And at last, 'On the Hill'

R. Blyth [Spoons]

 

Long ago when the summers seemed so much longer, I foolishly declared that I would not climb a certain mountain unless I found it in pristine winter condition. Supposing that time would be on my side; ah, the impetuosity of the young! The mountain in question is one of the finest in Scotland, and in many quarters acknowledged as the supreme place to be on a good day. Twenty years on, almost to the day, of having turned my career path away from Mountain Rescue, I headed north and west to seek out my distant goal, the most northerly peak of the stupendous Torridon range; a place where the mountain names take on the mystical cadences of legend and myth, echoing with epics of years gone by. Memories of rescues jostled with the recall of wonderful days 'on the hill.'

            An Teallach rises above Little Loch Broom and stands back from close view, with few sightings of it from the immediate roadside. Having engaged suitable lodgings, my wife Christine and I motored across from our home in Ballater in Upper Deeside. Our route saw us motoring up Glen Gairn and passing over the Lecht to Tomintoul celebrating the glorious surroundings of our 'home patch.' It was late in November 2001. The autumnal colours still abounded, a riot of golden yellows and enough red and brown to bring a smile to any lover of the countryside. We were hoping for a period of good weather. Such things happen! In 1968, during November, a party of us enjoyed eleven clear days of continual good weather. Then we could look back from Carn Eighe in Glen Affric and see Ben Hope, so many days walk away. To the south we could see the clear massif of the Cairngorms and to the West the 'Ben.' Beyond the 'Ben' the Western Isles glimmering like casually scattered jewels on a azure counterpane that we knew finished on the shores of the far distant Americas.
            A good weather spell had been cast by Heather the 'Weather Witch' and our hopes were high as we crossed over the Kessock bridge at Inverness. Such changes in the roads up North!

What happened to the twisting bridge over the railway at Garve? Now it is an automatic crossing. As we approached the watershed the sun began to make a belated appearance. From

The West the beckoning and remembered peaks of the North West Highlands began to appear. The drive down to Achnasheen proved a welcoming return to the place that has been a magnet for me for so long. Turning up over the bealach we started down the descending twisting road to Loch Maree, a road I had travelled in my youth (whisper it gently: 1951). Wonderful times of camping at Kinlochewe sprang to mind. Slioch climbed up out of the moor and heather to our right, a high sentinel looking over the policies of the Letterewe estate, aloof and alone, girt by the waters of Loch Maree. Hidden Ben Lair of the lonely rock climbing was out of sight, concealed by the folds of the hill.

            At Kinlochewe a disappointment awaited us. To turn down to Torridon would avail us little of the behemoths that sit and beckon. Beinn Eighe and Liathach were coyly shielding their imposing massifs behind skeins of light mist. As the hour was becoming late we pressed on down to the coast at Gairloch. Our drive round the shoreline first hugging the beach and then climbing up over headlands afforded us contrasting views of all that makes the West Coast such an attraction. Now it was past Inverewe and on to Little Loch Broom. The short November day was starting to show signs of impending closure. I wanted to find the start to the path from the Post Office that the SMC guide promised us. The 1968, Tom Strang edition!
            A short while later saw us driving past the Dundonnel Hotel to prospect the ground. And what do we find here? The Kinloss team in perfect splendour. Their wagons parked outside an imposing 'bothy' that looked barely less luxurious than where I was going to lay my head tonight. Turning the car we sought out the hostelry and booked into a veritable suite. It certainly pays to holiday out of season!

            Enough daylight remained for a short walk along the roadside and we had been driving for some time, and the morning path had yet to be secured. I was also intrigued of course as to how things had changed in what passes for bothies in Dundonnel. In my times we were accorded the use of the garage at the Lodge for a kitchen and slept in these things called tents. Can you recall such things? Character building is a phrase that fails to approach justice in these spheres. Raising them in pitch darkness, the rain falling, the beers consumed during the stop en route; somebody trying to light the tilley lamps; getting the bomb on for a mug of tea; planning how to swim the 'Chief' and live to tell the tale. All these things we did. I am sure it continues to this day.

            Having reached the path on to the hill we walked back along the few yards to pass by the base camp. A couple of team members were outside sorting out some kit. I was minded to make myself known but was then struck with the thought that a whole generation had passed since my days at Kinloss. Indeed I am but a very small footnote in history! And packing up base-camp on a Sunday evening is no time to be listening to some boring old sod. So I left the lads in peace. Instead I turned my thoughts to the menu offered to us by the Dundonnel Hotel. This was how W.H. Murray and his ilk used to do it, and no whit wrong for the doing of it.

            Monday morning greeted us with a clear and wind free sky. The weather forecasters had it right this time. A good day to be on the hill! Breakfast initially gained my attention but finally at ten o'clock we emerged from the hotel. Sitting on the step to put on my boots I was struck by the thought that this was how the Victorian pioneers did it as well as Murray, albeit somewhat earlier in the morning.

           A ten o'clock start is not ideal for November and our tardiness had a small price to be paid. Our path once gained steadily ascended up the hill towards an open hillside, prior to petering out. Or so said the SMC book. I was banking on modern footsteps to have extended the path further up. In part I was justified in my belief but it could be argued otherwise. The pony path, or so I believe it to be, stopped as per the map. Obviously the stags would be dragged down to here. A salutary marker for the modern stalker who drives so far up the 'scarring' hill tracks. Higher and higher we moved up the hill. By now I was in shirtsleeves and working up a lovely head of steam, just like the old days except maybe a more sedate pace. Eventually we arrived at our aimed bealach and turned south-east and up towards the Ridge and the many peaks awaiting us.

            We did not have the time or ambition to traverse the whole mountain. The main summit was our goal and to that effect we traversed across the flank of the open hillside. By now a layer of cloud was boiling up from the effect of the temperature inversion and starting to obscure the peaks we had come to see. Pushing onwards across the flank of the hillside we started to ascend up onto the ridge. We were heading for the highest peak, Bidein A'Glas Thuill and followed the path around its base. Coming up onto it from the south we could look down into the immense coire and admire the mountain architecture. The lochan of Loch Toll looked like a shining jewel below us. On cresting the summit, with a rather indifferent cairn, I looked back to the west through the veils of mist to spot the summit of another peak that looked just a trifle higher. Well, that was our way home so we could knock it off just in case. After a short break to sustain the inner persons we set off, heading westward. The time was 1400 and definitely not on our side. As we descended towards the bealach we were drawn by

Voices in the distance. On a Monday November, surely not? But sure enough we were sharing the mountain with another party and we could now see them far below us. They were starting the ascent of the minor contour of the peak to our West. Moving at pace we descended to the bealach and followed them up the peak continuing onto the now recognised highest peak on the ridge. With a nice big trig point! The
late hour and approaching darkness forbade any lingering on the summit. A quick glance around and we were descending back down to the bealach and muddy path of our ascent. Down past the cairns with the light starting to fade we sped down the hillside. The path if it appeared was made welcome but otherwise we could spare no time searching for it. The other party had continued round the ridge to the last peak, Glas Meall Mor. And then were descending towards our path. We met up and exchanged greetings before continuing our headlong plunge into the gloom below. Thank goodness it had been a 'good weather day.' A typical November day would have seen us with torches out now. And yes we had them! The road was plainly in sight. Well the lights of the vehicles using it were.

            "Ah." I thought. "Just like the old days."

            Thundering down in darkness, knowing that if we had stopped to use torches it would have put another twenty minutes on our decent. There was just barely enough light to ford the little burn at the roadside. Then we were on the road hugging ourselves at the end of a magnificent day, rising way beyond our hopeful expectations. What a reward we had reaped! Even more so when upon later discovering that our first peak Sgurr Fiona was now classified as a Munro. Not that the dreaded 'tick list' plays too large a part in our plans.
            Three hundred yards along the road we were sitting on the hotel steps, foot-weary and happy, taking off our boots. A glass of shandy spoke well of the coming celebration and it certainly rose to the occasion. An evening of food and wine saw us into our bed tired and much pleased. The following morning came with a degree of stiffness that reminded me of the foolishness involved in running off the 'hill' at my advanced years. Would I do it again?

You bet I would!

            Someone mentioned the Onich cannon. Well, I suppose it is thirty-five years. Next

time, perhaps?