In Scotland you learn to get out anyway when rain is forecast. Standard weather apps offer nothing better than a 70 - 90% chance of rain all day long, which in Scott's means: it will rain for about 5-10 minutes at least once an hour, in-between it will be broken sunshine with maybe more rain.
Sure, you don't go out when strong winds are forecast but a moderate 15mph at sea level will be standable (not necessarily tolerable) on the summit and might even help to clear the clag away briefly.
I forgot to check the MWIS forecast but it probably wouldn't have changed my decision to go out today if I had. I set off to make the best day happen when I'd got sick of sitting about caring for my sick dog and needed some me time. TSK was willing to do the care duties and drop me off at my start point of a layby on the A890 in the tiny cluster of houses known as Coulags.
In bright sunshine I hoisted my rucsac on my back and in the time it took to adjust the straps and kiss everyone goodbye, a heavy squall rushed up. I dived back into the van to wait it out which turned into: just put my waterproof coat on and set offanyway. The weather was forecast to improve later so I could dry out then.
My dog has been sick so I have been caring for her all week while trying to give her a great experience in case she decides to leave us soon. Unfortunately this wasn't a walk she can achieve since this week's achievements include: the end of the driveway, riding in the bike basket far enough to sit by a loch, sleeping through the night, eating a whole slice of chicken, not throwing up the a whole slice of chicken.
They drove away up the hill and I felt the weight lift. I haven't been able to walk freely for over a year due to work commitments, the dog's health and a loss of confidence since the Solstice trip last year. I put the confidence thing to bed after a few longer outings in the peak with a heavy pack but for this day I chose a short hill route, spent the morning packing up through the worst of the weather and set off at 10:30 acknowledging that the "5.5 hour" route would take me 8 hours.
With no dog in tow, I set off at a brisk pace, settling straight back into the rhythm of steps crunching on the gravelled estate road. It was a bit soulless so I was really glad for the public footpath diversion taking me away from the estate buildings and closer to the river and woodlands. This is what I'd come for, the scents soaking into my soul, tiny wrens flitting around the undergrowth, nature singing. I rejoined the estate road then left it again (as instructed), finally climbing away into the reality of the hills and leaving the industrial shed lands behind.
I'd made a plan with TSK that I would time 40 minutes of walking up and ping him my location on spot so that he had a 20 minute warning of my descent to the pickup point. I planned to walk straight through 40 minutes but hunger got the better of me and I sought out the relative shelter of a small copse of elm and alder to eat half a sandwich and put on my waterproof trousers - resigning myself to being over-warm instead of under-warm. Of course, once I was snugly waterproofed, the rain stopped but there was surely more to come.
To my relief, 40 minutes took me to a very distinctive weir with a taught cable across it. I worried for a moment that this was my bridge-crossing but it turned out to be a monitoring station, presumably the cable was there to prevent damage to the weir or any inadvertant boaters getting washed over. I pinged the spot, happy that I'd know this place on the way back. About 10 minutes later I heard my own phone ping so I know my spot marker had landed.
I always take camera and phone photos of the guidebook with me so I know the route description but don't carry the whole book. All my electronics were squirrelled away so I tried to remember: cross the first bridge (now diverted to paddle across the stream instead) then there was something about the stone where the fairy Lord ties his hounds and a bothy (couldn't remember the order of things) before I turn left up the hillside.
First there was a large boulder with two memorial plaques. One to a father aged 59 who died in 2003 and the next, his son, who died 3 years later aged 33. Stories worked in my head, pity for mum, but what was I ever to know of their story? Except that someone was reassured by them being here together, in this valley, for all eternity. I wondered if it was the houndstone then remembered I had not seen the bothy yet. A scan of the horizon yeilded a little roof behind the next rise. I love a bothy and skipped up to it, full of enthusiasm, another bank of wetness was lurking at the head of the valley, and 2 hours had now passed.
I knocked at the door then gave it a sturdy push open. It was lovely inside. Basic but fully insulated and boarded and relatively warm. The smell of an earlier wood fire in the stove lingered in the air and there was a usual selection of empty wine and whiskey bottles acting as candle sticks and a stack of tea lights. A single unsmoked cigarette rested on the top of an empty Glenfiddich bottle - a memorial or a gift for any empty-pocketed smoker in need of a drag? I smelled it to remind me of grandads and being a teenager. It was damp, soft and aquite possibly un-lightable. I put it back.
In the other room, a stainless kitchen surface, side benches and the bothy diary. I made a brief entry since I did not have the energy to dig out my reading glasses. Through the smudges onvthe page I only deduced someone else had passed by today. I stripped off my waterproofs and settled down to eat. Predictably the approaching rain landed and I ate my lunch, whilst observing the view and the swaying saplings through rain drops smashed on the windows.
I had all the entrapments of making a cup of fresh coffee but, mercifully, just before I dug everything out, I realised I'd left the fuel bottle on the sofa back at the cottage. For a moment I considered leaving the brew kit behind for the return trip but the thought of losing my beloved stove and the mug that's travelled with me around most of the Peak District, the Transatlantic way, two Highland Trails and two Torino Nice Rallyes to some random hiker who thought it was a nice surprise, filled me with dread and I resigned myself to taking my coffee, cup and stove for a nice long walk.
As I sat half way up the stairs, observing the oncoming weather through the sole tiny window that faced the rain, an English couple arrived to enjoy the respite. Having been soaked by the last wave, they were ready to get dry and I was assessing whether I'd get wet again. I left my waterproof trousers off again in the vain hope the promised clear afternoon would emerge. The couple were taking on the same Munro and we agreed we'd see eachother later - highly likely snce the route is an out-and-back without a significant commitment to walk around - or include - another 2 very high Munroes.
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| Iridescent blue rocks in the rain |
As I suspected, within 10 minutes I was putting my waterproof trousers back on at the hounds stone then I reached the bealach and the obvious point of my left turn to start up the steep slope. Around me rose an ampitheatre of rock drifting in and out of cloud, fleeting glimpses of limestone steps, creases and caves where large chunks had fallen away at some time in history.
Briefly the sun made me wonder about sunglasses to protect my eyes from the glare bouncing back off the dolomitic limestone on which my path rose up. The need to watch my feet, not the scenery, was blessed with a ton of foliage and creatures that you just don't get anywhere else. Lilac coloured lichen that probably only grows here due to the lime stones and the moisture. Mosses with bright orange display, sea thrift flourishing in the sandy soil and low to the ground, a blue-bodfied fly which I photographedwith the sole purpose of learning its classification later.
Just as quickly the breeze lifted to a level where the whisps of hair falling out of my plaits whipped into my eyes and I stopped again to delve deep into my emergency kit bag to retrieve a buff in order to keep everything under control. Despite the need for a hat I was getting hot, very hot, but by now I had given up hope on a clear afternoon and was just expecting regular blasts of wind and soakings.
Half way up the climb, I met another couple - German or maybe Swiss German. I asked how the wind was higher up but they had only been to the saddle. They'd turned back because they had been in thick cloud and there was "nothing to see". "At least you will have the visibility", they said and I felt blessed but a little sorry for them, giving up on the day too soon. I looked forward to the view from the top.
As soon as I was out of sight of the lower path, I stepped off the path a few metres where there was enough of a flat shoulder for me to put down my backpack, have a wild wee (lovely) and then change my clothes.
Along with the buff I'd found my thin Rab leggings and put those on under my waterproofs instead of my Findra windproof trousers. At least the leggings would allow some breeze to circulate through the venting in my waterproofs. Otherwise I kept on going towards the summit. The quartz scree slope was not the worst I've seen but a big flooding scar where the path was left me floundering across the hillside for alternative more secure footing. I hate to leave a path and make them grow but the "path" was tenuously held to the hillside with large boulders balancing heaps of smaller stones on top ready to slip at one false foot placement. I remembered that this was my first real mountain route spending the day in barefoot hiking boots and I elected to carefully select every step, place my feet well and feel the mountain. I'd already been impresesd at their sure-footed performance lower down the hill and now I was really enjoying the countryside passing beneath me. Finally I reached the top, looking back over my shoulder at the opposing peak, glittering in occasional sunshine. Beinn Eighe across the other side of Loch Carron and beyond also sparkled under rain and sun outbursts. The see was a pool of silver, the headland greyscale in heaps. Slioch lurked behind in the distance.
I scrabbled my way around a few limestone bluffs on the right-hand side to avoid the wind associated with incoming weather. It felt like I was at an altitude where my mountain had suddenly stuck its head out into the jetstream and I was trying to get across a saddle between two lumps.
Nearing the top of the climb, I thought I was near the summit. I thought it was quite easy. I thought I was cheating a bit, picking a nearby single munro route for today. Maybe I could have done a bigger walk. I reached the little cairn near the top of the slope, a little disapointed as I was hoping for a palatial cairn to eat my afternoon snap and watch the clouds rush by. I was not at the top, my friends.
The obvious path removed any dependency I had on the map reading so I'd no idea that there was still another big red hump to go. Now I know where the mountain gets its name.
The rock under-foot changed almost immediately to sandstone. Still riddled-through with veins of limestone quartz. I kept looking out for a piece with enough veins to make it impressive but small enough to carry. It was a landscape of boulders and small rocks and so the ecosystem remained undisturbed except for my footfall. I almost had to put my poles away but instead, shortened them off so it was easier to reach ahead with them or tuck them out of the way so I could use my hands. I'd need the poles again as soon as I got back into the wind.
For most of the climb I managed to stay in the lee of the wind. My calf muscles started yo burn. Once on the summit hump though, I had no options to embrace the wind in a huddled old-lsdy way... more "manage" than "embrace". I stayed to the right but the open space probably only protected me from the knees downwards. For a moment I considered adding a layer under my coat and flopped to the ground behind a rocky bluff no more than 10 inches tall and two feet above me. The cloud cleared for a moment, revealing a handsome summit cairn ahead no more than 100m away. I could make that and so I did, staggering a little with the gusts. I fell gratefully into the outstreatched arms of the cairn. The cairn itself being 5ft high with two impressive rock walls built out to shelter walkers from the gusts straight off the Atlantic.
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| I hate this photo but one day I will look at it and think how young I look so... |
First job: more clothes. Then: Crisps, sandwich, biscuit. The coffee would have been nice but sadly, not to be. Lena would have enjoyed being in the shelter but wouldn't have been comfortable on the rocks and would have shouted at me to leave before I was ready. I settled in to wait as long as I could for the cloud to lift. I would prove to the Germans it was worth waiting for. Sadly I had to concede that this layer of cloud was not going to lift like the other had. The Met Office promise of a clearing afternoon was probably an empty one. This layer of cloud was here to stay, sitting on top of all the other mountains around as well. I regretted not checking MWIS then realised it would not have made a difference to my decision. If you're doing munroes you can't wait for the good weather days. Especially when you live 300 miles away. I stayed as long as I could without getting cold but eventually I needed to start walking again. I retraced my steps, still admiring the sandstone rock and never quite finding that perfect rock for my rucsac.
At the bottom of the last sandstone pitch I met up with the English couple again on their way up and shared the route-finding away from the howling wind on the saddle. I gave them news of the attractive summit cairn and wished them hope that at least one party on the mountain today would get clear summits, though my hope was limited.
The lime pitch was hard going, trying to trace a path away from the landslide that wasn't ridiculously steep. Trying to do as little damage to the hillside as possible. Again, I was happy for my vivos which seemed to find me traction without hard edging into the earth. At the other extreme there were secure sections that I could skip down quickly, making me feel a little bit like a runner again. Some of today was about remembering what I can do without the encumberment of a dog to slow me down, change direction, have whimsys, catch scents and desire to go off at 90 degrees to the direction of travel. To jog without breaking out into a bolt, but I knew my legs weren't ready for that level of effort yet and I would pay for everything later: the fast hike in and these little jogs on the way down, the late start and the resultant late finish.
I passed my wee spot and regained the full path, skipping here and there or taking steady paces instead, to make sure I didn't turn an ankle. I was impressed by the resillience of my boots whose leather is quite soft. They're not waterproof but they're well waxed and the first time the water started to breach was only on the summit when the persistent wind started. I guess my feet could not fight off the cold evaporation fast enough and the water seeped as far as my feet but also, I'd had warm feet all day and supposed most of the wetness was down to my feet sweating into the boots. They were certainly still comfortable.
The English couple said they'd "see you later at the bothy" but this time I suspected not as I had been looking out for them for about 3 hours now so they were at least 4-5 hours behind me. That thought made me look at my watch as I neared the bothy and the houndstone, visible from so far up the valley. A path ran from the bothy up to the head of the valley and Loch Coire Fionnaraigch at the bottom of neighboruing munro Sgorr Ruadh. On the map I'd wondered if it were feasible to combine the two routes in the book, using the bothy as a basecamp. In real life, from the bothy, it didn't look like it since the thing I thought might be a path is actually a big scar of a stream. If I'd *actually* brought that fuel canister and more food, I could have made it a two day trip. On my way down I did notice a connecting path - clearly I wasn't the only person to have this thought but the day was too short for that kind of plan and I was a breakfast, another lunch and a sleeping bag away from a good 2 days out. I stepped into the bothy again, almost expecting there to be some over-nighters present but there weren't.
I could feel the weight of my pack, the little joglets and the fast start to the day in my legs and I sank into a plastic chair in front of a window looking out down the valley and rummaged around for something to eat. I pretended I was an old lady ready to pull out my knitting for the evening. There was plenty of food left which was a good job since my watch was reading 18:45. Not surprising since I'd left at 11 for a 8.5 hour hike and I was unfit. My cheese sandwich with humus and Caramel biscuit was basically an early dinner. I took a moment to recover my reading glasses from the bag - packed in case I needed to actually read the route description! - and had a read through the preceding entries in the journal. A couple of mountain bikers had passed today in addition to those I had already met today. The riders were heading over the pass on some loop I've not heard of, the path I'd just admired from up the hill. The previous entry was 6 days earlier - a testament to how quiet it had been up here all week. Someone had been up for some fishin and found it "windy and wet". I'd realised that the Loch would have been a nice place for a packraft or a swim, had I brought the raft or a towel, and added it to my list of things to be done when I'm not looking after a sick dog for the week.
I knew I'd not see the English couple behind me so loaded up and trotted out with a cursory glance back so as not to be rude to anyone coming down the hill. The descent path was fast. I didn't need to bog hop to keep my feet dry any more. I passed the weir and pinged my spot but looking at the clag around me, I doubted the satelites would pick up my location for some time. Sure enough, no ping ever sounded in my backpack so I hoped that Andrew would check my positions anyway and see I'd passed through the spot.
At the last steep pitch of the path I chatted to a couple walking up the hill, thankfully heading for the bothy for the night and let them know they were in for a treat. They were pleased it wasn't full - in fact it was empty. I hoped they had some logs with them, oh what a treat to have had a fire in that place.
There were a few more joglets on the estate road which I knew I would regret. I also lingered a little on the woodland "footpath" sections - that last reticence between living the wild life and the lingering relief that there will be a van at the end of the road with my loved ones in and a route to a full hot dinner and a drink from the fridge and a sweet pudding. Sure enough, as soon as I saw the silver van and orange coat, I gave a wave and it cheered me right up that TSK had seen me and waved back. I disapeared into my last copice of trees, squelching, lingering, then skipped back onto the path, removed my pack, wet shoes and socks and coat and sloughed into the empty passenger seat of the van.
A massively successful day. I'm not a million miles away from being able to take on multiple big hills again, but probably a few hundred miles of Peak district training. Never mind successive days of walking under a big load - that will take some doing. Every ounce of my will is ready for it and I'll do everything I can to get back there... and I mean everything.
After a very uncomfortable night of trying to recover my body in between getting up to take a poorly dog out to pee / be sick every 4 hours, I took the entire fam over to Plockton to enjoy the bay, the pretty shops, the lovely cafe. I talked with the woman in the knitting shop - a lady from Northampton - about her move up to Scotland. There was not a note of regret in her voice. A pact was made in my head. It's probably time. It might be a long process but it's probably time.
