The very fact we made it up to the Motherland this winter was a miracle, the entire eastern half of the British Isles had just had a right pounding of snow and Lincoln was brought to a standstill. This occurred on the Tuesday night and we were due to set off at 4:00 a.m Wednesday morning (the first day of December), understandably it was a bit of a concern. Words of encouragement filtered through from certain quarters like "you're mad if you go, it's chaos, chaos everywhere, whole traffic network is in chaos, it's all chaos!" I think the key word in that tirade was "chaos!" However Deb checked several webcams for us and it appeared passable without any real difficulty, our main concern was to get off the A15 and we were in business!
The journey up had a comical slant to it, it wasn't entirely without incident, we were in the slipstream of a lorry, which gave us some security on about a couple of inches of snow, well it did until it got stuck and slid into a verge! We passed at least two jack-knifed lorries on the other carriageway, with the obligatory miles of tailback, and a van completely upside down! In spite of all that Victoria phoned Tom at the only point in the 500 mile journey when your whole field of vision was completely void of snow, Tom immediately latched on to this circumstance like a good striker would to a Steven Gerrard back pass, hence he could say to his wife, with a halo round his head, "no need to worry love, all the snow's gone, driving isn't a problem", he discreetly omitted the indescrepencies in the other carriageway.
By the time we reached the parking spot, on the A87 near Shiel Bridge, the temperature was dropping rapidly. We set off, with full kit, at a chilly minus nine! We started kitting up at about 3:30ish and it felt like we were on the verge of making a monumental error, heading out on to the hill, when any normal person would be heading off, before it got dark, not that we saw anybody else, the place was deserted in true empty Scottish wilderness style.
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| a chilly minus nine! |
By 3:50p.m we were on the hill and heading for' Bealach nan la Pan', our bivouac for the night. It was a very steep gradient hence we soon gained height. It was a hard pull, not just because of having a full kit, but the snow was an impediment. I happened to notice all the tributaries were frozen solid, these were to be avoided or less you wanted to be deposited back at the bottom of the hill in record breaking time!
Every now and again as you looked down the hill towards the A87, you could see cosy lights shining through the darkness. I couldn't help but make the contrast of how nice it would be, slumped behind the dashboard, the heating on and some soft music in the background! Back to reality it's 5:00p.m the ambient light has given way to dense darkness, therefore it's time for head torches. M.W.I.S had forecast minimum night temperatures of minus twenty, so by now it's around minus fifteen! We're near the Bealach now and I'm thinking to myself the 'Base Layer' principle I've opted for this time, is really paying off, that is several thin layers of breathable fabric, it's worked, after having exerted myself, my clothes are all dry, good job as well I wouldn't want to be stuck with wet clothes at minus twenty! However that is about the only thing I did get right as you will see. It seemed that for this excursion I was pre selected, destined and doomed to be the 'Whipping Boy', and there was precious little I could do about it!
When we reached the bealach it was chronically cold, the coldest I've ever experienced, when we started putting our tents up we were greeted by a breeze, maybe only 10 to 15 mph but when it's minus twenty you don't need any wind chill. I have to say I didn't perform well. I had practiced at home, in the garden, erecting and dismantling my tent several times so that when it was for real I could do it quickly and efficiently, but doing it in the garden with a mug of spiced tea was a bridge too far from being in minus twenty, being tired after just driven 500 miles and walked up a very steep hill, being in pitch black with head torches flashing all over the place and snow and ice everywhere. I kept losing my hands to the cold and had to cup them in my gloves to get some warmth and movement back into them. I was struggling getting the tent pegs in where I needed to because I kept hitting ice, consequently I'm left with about half a dozen bent pegs. Maybe I should have practiced putting my tent up at night! Possibly we could take a leaf out of Tom's book, he practiced putting his tent up at work, in his office!
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| Tom's tent, as solid as a house... |
Tom's tent was now up, and so was mine. Tom's tent was solid and resembled a snapshot of someone on an expedition to the South Pole, the canvas was as firm as a wall. My tent resembled a Picasso, and the canvas was as firm as crepe paper! With a bit of help from Chris we soon got the tent looking like a tent and were in them by about 7:00 p.m. In retrospect I disagree with the lads, they still maintain my tent would have sufficed but it's not a four season tent and shouldn't be used as such, the tent makes a huge amount of difference. I hold my hands up and say 'Whipping Boy' material.
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| a summer tent at minus twenty five! Sorry that's Whipping boy material. |
Tom replied with an urgent tone in his voice, "you've got to have something to eat, you need something warm inside you, I'll rustle you something up". I acquiesced and was pleased I did but didn't expect prawn curry with naan bread! When I reflect on my actions I maintain I was thinking rationally, I said to myself "look Mark, you're cold, you're hands and feet are frozen, you're all cluttered up and because of tiredness you feel all at sea and disorganized, get in your bag, get some rest and then when your lucid, warm and feeling human again get sorted out with renewed vigour and then maybe have something to eat". In other words it was time to re-set the computer. Well that was my coping mechanism anyway.
Getting warm in a crepe paper tent wasn't easy, the wind was getting up and this was being felt on the inside of the tent! I managed to get my hands and left foot warm but my right foot was just not going to warm up. Tom and Chris had beckoned me, on more than one occasion to go and join them but I declined their offer in favour of pride and stubbornness in being determined to lie in my own bed that I had made. You see when I first saw on M.W.I.S how low the temperatures were going to drop I was very concerned to say the least and I initially suggested that we waive the mountain bivvy idea as it would be too much for me to handle, however in a team you're only as strong as your weakest link and Tom and Chris said 'goodbye' to that suggestion! Originally, at my behest we were all going to squeeze into Tom's tent anyway but then I thought, no, I need my own space and I don't fancy clambering over everybody to go to the loo in the middle of the night. So here I was lying in my bed, my cold uncomfortable bed. I could hear Tom and Chris laughing and planning the days ahead and I must admit I did feel a tad lonely. Eventually my resolve caved in like a weakened sea defence, I shouted across, "lads, I'm thinking about making the transition!" This was greeted with rapturous applause.
At this kind of temperature it was the survival instinct, there was no casually taking things across in stages and walking through the front door, no, with bag and mat and whatever else I could muster tucked under my arm, it was one mad dash and a dive through the hatch! I even left my precious camera, Tom retrieved it later when he went to the loo. It wasn't a smooth transition. Getting into Tom's tent was like going from a tent to a house, or from a house with no central heating, to a house with the central heating full on! First thing I noticed was my right foot thawed out, everything was so much more pleasant. Before long I was drifting in and out of consciousness and eventually getting behind the wall of sleep.
When I first got settled in this palatial tent I was aware of a very fine line of ice cold, running down my back, only a hairs breadth so it was no great shakes, only problem was, as the night wore on, it gradually got wider and wider until sleep became a luxury I couldn't afford. The lads experienced a similar thing. This was due to inadequate insulation on the ground, however it's hard to be critical when you consider we're talking about record breaking low temperatures. Tom had received a text which read in part, "hey are you guys still alive? It's minus twenty five!!!" We were going to text back "No actually we died about ten minutes ago!" However on reflection we thought this was deemed inappropriate. No wonder Tom said every bone in his body was uncontrollably shaking, when he brought me that food across.
At about 5:00a.m ish I had to bite the bullet and go for a wee, which meant by necessity, extricating myself from my sleeping bag, no mean fete or quick one. On eventually getting outside I was completely blown away by the most stunning, awesome spectacle my eyes had ever seen, but it was impractical and maybe impossible to photograph it, the Milky Way galaxy. The second arm of the spiral was clearly visible and the immediate stars overhead shone and glistened so vividly with a kind of metronomic pulse which was too much for the mind to take in. Countless millions of stars bound by a deafening silence! Unquantifiable in grandeur, quantity and adjectives, suffice to say "the Heavens are declaring the glory of God".
It was that cold in the morning we even had to synchronize getting ready and packing our tents up, so that nobody was stood around in the oppressive cold. As it happened we figured it would be better to pack our tents away on the descent, when it might have warmed up by a few degrees. By now the stars had given way to day and we had that long serpentine ridge in front of us with six peaks, known collectively as the 'Five Sisters of Kintail' each Sister or peak jutting out like an arrow head from the main ridge. We all got that distinct feeling we were going to have that marvellous prospect of having the whole mountain to ourselves. We soon reached the first Sister, 'Sgurr nan Spainteach' and things were getting unbelievably good, dawn was in the process of ascending causing the sky to take on a 'gleaming pink' hue, I'd never seen anything like it. We were continually clicking away, I felt like a photographer for national geographic! Life was good.
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| What a temperature inversion! |
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| Sgurr nan Spainteach |
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| love that pink glow |
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| Sgurrr na Ciste Dubh |
By the time we reached 'Sgurr na Ciste Dubh', all the characteristics of a classic Highland winter day had emerged, the 'ice blue silver sky', you looked to the left of you, the right of you, in front of you, behind you, there was endless pristine visibility, it was utterly mesmerising from every aspect. We all concurred it was the best day we had ever had on Scottish mountains, the word 'privilege' comes to mind. I reflect back to when I was a child, growing up on Monks Road in the heart of Lincoln and observing thousands of men trudging down to work in the factory's and foundry's on the Waterside, downcast, downtrodden, unbowed. Like faceless cogs in a giant machine, Park Drive in mouth, paper in hand. All these men and their families had to look forward to, if they were frugal enough and many weren't, was a week at Sutton on Sea! Now if you could have transported just one of those cogs to this mountain environment I think it would have had the power to bring the whole machine to a standstill! To me it becomes clear, in this case the freedom of the hills can open up subliminal synaptical connections that wouldn't normally connect. Yes the word 'privilege' definitely comes to mind.
Right from the Bealach and all the way along the two miles of ridge we had walked thus far, there was a marvellous temperature inversion, Glen Shiel, on the ground, was completely engulfed in cloud and mist, all the other glens that you could see with the naked eye were the same. On the heights, not a trace of cloud in the whole of the West Highlands! As the ridge meandered round to the next Sister, it dipped and straddled this massive sea of cloud it felt tactile, as if you could have scooped it out like candy floss!
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| you could scoop it out like Candy Floss! |
Just before the third Sister there was a difficult pitch of about thirty feet that required some handwork, of course it was plastered with snow and ice. After a lot of deliberating and searching for alternative routes, of which there were none, Chris and Tom took up the gauntlet and made easy work of it really. It came to me and I 'barried' it! There was no hesitancy, shall I shouldn't I? My inner voice just said "Mark, NO!" I got this awful feeling that I was going to go out of control, so I wisely listened to my inner voice. We had light packs on that day but I was carrying a heavy weight, it was called having a wife and two children, thus the thought of having an accident was unthinkable. No regrets.
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| I barried it! |
The views the lads got from 'Sgurr Fhurain' were again magnificent. What a panorama, from following the line of Loch Duich and Loch Alsh into the heart of the Coulins, turning north you could make out quite clearly the mountains of Wester Ross and the Torridons, turning east Bheinn Fhada, spinning right round to the south, the Mamores and a superb view of Ben Nevis and the CMD ridge which I estimate to be about thirty miles away as the eagle flys. Visibility I reckon could have been as far as fifty or sixty miles! On the way back, although it was the same track, you see things from a different perspective, I was impressed with Glen Lichd, it had a real 'locked in' timbre, Bheinn Fhada towering over one side and the Five Sisters on the other, it must be really eerie to walk through that narrow glen. It was still perishingly cold, I had to pack my tent away in increments as I still kept losing my hands. When we were unpacking at the car, I was amazed when I took my boots off, they were steaming away like an old kettle, of course though this is only momentary and the lads knew this full well as I stood and posed for a photograph with nothing more than an empty boot, just look at that photo, it's got 'Whipping Boy' written all over it! It was nice to get into a warm bed that night especially with the satisfaction under my belt that I'd worked hard, however I had resolved that I didn't want my body to ever experience cold again!
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| Towards Cuilins, a sea of mountains |
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| Ben Nevis, Zoomed |
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| The Whipping Boy par excellence |
We met a guy in the Bunk House who completely restored my faith in Youth Hosteling, a Gardener from Nottingham. In recent years I think all three of us have become a little bit insular, a bit retiring when it comes to socializing and meeting new people in such establishments and with good reason, we've encountered a lot of Wilberts; pot smoking, tall story telling, beer swilling, mentally disturbed numptys! Consequently we've been content with our own company and kept ourselves to ourselves but this guy was great company, he was honest, funny, down to earth and a bit of an inspiration. Maybe there can be a brothers in arms camaraderie in Youth Hostels after all!
Much to our surprise there had been a change in the weather, this didn't dampen our spirits though, we needed an easy day after the exploits of the previous two days. We ended up doing a glen walk, up 'An Caoran Mor', on the path towards Glen Affric, across 'Bealach a Choinich' and back down 'An Caoran Beag', finishing off at the 'Cluanie Inn' which believe it or not was more luck than judgment. Musically speaking, trekking across the 'Five Sisters' ridge on a perfect winters day, was as upbeat as a Schubert symphony, but exploring these deep narrow glens under low and ominous clouds, I'm afraid it's back to the dark and brooding Shostachovian soundworld. Trying to explain the whole musical aspect to the lads was like trying to explain the syntax of modern computer technology to me. I think they thought "who's this fruitcake we've brought with us!"
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| This Whipping Boy holds no bounds! |
As the walk went on the game got more and more technical, Chris went over twice but tried to invent some small print that maintained that the whole of your backside had to be on the floor, this was overruled by Tom, which procured yet more legislation, I was used as a living running commentary of textbook examples of what constituted the difference between a slip and a fall. I did end up falling but only because I lost my balance due to being doubled up with laughter! So when someone fell, there was no shout of "are you alright, me old fruit?" it was "He's down!" or "Yes, he's gone!" followed by a hearty cheer. It got to the stage where nobody dare go in front, or even dare walk at all! At this juncture Chris got in front by some considerable distance, but were there any 'concealed slips'? Chris said no but we think that cheeky grin belied that claim.
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| a rare shot of Tom in the horizontal! |
Heading towards the 'Cluanie Inn' I dropped into my parallel musical consciousness, Penderecki and Shostachovich symphonies were tracing the big heels of the North Glen Shiel Ridge, huge white mounds that rise so abruptly behind the Inn, ascending into leaden grey skies, reminiscent of 'Jack and the Bean Stalk'. In a brief moment of reality I realized I was walking with one leg longer than the other, on closer inspection it was evident I had parted company with a crampon! How embarrassing. As I began to trace my mismatched footprints back, I eventually met up with Tom and Chris, surely they would have retrieved it, but no, they were more bemused as to how I could have managed to lose a crampon. I really wanted to keep tracing my footprints but the lads reasoned that if it was lying around they would have found it, it must have somehow got dislodged in some boggy areas. Mmm I looked to the hills beyond and then turned my head to the 'Cluanie Inn' just a stone's throw away and said "never mind I needed a new pair anyway!" Only snag was I really needed two crampons to do 'The Saddle' the following day.
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| land colour dies to black and white |
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| Jack and the Beanstalk hills |
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| The Cluanie in winter raiment |
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| a welcoming sight |
If you're still with us, not bored yet, you'll remember I mentioned earlier in the blog about the unbelievable prospect of having the whole of the 'Five Sisters' to ourselves, well the amount of expeditions and hill walks we've done and not seen a soul is staggering, even in fine weather! There must be a reason for this because although some of the hills are isolated, many are not and in a nation of sixty odd million people, on a fine day you would think the hills would be saturated with people especially coupled with the fact that to bolster the Highland's flagging tourist trade, it's hard to turn the television on and there not be a walking programme on set in the Motherland, well my theory is that hoards of people over the years have had their plans aborted that many times by foul weather, that they've just given up on the Highlands and gone somewhere else! I look at lousy weather as a sort of guardian and protector of the hills. The weather personified is saying, "Sorry Hills are off limits today, tracks are beginning to scar the hillside. We need to give the mountains time to breathe and remember it's a wilderness again". When the weather turns nasty it metamorphasises into a pack of ferocious Rottweilers and either blocks the entrance to the hills or escorts you off! I know what you're thinking, "this man's got mental issues," oddly enough that's exactly what my Psychiatrist say's!
Sad to say, the Rottweilers were out in force, on what is universally acknowledged to be the finest mountain in Glen Shiel, 'The Saddle.' Armed with nothing but a good weather forecast, we squared up to the Brutes but the Rottweilers prevailed. I suppose the chance element of a good forecast actually materializing is all part of the adventure, but in this instance the good weather just didn't happen. We had about a foot of snow, but in this case the snow was not our friend. As soon as the Forcan Ridge burst into view, the Rottweilers were making their presence felt and it appeared we were not going to be allowed access to the ridge. We tried to give them the slip by following a dry stone dyke into 'Bealach Loire Mhaligain' then striking up the West side to the ridge, rather than the conventional head on route, but they sniffed us out! At a last pitch of only about ten feet, we encountered a very steep slab of iced rock, at this point we grabbed hold of the ears of the Rottweiler, but it was too dangerous. We were now at that, I can't go up and because it's so steep I can't go down conundrum, I think me and Chris would still be stood staring at each other now if Tom hadn't took the initiative and Ozslid down, using his ice axe as a break! We followed. It was a relief to reach the dyke and resume walking.
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| aborted traverse of the Saddle |
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| camera doesn't quite portray it but this was seriously steep |
'The Saddle' did provide a little bit of en route entertainment Tom and Chris conned me into taking my 'one' crampon which continued to be a source of amusement on the ascent, Tom even daring to say "hey Mark, what do you think are the chances of someone else losing a crampon and you finding it?" I thought they were over labouring this one a bit but went along with it nonetheless, in fact it was at this point I uttered the words that will haunt me for all eternity, "THE LORD PROVIDES!" When we reached the foot of the Forcan Ridge, I was nominated to go up first in order to ascertain if crampons were needed. I nearly turned back at one point because of the spindrift, it was like being shot blasted in the face by thousands of micro fine iced marbles! Anyhow it passed, so we carried on a bit further and just over a small rise, what should I see strategically placed in the snow? My missing crampon! The Lord didn't provide, but Tom and Chris did! Chris craftily engaged me in some alleged route finding problem, closely consulting the map, while Tom went on a 'reccy' and placed the missing crampon, all that they had to do now to fully execute the gag was to get me to go up first, which they did through some plausible rouse that I fell for! I appreciated that gag it was well thought out, ingenuitive and absolute quality and they did well to pull it off because as the lads well know ' you have to get up pretty early in the morning to catch this lad out!'
Now, Blogfans, my dear little silicon chips, now you know why I was the 'Whipping Boy' this time. Once more, I will let you know that I will accept the 'Golden Crampon' award with dignity, albeit this is the second time I have been nominated for this dubious honour. My only consolation is that there is a 'certain other person' who has collected this ignominious award twice, when he's only ever been on two expeditions! I have been on numerous trecks and expeditions and in the main have been idiot free, although it does have to be said, there is an ongoing problem with rucksacks and laces that needs attention. I would love to mention in this blog who the 'certain other person' is but he has just won a ' High Court Gagging Order' so cannot be named, that is why I was a little bit HESSitant about bringing the matter up!
So we didn't quite crack the 'Saddle', sometimes it takes more than one attempt to conquer a Scottish mountain. Coming down from the ridge and trying to negotiate that silly dyke, there was a certain nastiness in the weather, strong gusts here and there and spindrift being whacked in your face, it was still Shostachovian but the moody, broody symphonies had exited stage left and String Quartet no.10 2nd movement 'Allegretto Furiouso' now held centre stage. Things did ease off as we rounded off 'Meall Odhair' and got on with the descent. A more pleasant spirit now obtained, it reminded me of a line in an Iain Blake poem 'Beneath long slanting winter light, land colour dies to black and white' that's precisely what it was but just as the British composer William Alwyn said, the String Quartet is the purest form of classical music, in my opinion this small overview of Glen Shiel is the purest form of winter landscape. This part of the West Highlands will never be any different, you've got the wrath of the Atlantic, mountains and the Gulf Stream currents providing a continual hotchpotch of weather. Perpetually unsettled.
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| purest form of Winter Landscape |
Forever is a long time!
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