Coruisk after taking a boat across the water from Elgol in 2012. The dark, jagged peaks stand menacingly between loch and sea. Their summits are sharp and exaggerated. These are mountains as I might have drawn them as a child. At home in London, I have hanging on the wall a lithograph printed for the London and North Eastern Railway Company in the 1930s that depicts the classic view of Sgurr nan Gillean from Sligachan. The giant poster transports me mentally to the mountains on days when I am stuck at sea level, dreaming.

Route planning, May 2014

Normally, before a mountain trip, I will dedicate hours to careful route planning, breaking my routes into sections, calculating distances, times and bearings. To date, I have not planned route cards for the Cuillin. Going onto the ridge in a guided group, I could give myself the luxury of not planning route cards at all. However, between now and the start of June I will attempt to make some anyway. It is a good discipline that focuses the mind on the challenge ahead. It will also be interesting to find out if I select similar routes to those planned by Paddy. If I do, I will gain some confidence in my route planning ability. An inspection of the Harvey 1:25000 map of the area reveals the complexity of the terrain and abundant exposure.

These boots were made for scrambling, and that’s just what they’ll do

The notorious Inaccessible Pinnacle holds a fair degree of dread for me. I am principally a walker, not a climber. I hope though, that experience gained on some rock climbs in Applecross in 2012 and the scramble along Crib Goch in 2013 will set me in reasonable stead. I suspect that the exposed, unroped scrambling sections of the ridge may prove more terrifying than the In Pinn itself. The physical challenge is also not to be underestimated. Most recently I clocked up 37k with almost 3000m of climbing over two days and coped well but certainly felt exhausted the next day. I hope that my fitness will stand up to 4 consecutive mountain days, with maybe 1200m climbing each day.

The Cuillin – counting down the days

Right now I am a mixture of nerves and excitement. Only four more days in the office and a day’s drive separate me from what I hope will be my most thrilling mountain experience yet. I really can’t wait!

 

A big day on Beinn Chabhair

Only a month after my last trip I found myself up in the Highlands again this weekend, bagging munros. So far this year I have managed to get out of London and into the mountains with much more frequency than in 2013. Last Thursday I made the short trip from Limehouse down to City Airport on the DLR. City is an absolute gem of an airport. Check in and security, even during the evening rush hour, is a breeze. In no time at all I was sat down in the oddly named “Rhubarb” restaurant, tucking into a tasty and well prepared (though ridiculously overpriced) pasta supper before my gate was called. My plan for the long weekend was to spend Friday at Arrochar, Saturday in the Crianlarich hills and then on Sunday bag Ben Vorlich from Ardlui on the way back to the airport.

Arriving at Glasgow I immediately embarked upon what would without doubt turn out to be the scariest stage of the weekend’s activities: getting behind the wheel of a manual transmission car for the first time in roughly 14 years. In 2000, I sold my little 1.0 litre Austin Metro and had hardly drove at all in the decade that followed, living for the most part in towns and cities where a car is not exactly a necessity. In 2010, I returned to driving while living in the US where every rental car I used was an automatic. Back in London in 2011 I bought a new car and went for an auto.

So on Friday evening, in the dark and driving rain, I trundled out of the Avis parking lot and sped down the M8 towards Inverkip, where family friends had kindly offered to put me up for the weekend. I’m pleased to say that I only stalled the car once, but boy did driving a manual after all those years feel like a terrifying experience – for the first few miles at least. Naturally, over the course of the weekend, clutch control returned to me, just like riding a bicycle. I have to say though, I’d never willingly go back to driving manual cars – what a chore they are. Plus, for anyone reading who cares about this sort of thing, avoid the Peugeot 107. Fine around town no doubt but not built for weekends in the wild. Cramped, awful steering, noisy, zero boot space, tinted rear window that makes it virtually impossible to see the traffic behind you. Anyway, you get the picture, and this isn’t Top Gear, so back to the mountains.

The weather forecasts for Friday (MWIS and Met Office) were poor. High winds and rain were forecast. So I was pleasantly surprised on pulling into the parking lot at Succoth to see the sun out (though unpleasantly surprised to find I had to pay for parking – only a quid for the whole day mind you). Starting the march up to Ben Narnain I passed some French tourists heading for the Cobbler. I then had the mountain pretty much to myself, before encountering two American students who, like me, had Narnain and Ime in their sights. The final stretch up to Narnain’s summit was a little scrambly, though nothing too taxing. Heading on towards Ben Ime, something in the landscape (I think it was the trees creeping up the lower slopes) really reminded me of vistas near the Tokositna glacier in Denali NP that I’d seen in 2011.

Ben Ime, May 2014 – Echoes of Alaska

Heading back down the smooth, if boggy, southern slope of Ben Ime the scene was idyllic. Green grass, warm sunshine, spring lambs jumping about the place and birds singing. Committing the cardinal munro bagger’s sin, I’d resolved not to climb the Cobbler on this occasion, as I wanted to save my legs for a big Saturday near Crianlarich. As it transpired, I ended up almost at the top of the Cobbler anyway. At the Bealach a’ Mhaim I met a concerned looking lady from Great Barr, Birmingham. She asked me if I’d seen her children who had apparently wandered up the south east slopes of the Cobbler alone and were going to descend the north ridge path and meet her here at the bealach around 3pm. By now it was almost 6pm, so she was understandably worried. I was mildly reassured when she explained that her children were in a group of four and were teenagers but I was still a bit surprised at the situation. Letting a group of inexperienced kids wander up a pretty serious mountain on their own defies all common sense.

I offered to head up the north ridge path to see if I could see her lost party. Near the top, I met a pair of climbers on their way down. I asked them if they’d seen for children and was hugely relieved when they told me that they had seen a party of four retreating, apparently lost but heading for the Narnain boulders where, half an hour or so later, mother and children were reunited. The kids had simply got lost near the summit and had decided to turn back, unable to stick to their original plan. None appeared to be carrying any sort of navigational aid. Though no one was injured and the episode was far from serious, it’s left an impression on me. I think people really do underestimate the physical and navigational challenges that a day in the British hills can present. I hope the kids from Great Barr get back to the Cobbler and make it to the top – but I also hope they learn how to use a map and compass!

Saturday morning I was in no rush. Again the forecast was not brilliant, though indications were that the weather would improve throughout the day. I pulled into the lay-by at Derrydarroch, just south of Crianlarich around 12.30pm. The sky was heavily overcast and there was a steady drizzle. I set off around 1pm through the farmyard and onto boggy terrain. The mountaintops ahead of me were still covered in cloud and at first I had some difficulty identifying my target – Garbh Bhealach – that would lead me up to the summit of Beinn Chabhair. Before long I picked up the Allt a’ Chuilinn and crossed the stream just as it forks into the Coire a’ Chuilin. By now the clouds had broken and the sun was out. A mixed blessing. Forgetfully (only a month ago I was on Buachille Etive Mor in crampons) I’d neglected to bring a hat, shades or suncream. I’d already caught the sun a bit on Friday and only had a little over a litre of water with me.

So despite these very pleasant conditions, I found the going up to Garbh Bhealach pretty hard. The terrain on this route up Beinn Chabhair seemed complex – at least compared with the previous day’s easy going on Ben Ime. The ground is boggy and constantly undulating and the Allt a’Chuillinn is fed by dozens of little burns that carve down the slopes and require regular leaps to dodge. Closer to the col the ground steepened and my lungs more than my legs were feeling the strain. Finally, I made it to the col, plonked myself on a rock in the sunshine and enjoyed my lunch taking in the fabulous views. On the way up to the summit of Beinn Chabhair, around 3.30pm I met a large party of walkers coming back down. On reaching the summit an hour later I realised that my day’s progress had not been rapid. The original plan had been to take in Beinn a’ Chroin and An Caisteal as well in a big horseshoe. I realised now that if I pressed on, I might be ending my day in the dark. I admired the splendid views from the top of Beinn Chabhair and pondered my next move.

Having made such a late start my head was telling me to turn round and not be greedy. But the slog up from Derrydarroch was really not that enjoyable and I was determined, if I could, to avoid retracing my steps. Looking at my watch I figured I had about 4 hours of daylight left, which ought to be enough to get to the other two munros but would probably require walking in the dark for some of my descent. As the conditions were now so good – warm sunshine and no wind – I decided to go for it. I knew that I couldn’t just head in a straight line from Chabhair’s summit to the 619m spot height that roughly marked a halfway point between Chabhair and the other munros. The terrain in between was far too steep and rocky. Instead, I descended south, first on a path that seemed to peter out quite quickly. Route finding safely through the corrie was pretty difficult and I don’t think my navigation skills would have been up to it in poor visibility. I resorted to the GPS a couple of times to check my precise location and was able to pick a route through that avoided the steep crags.

On my way up to Bealach Buidhe – the col that separates Beinn a’Chroin and An Caisteal I slipped on wet grass and grazed my left knuckles across a rock as I braced the fall. The cut didn’t seem very deep but was bleeding quite a lot. I reached for my first aid kit to get a wipe to clean it, then bandaged it up to get some pressure on it. Annoyed at myself for slipping (I took it as a sign of tiredness) I pressed on. I found the climb hard work and in the warm sunshine wished I had more water with me (by now I had less than half a litre left). At the bealach I stopped to eat an apple whose water content was extremely refreshing. Looking to the south I could see an ominous band of dark cloud creeping in. It seemed like madness to set off towards it as I began my climb from the col to the day’s second and remotest munro, Beinn a’Chroin. There was a clear path all the way up, though it times it was steep and hands were needed to cross some sections. I passed the cairn at 938m and continued to the central summit at 942m. I recalled reading about confusion as to the precise location of the mountain’s true summit and seemed to remember that it was the central one of the three tops. I continued eastwards a little, mulling over whether I should bag the eastern top at 940m as well. I soon realised that this would involve a reasonable descent and reascent though and decided against it. It was already 7.30pm and I was several kilometres from the road. (Since the walk I’m glad I didn’t bother as the SMC tables now show the summit height as the central one at 942m with the eastern 940m point relegated to a ‘top’).

The feeling of remoteness I experienced on Beinn a’Chroin was both unsettling and exhilarating. I hadn’t seen a soul for four hours (and wouldn’t see anyone until the next morning in the B&B) and daylight was fading fast. I realised that foolishly, I hadn’t left a route card with anyone so I sent a text message to my girlfriend with info on my location and planned remaining route in case I should encounter any problems. Her reply cautioned me to stay safe. Exchanging these messages, I felt a little guilty. Hills and mountains can be dangerous places and heading into them alone only increases the seriousness. Part of me longed for home.

It took me 45 minutes to reach An Caisteal so my pace must have quickened a little. It was still daylight but I knew that the clock was against me and that I was probably quite badly dehydrated. The descent from An Caisteal in the last light of the day was really enjoyable though. On the home straight I was beginning to feel a real sense of achievement. The views to the west were very moody as the setting sun slipped through gaps in the dark clouds. By around 10pm, just past Sron Garbh I finally reached for my head torch. Not far to go now. Every step that I took towards the road, I felt safer and closer to home. As darkness enveloped the mountainside my luck with the weather finally ran out though and the heavens opened. The last couple of kilometres to the track that would lead me to the A82 were in driving rain across thick bog. The light from my head torch occasionally reflected eerily in the eyes of sheep on the hillside. Finally, I made it to the road. It took me another 40 minutes to make the 2 miles back to the car at Derrydarroch, arriving there some 10 hours after my start. Even the 2 miles on tarmac in the rain wasn’t enough to dampen my mood. I was elated.

Descending An Caisteal, May 2014 – last light of the day

It was a quick drive to the B&B in Crianlarich (Dunfraoich House – highly recommended) where the owners had kindly left the kitchen open for me. I sat for a while gulping down glass after glass of water, filling my face with warm toast and thinking on the day’s walk. It had been an incredible day. Definitely one that will remain firmly etched in my memory. I was pleased that I’d decided to go for the more ambitious option and that I’d made it round safely. 22km and 10 hours with some fairly difficult route finding after the first munro, all a day after a 15k double munroer too. The feeling of exhaustion was oddly pleasant. Despite my extreme physical tiredness and the comfortable accommodation, I actually slept poorly. I think I was somehow beyond sleep by this stage. So, rising early I spent some time on the phone rearranging my flight plans for later in the day, resolving to leave Ben Vorlich and just to get home and rest.

By teatime on Sunday I was back in the big city, a world away from the Crianlarich hills. In just a few weeks I will be in Skye, joining a guided course with Paddy McGuire to try to get all the Skye munros in a week. That week will no doubt be a supreme test of fitness. Hopefully my recent weekend augurs well. I look forward to reporting back in a month or so’s time.

Incompleatist, 13 May 2014

13 down, 269 to go

 

Obsessive Compulsive Munroism

On April 13th 2013 I went up onto the ridge of Buachaillle Etive Beag in Glencoe and bagged its southerly munro, Stob Dubh, in decent winter conditions – or at least I think I bagged it. That climb was my first big hill day since having arthroscopic surgery to repair a torn meniscus in February. On the day I was very much focused on my knee, praying I would get across the ridge, up the munro and down again without pain. Alan Kimber from West Coast Mountain Guides led the way and I scarcely looked at a map – which is why I say I ‘think’ I bagged Stob Dubh. I wasn’t really paying that much attention to our route or location at all because I was so focused on my knee. I know we crossed the first top on the ridge (around 902m) and then followed the ridge southward, climbing again until the slope levelled off and the ground appeared to drop away. We returned across the ridge, leaving the northerly munro, Stob Coire Raineach for another day.

Almost a year to the day later, I found myself on Buachaille Etive Beag again but this time alone. The weather was dreadful. Several days of warm temperatures and rain had stripped the hills of snow below 900m and I climbed up to Stob Coire Raineach in a howling gale with rain lashing at my face. (I’ve found that in these conditions, snow goggles provide excellent protection from the elements). The summit was not a place to loiter and I headed straight back down to the col. My original plan for the day had been to continue along the ridge to Stob Dubh and make certain this time that I really had bagged it. Despite the low cloud I actually had pretty good visibility from the slopes of Raineach across the first top and all the way towards Stob Dubh – but it didn’t take me long to decide that the prudent course of action on this occasion was to get off the hill and back to the car.

Stob Coire Raineach, April 2014

Crossing a narrow, snow capped ridge, alone and in gale force winds would have been an unnecessarily stupid risk. Yet the decision not to proceed onto that ridge still left me disappointed. I had really wanted to make it to Stob Dubh last weekend and my fixation on that goal reveals something, I think, about the obsessive compulsive nature of the typical munro ‘bagger.’ For me, heading back to Stob Dubh would have been the winter walking equivalent of turning round, 50m from the front door of the house, to check whether I’d forgotten to switch off the iron or perhaps left the stove burning. What can I say? No matter how many times you check, the iron is never left on, and the stove is never burning. I’d crossed that ridge a year before, with a guide and walked as far south-west as possible before the contours dropped. In any sane person’s book, I’d bagged Stob Dubh in 2013. But the munro bagger wants to be sure. These days, he or she probably carries some sort of GPS device too, so there need be no uncertainty as to whether one is actually at the summit or not.

Two days earlier, I had witnessed something similar at the summit of Ben Vane in the Arrochar Alps. I had taken an early flight from London City to Glasgow and was at the car park at Inveruglas by 11am. Excitedly (this being my first solo munro) I made my way past the power station and on up the slopes of this diminutive but very steep munro. Near the top I met another ‘bagger’ – a delightful lady from Inverness who was close to compleating (only 20 to go I think – not to mention that she was even closer to finishing the Corbetts and Grahams!) At the summit I happily plonked my axe into the cairn that I assumed must be marking the high point. I was struck when I noticed my fellow bagger skip over to a nearby rock that did appear to be perhaps as much as 50cm higher than the cairn! Who wants to leave anything to chance? Naturally, I wandered over to stand on that rock too.

Ben Vane, April 2014 – This is the summit right?

Munro baggers are a funny bunch. Many mountaineers deride any form of peak bagging, comparing it to stamp collecting. I can understand these criticisms. It shouldn’t really matter how many mountains you climb or how high they are. There is certainly something peculiar about ticking off peaks in a list. And the highest mountains aren’t always the best. But for me, and many others, there is something deeply satisfying in peak bagging. By chasing the munros and furths, there’s a structure to my enjoyment of the mountains and an easy way to measure my progress over a period of years. One thing I realised on my most recent trip though, was that the moment chasing those peaks starts to feel like a chore, then you know it’s time to ease off. The day after I’d been up Buachaille Etive Beag in the rain, and two days after Ben Vane, I was scheduled to return to London on an evening flight. Staying in Crianlarich I had enough time, with a sufficiently early start, to take on one or two of the Crianlarich munros on Monday morning. On Sunday night I was thinking that if I hit the trail by 6am I could probably make it round the An Casteal horseshoe with time enough to get back to Glasgow for my flight. After giving it some thought I decided that I wouldn’t set an alarm for Monday morning after all. I was tired, and climbing mountains should never feel like ‘work’.

The Crianlarich hills will wait and my legs needed to rest. I was pretty tired after three days of walking – in between Ben Vane and Stob Coire Raineach I’d spent Saturday walking both of the munros on Buachaille Etive Mor with Max Hunter. Together with my solo outings on Ben Vane and Stob Coire Raineach, the day on Buachaille Etive Mor was a big one for me. My first route combining two munros in a day (though earlier this winter I strung together 4 furths on a longer route in the Carneddau in Snowdonia). Parking on the A82 opposite Lagangarbh, the cloud was hanging low over Glencoe. I’d planned the route with careful regard to dangers: the obvious route onto the mountain, through Coire na Tulaich, has claimed lives in previous winters. Just looking at the corrie on the map, the potential avalanche hazard is obvious. Last Saturday, in late winter conditions, the avalanche forecast from the Scottish Avalanche Information Service indicated ‘low’ risk on the slopes. But in these thaw conditions, however safe the slopes, the danger of cornice collapse was real and, as the SAIS text forecast noted, quite independent of avalanche risk. We decided that the only sensible option was to climb the buttress to the west of the corrie. This was a steep and tiring slog but as we reached the top, the enormous fracture lines behind the rim of the corrie confirmed that we had made a wise move. If and when this thing goes (hopefully it will just melt away gently) it will drag an enormous amount of snow with it.

Coire na Tulaich – Glad we didn’t try to climb up this

Atop Stob Dearg I broke open my hip flask, a really thoughtful Christmas gift from my girlfriend Jennifer who is so tolerant of my increasingly frequent solo forays into the mountains. Unusually perhaps, my flask is filled not with a fine single malt (though I’m certainly partial to a Glenlivet or a Talisker) but with an absolutely superb, aged rum from Guyana – ‘El Dorado’ (seriously – give this stuff a try, it is super smoky and the most ‘whiskey-like’ rum I’ve ever tasted). Before taking a sip myself, I poured a little drop onto the summit, a votive offering to appease the mountain gods. The ridge south from the first munro of the day gave me a good opportunity to test my navigation. While Max has been up to Stob Dearg dozens of times with clients interested in the exciting climbs at the northern end of Buachaille Etive Mor, this was his first complete traverse of the ridge as well as mine. In the poor visibility, our map and compass skills were important in making our way to Stob na Broige which, at 5km from the road, feels reasonably remote. Reaching the summit, I was pleased with my achievement. Three munros in two days. It might not sound like much in the grand scheme of things but given my injury troubles in 2013, the start to my 2014 campaign is going really well.

Stob Dearg (1022m) – Cheers!

Our plan for the descent was to head down Coire Altrium but we both knew that it would – like Tulaich – be heavily corniced and potentially dicey. Worst case we would have had to return all the way to the buttress at the top of Coire na Tulaich and climb down from there. Thankfully though, we were able to avoid the worst of the cornicing and access the corrie more safely by crossing into it from the east. At the base of the corrie we could see a large amount of avalanche debris from earlier in the winter. Above us there were patches of blue sky. Walking along the river Coupal back to the road I had a real sense of deja-vu. I suddenly realised I’d walked into this valley before in 2012 with my Dad. I remember at the time admiring the peaks of both the Buachailles. It was great to be walking the same path two years on knowing I’d bagged them all.

Buachaille Etive Mor, April 2014

All in all it was an intense weekend. In three days, I doubled my munro count to eight. This was also the first time since 2012 that I’d done consecutive days in the mountains and my knees held up perfectly well. In fact, I think that the increase in activity in 2014 is only strengthening my legs and this hopefully bodes well for the rest of the year. Adding together all my routes so far in 2014 in Wales and Scotland, I have climbed five munros and six furths, completing a distance of around 80km with a total ascent of almost 6000m! I have a few weeks off now and will return to the Highlands in May. I’ve realised that all my 8 munros to date have been completed in winter conditions. With any luck, I’ll have fine weather in May for my next few. Thanks for reading, and happy hiking.

The Incompleatist, 12 April 2014 – 8 down, 274 to go

 

Over the sea to Skye

October 2012. Dad and I make a road trip to Scotland. Having seen the Highlands for the first time myself earlier in the year I was eager that my Dad should see them too. Before this trip, he had never been further north than Edinburgh or Glasgow. I was also keen to put some miles on my car which was beginning to look like an expensive luxury, seeing very little use in the year since I bought it. On our first day we made it from the West Midlands to the top of Loch Lomond, staying in a B&B with amazing views over the loch. During the drive up, as we passed through Cumbria I also got a small sense of what fine walking country the Lake District offers. I would have to wait almost another year before making my first visit to England’s finest mountain region though.

Loch Lomond, October 2012

Our objective was Skye. While we could have made it to Broadford easily from Loch Lomond in a day, we overnighted again en route at Onich, just outside Fort William. On the way up to Onich we stopped in Glencoe, spending a couple of hours there. On my first visit to the Highlands earlier in the year I had not made it to Glencoe, so for me this was another life ‘first’ and one that I’ll never forget. The mountains looked awesome in their blazing autumn colours. At the time, munro fever had really not hit me yet and incredibly, while we wandered along the start of the path up towards Buachaille Etive Mor, we didn’t climb any higher. To be fair, while Dad enjoys walking he’s not really a mountain walker and I’m not sure we could have climbed anything in Glencoe together that day. But in retrospect, now that the munro bug really has bitten me, I can’t imagine driving through Glencoe and not stopping to climb something.

Lagangarbh, Glencoe, October 2012

I must have expected some good walking that week though, as I had brought all my hiking gear with me. On arriving in Skye the views from Breakish were enough to convince me that I had to get one good day’s mountain walking in while on Skye. I knew that my target would be somewhere in the Cuillin and so, on our first day in Broadford I left dad at the holiday cottage and drove up the road to a pay phone (my then new smart phone not picking up any signal at all) to call round guides. Back in 2012 I was hesitant to head into the mountains alone, even outside winter, and I knew that the Cuillin had a fierce reputation. I made contact with Paddy McGuire and we arranged to meet at the Sligachan hotel early on Friday, the last day of the trip.

Cuillin Hills, Skye, October 2012

Over the next couple of days Dad and I explored the island at a leisurely pace. We had absolutely fantastic late autumn weather and it was often warm in the sunshine. Ironically, that week, much of the rest of the UK was experiencing wet and windy weather much more typical of the season. There aren’t many occasions when you can look at a TV weather map of the UK and see the only bright spot in the western Highlands. It happens occasionally though! The highlight of the week for both of us was undoubtedly a boat trip from Elgol to Loch Coruisk from where we had some incredible views of the Cuillin. The site of the mountains really stirred something in me and while I realised that their traverse was something way beyond my capabilities as such a novice mountaineer at the time, it was a goal that was definitely added to my bucket list that day.

Bla Bheinn, Skye, October 2012 – The day started fine

After much anticipation Friday morning came. Overnight the temperature had dropped and the mountains had been given their very first dusting of snow for the winter. At Sligachan Paddy proposed that we set our sights on Bla Bheinn rather than heading anywhere on the main ridge, and off we went. It snowed for much of the morning, a climb which I remember being occasionally quite rocky and scrambly. Miraculously, as we approached the summit, the clouds broke a little and the views opened up, revealing an awe-inspiring, red-hued mountain scape. We even had the good fortune to catch sight of an eagle, soaring beneath us. Truly magical. Without really being conscious of the fact, I had ticked off my second munro. My descent that day was reasonably painful and I was glad of the loan of one of Paddy’s poles. Looking back I can’t believe I waited so long, and subjected myself to so much knee pain, before investing in my own poles and taking other steps to get on top of my knee trouble.

Bla Bheinn, Skye, October 2012 – but soon it was snowing heavily

Paddy is an excellent guide. A Skye native, he is extremely knowledgable and seems to know the Cuillin like the back of his hand. While the weather conditions that day weren’t the worst (mercifully the winds were not that fierce) it was nevertheless a cold, wet and largely grey day on the mountain. Without the skill and local nous of a guide like Paddy I doubt that I would have made it to the top solo and, even if I had, navigating the descent would have seriously tested me. I’ve used guides extensively in my first two years of mountain walking and would recommend that anyone else exploring unfamiliar terrain or who is a newcomer to the UK mountains should do the same. It is money very well spent. I’m sure that the route I completed solo recently in Snowdonia in absolutely atrocious conditions and gale force winds is not something I would contemplate without the skills and knowledge that I have built up from spending a couple of years going into the hills with people who really know what they’re doing.

Bla Bheinn, Skye, October 2012 – as we approached the summit, the views began to open

The next day Dad and I made a very, very early start and completed the marathon journey from Broadford, Skye to Wolverley, Worcestershire in approximately 11 hours. The following day I drove another 3 hours back down to London. The Octavia VRS was made for journeys like this. It just chews up the miles and makes for a fast but comfortable ride. As a child of the 80s I remember Skodas being the butt of so many jokes in the playground. How times change. I wouldn’t swap my VRS for anything else on the road (except perhaps the new VRS – or, if you’re twisting my arm, maybe a Ferrari F12 Berlinetta).

Bla Bheinn, Skye, October 2012 – A fine view from the summit

It was a fantastic week and great to spend some quality time catching up with Dad. He is the person perhaps most responsible for my picking up the munro bagging affliction. As a Christmas gift that year, as a memento of my day on Bla Bheinn, he gave me a copy of Cameron McNeish’s book on The Munros. A must have tome for any ‘bagger’. The text, photos, maps and lists awakened the inner stamp collector in me. For me, the idea I might become a bagger was born at the end of 2012 and really inspired by this trip to Skye. Injury setbacks in 2013 have meant that my campaign has not really taken off yet. But I have since honed my fitness and navigation skills in the English and Welsh mountains and am now ready to step things up a gear.

More photos from this 2012 trip at my Flickr page

 

Hill fitness

A few weeks after returning from the Highlands in March 2012, the pain from my shin splints finally abated. Later in the Spring I made my first foray into the hills again, heading up to the Brecon Beacons. I completed a route that took in Pen y Fan, Fan y Big, Corn Du and Cribyn. For the last 2 miles of the walk I was in absolute agony. I remember two other hikers on the trail slowing down to see me down the mountainside safely. Those guys were seriously good samaritans. That summer I climbed Vasstinden, near to Tromso in the north of Norway. Once again, I climbed the hill no trouble whatsoever. But the moment I turned around to descend, I found myself in difficulty.

Cribyn, Brecon Beacons, 2012 – a beautiful mountain, a colossally painful descent

Over the course of the last two years I have seen sports doctors and an orthopaedic surgeon. I have had MRI scans and an arthroscopy to repair torn cartilage and several sessions of physiotherapy. During this time I have learned that the knee is a complicated and vulnerable joint and that powerful glutes and a mobile ankle are crucial to shielding it from the impact of a day in the mountains.

Knee pain is pretty common amongst hikers so I know I’m not alone. But it can sometimes be demoralising to have the fitness to charge up a mountain hardly breaking a sweat, only to be crippled by the descent. Today I find that my best safeguards against knee pain are hiking poles and a knee brace. I use the poles all the time, both on the ascent and descent. Also, when I climb I try to move as gently as possible, zig zagging at a reasonably slow pace. Climing, I take short strides, making sure I’m not bending the knee forward too much. If the knee cap passes too far in front of the foot vertically, I know I’m overdoing it.

The other thing that I have realised is that there is absolutely no substitute to being on the hill. It’s impossible to recreate a six or seven hour mountain day in the gym. I’m hoping that the body weight squats I try to fit into my morning routine will help but I know that the best way to get and stay hill fit is to just be out there. With any luck, as I increase the frequency of my mountain days, I will be able to put knee trouble behind me. This year I already have 4 quality mountain days under my belt and all passed without any serious knee pain.

The big test comes next weekend. 4 days in Scotland with the objective of 6 munros. My targets are Ben Vane in the Arrochar Alps, Ben Chabhair at Crianlarich plus Buachaille Etive Mor and Buachaille Etive Beag. Fingers crossed for the weather, the snow conditions and my knees!

Discovering the Highlands – February 2012

In February 2012 I visited the Highlands of Scotland for the first time in my life. Growing up, mountains didn’t really feature in my childhood. I can remember one trip to North Wales but have no memories of its hills or mountains – just drizzly weather and car sickness on a long drive home from Betws y Coed. The furthest north I had ventured was to Loch Lomond. A good school friend had moved to Scotland when I was about 9 years old and I can remember a couple of trips up to Hellensburgh to visit him. I distinctly recall the green slopes of hillsides seen from the car and my friend’s dad pointing out Loch Lomond to me. Yet these trips were more exciting for the experience of flying as an ‘unaccompanied minor’ on a BAC 1-11 from Birmingham Airport than for any exploration of the outdoors. Seeing these hills it never occurred to me that I might one day want to climb them.

Inverness bound – February 2012

At prep school I had taken part in charity walks on the Malvern hills, whose pointy peaks were visible from the school playing fields. I also remember travelling in the car across the Clee Hill in Shropshire, dodging sheep as we went, and my dad telling me that there was no higher ground to the east until the Ural mountains in Russia. Later, at secondary school, I completed my ‘Bronze’ duke of Edinburgh expedition in the Peak District and took part in a geography field trip to the Long Mynd. But for whatever reason, I waited until my early thirties before I discovered the magic of Britain’s best and highest mountain regions, and the Highlands in particular.

Climbing aboard a train at Inverness station in February 2012 I was excited at the week ahead. I had booked onto a winter mountaineering course and would be staying at Coulags, near Strathcarron. The train carried me across the most fantastic landscape but the weather was dismal and there didn’t seem much prospect of the snow that I was hoping to encounter. Arriving at Strathcarron, I faced a walk of a few kilometres up to Coulags. I popped my head into the Station hotel bar where a gentleman was about to start sipping a pint. Seeing me already half soaked from just the short walk from the platform, he kindly offered to drive me up the road. Highland hospitality at its finest. In the car we chatted a little and, discussing the weather, he told me that it really was a ‘dreich’ day. The first time I had heard this strange Gaelic adjective. It sounded like the right word to my ear.

Fuar Tholl – February 2012

Over the next few days I had a tremendous time. Our guide found gullies with some snow still left to climb. Not really having had any experience of climbing before, there were times when I felt at the edge of my comfort zone: setting up a snow belay on Fuar Tholl and completing a multi pitch ‘dry tooling’ route up Meall Gorm on the Applecross peninsula, this was in at the deep end for me.

Climbers or mountaineers? Who cares? – February 2012

Whilst I found my mountaineering course challenging, I knew that there was a dedicated winter ‘climbing’ course running at the same time from the lodge I was staying in. At the time I wasn’t really sure of the distinction between mountaineering and climbing. Though I understood the ‘climbers’ to be focused on some tough and potentially dangerous objectives. I also observed that in the evenings, when the two groups sat down for dinner together, there seemed to be a lot of big talk and bravado from the ‘climbers’. The other ‘mountaineers’ in my group were all older than me, whereas the climbers were about the same age, if not younger than me. Whilst everyone was quite friendly, in the company of these serious outdoor enthusiasts on their nth trip to the Highlands I was acutely aware of my own inexperience and felt a little intimidated at times. To this day I think that my reluctance to don a rope and dangle off ledges may put me in a different outdoor tribe from really serious climbers – but each to their own.

Completing Access Gully on Fuar Tholl – February 2012

Whatever label you apply to the activity, it was a fabulous week and the highlight was undoubtedly the two day trip made in the Cairngorms, crossing Ben Macdui and overnighting at the Hutchinson Memorial Hut bothy. Unwittingly I had bagged my first munro. I had also witnessed the spectacular beauty of the North West Highlands in winter. One aspect of the trip leaves me with a less pleasant memory though. For a few weeks after returning to London my legs ached terribly. The experience of shin splints was another first for me in 2012. Problems with my knees and legs were to dog me for the next couple of years and anterior knee pain is something that occasionally still causes me hassle today. Despite being a lean 60kg with scarcely a gram of fat on me, I have begun to realise that hill fitness involves some complicated biomechanics, and is something that I will have to work on constantly if I am to become a compleatist. It’s an important topic that I shall leave for a more detailed discussion in a future post.

Welcome

In February 2012 I stood at the summit of Ben Macdui (4295ft) in a freezing gale. I had reached Britain’s second highest mountain via a snow gully climb to Cairn Lochan and a walk across the windswept Cairngorm plateau. With a group of fellow aspiring mountaineers and our guide we continued on to the Hutchinson memorial hut. Two firsts in one day: my first munro and my first bothy trip.

Hutchinson Memorial Hut, Cairngorms, February 2012

At the time, I knew nothing of Sir Hugh Munro’s famous compilation of Scotland’s highest mountains. Atop Ben Macdui I realised that the only people standing higher in the land than me would be on Ben Nevis. But I had no idea that either mountain was known as a ‘munro’ or that there were hundreds of these peaks to climb. What I did know was that I delighted in being in this mountain environment, despite (or perhaps because of) the harsh winter conditions.

Two and a half years previously, I had left London for Washington, D.C., where I would spend two years working for an international organization. At the time, hiking, hill walking and exploration of the outdoors were not pastimes that I pursued actively at all. As a teenager I had enjoyed running around in the woods and zooming around in training aircraft with the air cadets – but I had not been especially active or engaged with the outdoors.

If anything, the urban environment had fascinated me more than any wild places. Travelling whilst a university student at the end of the 1990s to cities such as Havana, Mumbai and New York I developed a passion for photography. Nothing excited me more than street photography in the classic style. Snatching a moment in time and recording it to film absolutely thrilled me, as did reliving that moment in the darkroom, printing my photographs.

Mumbai, September 1999

Back to 2009 and my arrival in Washington, D.C. The first few months were hard. D.C. is a very different place from London. Much, much smaller and strangely provincial in feel for a capital city, I took my time settling in. In October, already feeling somehow bored by the District and, honestly, homesick for London, I decided to spend a weekend hiking in the Shenandoah valley.

Just an hour from Washington by car, Shenandoah National Park boasts beautiful scenery. That weekend I hiked the White Oak Canyon trail, descending from the parking spot on Skyline drive (in true American style – the lofty mountaintop views of Shenandoah are very much accessible to those in four wheels!) through dense woodland, past beautiful, bubbling waterfalls and climbing steeply back up to the road. It was a crisp, clear fall day. With leaves turning and the sun coating the landscape like treacle I was almost overwhelmed. Beginning the drive back to D.C. along Skyline drive at sunset felt terrific. Like a scene from a film or an advert.

West Virginia, October 2010

I returned several times to Shenandoah over the next couple of years and also explored further into the mountains of West Virginia. In summer of 2011 I climbed Old Rag Mountain (3291 ft) – my first taste of scrambling. It was during this two year period that I fell in love with the outdoors. The National Parks are truly the greatest treasures in the United States. I had the fortune to see Yosemite, Death Valley and Denali. Plus, my travels for work during the same period had taken me all over the world. I had seen the mountains of Tajikistan, Armenia and Georgia. Arriving home in London in September 2011 I craved similar landscapes and adventures. I remember sitting in a cab trundling along the A40 from Heathrow early on that September morning, in part glad to be home, but also wondering where I would find wilderness in this crowded island?

It was that craving for the wild and remote that eventually led me up to the Cairngorm plateau just a few months after arriving home from D.C. Two years later and munro madness has struck. Still with just four munros under my belt (but a good few more ‘furths’ – the Welsh and English mountains being that much more accessible to me) I have decided to start this blog to record my efforts to climb all the mountains of the British Isles above 3000ft.

I don’t want this blog simply to narrate ascents and routes. I also want to share with you my thoughts and feelings about this pastime and how it sits alongside a busy and stressful day job in Western Europe’s largest metropolis. To many, the idea of any sort of peak bagging must seem ridiculous – a more painful version of stamp collecting. Perhaps it is ridiculous, but for me, it’s still fun and positive in so many ways. Another theme that I hope to explore through my blog is the particular challenges which exploration of the British and Irish mountains pose for someone stuck in the South East of England. My munro story will be a tale of motorways, airports and railway stations as much as it will of ridges, gullies and mountain passes. I hope that you will enjoy reading it and that for any fellow ‘baggers’ it provides you with a source of inspiration and encouragement.

The Incompleatist. 22 March 2014

4 down. 278 to go.