72 km, 7270m ascent, 33 hours 45 mins
The sandstone towers of the Torridon peaks form one of the most spectacular mountain areas in Britain and the mighty triumvirate of Liathach, Beinn Alligin and Beinn Eighe has long formed a classic day out. Yet I could find no record of a longer round taking in the peaks to the South of the glen, so the die was cast! The statistics aren't that impressive, but this belies the steepness and roughness of the ground that builds in a total of eight scrambles (Liathach traverse (2), Tom na Gruagaich shoulder (1), Beinn Alligin traverse (1), Beinn Dearg (3), Ling Lawson and Glover's Route (2), Coinneach Mhor (2), Maol Chean Dearg North Flank (1/2), An Ruadh Stac slabs (1/2). Having found a willing accomplice in my friend Richard Hartfield, the late May Bank Holiday formed a suitable window of opportunity. However, opportunity, fitness and weather don't always coincide, and in this case, fitness was the issue. During the preceding week I was plagued by headaches, lack of sleep and consequent lethargy; the headaches accompanying me all the way on the long drive North. Safe to say, I was not in the finest of fettle the next morning after yet another broken sleep, but at least the headaches had disapated and in the words of Meat Loaf, "two out of three ain't bad".
After a leisurely coffee at the Community centre cafe, we trot up the road at just before 11am on a warmish still day of intermittent sunny intervals. It doesn't take long for the travails of the preceding week to catch up with me - by the second half of the steep grind up Liathach I am feeling nauseous and weak. This is somewhat concerning at such an early stage as I know full well what this means for such a venture. Still, it's a fine day, we have no time limit and we have come a long way - onwards and upwards.
The ridge is busy to the first Munro, then we are left alone to trot over the rollercoaster. At Mullach an Rathain our day is just beginning, but for for those we had passed, the twinkling sea will beckon them down to an early finish. The long ridge over the shoulder of Sgor a Chadail degenerates to a sea of tussocks in its lower part, reaching a climax in the woods at the bottom where man-eating clumps of grass and bog lie in wait. Wobbly legs emerge onto the sanctuary of the road, only to be pressed once more into action on the stiff climb from sea level to the heights of Beinn Alligin. For me, this is a toilsome, nauseous ascent in the warmth of the sun, relief finally coming in the form of a broken scramble up the rocks of Tom Na Gruagaich's shoulder. However, once on the ridge, the great gash of Sgurr Mhor and the tongue of boulders at its foot distracts attention from my physical travails. Meanwhile Richard seems in good form and managing admirably with what is his first experience of a long round.
The late afternoon sun intensifies on the clamber up Beinn Dearg, with an enjoyable pull up the series of boulder problems that form one of the more continuous ribs of rock that descend from the wedge shaped peak. Even if the omnipresent nausea, delicate stomache, never-ending hiccups and fatigue take the edge off the experience, I am still glad to be in this place, riding the rollercoaster of raised seabeds that stand proud above the current ocean. The haze of the day begins to fade as the richness of the evening light grows. This is a wild place of lochan, boulder, heather and slab; all experienced against the backdrop of Liathach's sweeping Northern corries. As we walk, I recount tales of being blown over on the approach to Coire Mhic Fhearchair on a fierce winter's day, but on this day, all is calm, benevolent and humming with life. The vibrant outflow from the coire hints of the grandeur above. Foolishly we negelcted to fill out empty water bottles having heard the noise of a stream above. To our dismay this proves to be illusory - a deception of echoing rock walls bouncing the sound from below - and not wanting to descend we consign ourselves to a dry traverse of Beinn Eighe's high ridges.
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| Looking out over Flowerdale Forest |
Our chosen route is up the flank of Sail Mhor, an uncompromisingly steep bastion that forms the Southern wing of Coire Mhic Fhearchair. The name of the scramble has a certain Victorian ring to it - Ling, Lawson and Glover's Route - and there was no doubting the Victorian qualities of the approach which consists of highly unstable scree perched at an uncompromisingly steep angle. The impending headwall looms forbiddingly ahead, but we made an escape to the right on slippery grass and rocks until terra firma is reached on the ridge. Glad not to have killed each other with falling rocks, a joyous ascent of sun-warmed sandstone can be made up little towers that formed a fine arete. At its foot, lies a promintory of rock affording a spectacular vista of Flowerdale Forest as shafts of late evening sunlight casts an ethereal spotlight on the myriad of lochans and rocky knolls. Moments like this are transitory, almost momentary, but for me they are the essence of long days out, distilling the long grinding hours into a moment of brilliance - diamonds formed from the coal of the day.
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| Sunset on the Triple Buttresses |
Yet we are soon rewarded with another such diamond as the setting sun lit up the barrel chested front of Beinn Eighe's Triple Buttresses; first yellow, then ochre and finally a deep crimson red; whilst to the South, the wall of mountain that is Liathach is similarly aflame. Its as if we are moving through a canvas, a one-night only masterpiece which we can only observe. We have done nothing to create this, nothing to initiate it, nothing to cause it. The abscence of people further contributes to an overwhelming feeling of privilege, thankfulness and awe in the presence of such raw beauty. And although the climax on the sunset passes, the afterglow persists, the white quartzite picking up the last remnants of light until the slow but inevitable onset of night takes hold. We don torches to pick our way along the rollercoaster ridge, mouths dry and parched, poles clattering on the skittering scree. Richard is a little dismayed to learn that our course is set over two more summits, but we plod steadily away, lost in our own little worlds. The silence is only broken by the clickitty clack of the poles, the scrunching of the screes beneath our feet and the explosion of hiccups that continue to plague me. These night-time perambulations are timeless - groundhog nights of going up the down escalator - but eventually the top of the escalator is reached and time moves on. The last summit is reached and we can descend to the delights that await at our food stache.
But before we do, we must descend the Jenga pile that is Beinn Eighe. The characteristic Quartzite screes are well seen from the road and whilst they make a photogenic panorama, they don't make a comfortable descent. However, some things are so bad, they're good, and the ridiculous crashing down the flowing stream of rocks in a pool of light amidst the darkness is one such experience. We reach the sanctuary of a tongue of grass where a stream of water sates our overwhelming thirst. From there it is a knee jarring descent over rough ground to the gloriously even road. At 1:50 am we pick at our buried treasure in a carefully chosen gorse bush and sit stupified as the stove roars into action. My pervasive nausea just won't go away, so I am limited in what I can stomach. The tinned pears go down a treat as does the coffee, although neither of us can face the rice pudding. I debate leaving the extra sandwihes but am persuaded to take them, a decision for which I am later very grateful. I lie prostrate on the hard surface of the car park, escaping the struggle for a precious forty winks. Mercifully the midges are absent, allowing an undisturbed break.
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| Sunrise on Sgurr Dubh |
We are just over half way round and the decision for both of us to continue is made. Despite a painful knee, Richard is keen to give it a go and I resolve to slog it out. The food cache is duly reburied and we set forth along the large track alongside Loch Clair. The good track makes for steady progress, but the dawn is a rather grey affair as mist clings to the upper slopes. We pick our way up little crags amidst the heather, silenced by the nausea and fatigue of the wee hours. The dullness within is matched by the dullness without where mist smothers the broad slopes of Sgurr Dubh. Then, in a trice, everything is transformed. As we approach the summit rocks, we emerge from the fog to the transcendent scene of a glowing orb rising above the horizon to paint the sky crimson, and as the orb ascends, the blanket of fog is royally lit. The sun hits us on the very top, Richard's face shining orange with the Alpenglow. Our persistence has been rewarded by this moment of brilliance, but the moment fades as the sun retreats into a thick bank of cloud and all is ordinary once more. Legs feel leaden and poles serve to prop us up as we amble over the complex ground to Sgor nan Lochan Uaine. This is an intimate land of lochans, crags and slabs, through which we weave a wiggly line. Brief naps punctuate the effort-laden plodding over Beinn Liath Mor and beyond to Sgurr Ruadh. By now, the head is a little muddled by fatigue and the chirruping of the birds is echoed by my constant hiccuping. We leave our sacks for the out-and-back to the summit of Sgurr Ruadh, providing welcome relief for the shoulders and resulting in a noticable increase in pace.
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| Glad to be on the final summit |
Back at the sacks Richard makes the surprise announcement that he is going to cut the round short due to pain in his knee. I give him my knee support but don't argue. A delightful stalker's path wends its way round the hillside to the bottom of Maol Chean Dearg, and the sun makes a re-appearance to add to the good cheer. I fluctuate between times of perkiness and overwhelming bouts of tiredness, one of which overcomes me toward the end of the stalker's track. I've just been resurrected from my slumbers, when, to my astonishment, Richard re-appears. It transpires that he too has been resurrected - in his case by the knee bandage and growing confidence in his knee. The decision to abandon is reversed and we plod up the forbiddingly steep grass slopes leading to the final scramble. In Richard's words we are 'too tired to scramble' but we do scramble, albeit tentatively and gently. We encounter Munro baggers on the bald summit and several more on the trade route down. Once more, sacks are left for the scramble up the cone of An Ruadh Stac with its screes and extensive slabs. Another stalker's path takes us toward the final hill, then rough ground seems to freeze time as we inch toward our goal. The way up is long, trackless and rough, but the end is in sight and we are in automaton mode. After a rest on the summit of Beinn Damph we pick up the good track that leads inexorably down to the beauty of the lower Caledonian forest. Only the final two kilometres of road remains, with a pleasant sea breeze keeping the midges at bay. At 8:40 pm we can finally stop, but the midges ensure that any celebrations are deferred. Food and sleep are the only things on our mind as we dive inside our tents to enter the blissful land of Nod.
1 comment:
Amazing well done.
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