Round of Loch Etive, 27 February - 2 March 2023

94.8 km, 8240m ascent, 3 days

Almost 25 years ago I completed my first long round – the Bob Graham.   Since then, I’ve completed many such rounds but in latter years, age seems to have caught up with me and I've found these long rounds progressively harder.  I therefore determined that a complete circuit of Loch and Glen Etive would make a suitable last long round. The route traces a line linking major peaks around the glen, starting and finishing near Bonawe and traversing much rough and tortuously steep ground. This time I thought I'd do it as a backpack with a bivvy bag and a good sleeping bag given my lack of confidence in the endeavour. 

Mistake! Taking 4 days food and 2kg of camera gear, the rucksack weighed 14kg at the start and made a serious impediment to progress. This was compounded by starting immediately after a weekend away and the subsequent train journey. The rationale was based on the real possibility of a stupendous Northern Lights show above the clouds - something too enticing to ignore. The reality proves to be somewhat different.

 

The intended route

 

The route followed

Following a sunny afternoon, summit level mist develops just as I near the first top of Ben Cruachan at sundown, and the night is spent stumbling along in thick mist in the dark. This slowsd me considerably, requiring fierce concentration to keep on track and to avoid slipping on the icy patches.  My torch issues a weak beam, which is puzzling given that I’d just fully charged the batteries.

I am weary after the journey and a weekend away, and the night drags on.  As always, the lack of perspective and the need to focus in the darkness, elongates each rise and fall as the hours ground by.  A last thigh-busting descent of the aptly named Meall Garbh (Rough hill) leads to remote Glen Kinglass. It is now approaching 4am and I am both surprised and delighted to find a bothy like structure open.  It is clearly intended for shooting parties, being equipped with Rayburn, sink and electric light.   I doze in the soft embrace of an armchair whilst my little stove chugs away.  A suitably Scottish repast of porridge is followed by oatcakes and tea – a warming breakfast to counter the frosty environs. 

Sometime after 5am I depart feeling unrefreshed for the day ahead. I labour up a steep rough slope that eventually leads to a long, open ridge taking me to Beinn nan Aighenan.  The familiar feeling of a slight sickness and a swimming head leaves me somewhat deadened as I plod upward. This is the opposite of flow – an achingly laboured movement that draws out the discomfort. My mood is only lifted as I emerge above the mist on the summit itself. Beyond, Ben Starav rises out of a swirling sea, my Brocken spectre just beneath, adding colour to the frosty whiteness. 

Summit of Beinn nan Aighenan

The mists part as I descended the Munro bagger’s path to the bealach, leaving the sharp ridge to Ben Starav sparkling against the uniform blue of the sky.  I drop my beast of burden at the col, and unimpeded by the load, joyfully romp up the ridge with scarcely a hint of breeze. All is perfect – no people, crystal-clear air and a crest bedecked with the crunch of snow. To the South, a sea of cloud remains, topped only by the peaks of Ben Cruachan and the summit cone of Ben Lomond. The travails of the night are forgotten in the magic of the moment.  It is with regret that I turn about to retrace my steps to my pack. 

Ben Lomond poking out of the cloud

It is then that I know what lies in store. Lethargy returns and despite the brilliance of the day, I am overcome with weariness that despoils the experience.  The Southern slopes of Stob Coire an Albannaich always seem to stretch out and this occasion is no different.  By the summit I am ready for a nap and a respite from the sack. I seem to have pulled a muscle in my lower back and cannot turn to one side without a yelp of pain.  I feel cold, uninspired and utterly defeated. I had waited many hours for a recovery and none was forthcoming, so knowing of the distance and terrain remaining I conclude that the only rational option is to descend.  At this pace I would still be eking out the miles in the dark on a downwards trajectory of bodily deterioration.  I close my eyes and sit stupefied, lazily munching my way through a late lunch.  A lone walker appears, fresh with enthusiasm and unencumbered by a weighty pack. This was to prove the only person I would meet in 70 hours on the hills.  I half think about continuing then reject the idea and wander downwards toward a little top that I had no recollection of ever having visited.  I wait for the late afternoon sun to light up the rock litter, but this is not forthcoming, and I start to descend. The final slope can only be described as tortuous – deep tussocks set on a 45 degree slope and interspersed with bands of wet black rock. As the angle eases, the vegetation grows yet more troublesome, forming an assault course of ditches, tussocks, tangled trees and deer fences.  It is almost fully dark by the time I stumble out of the wood onto the sure surface of the vehicle track.  I poke around for a suitable bivvy spot, eventually finding a very sheltered location beside the river. 

Fighting off the desire to simply lie down and die (well that’s how it felt), I mechanically make a meal and strip off cold, wet socks, before bedding down for the night. I rue my choice of accommodation for the night.  A bivvy when, damp and exhausted is more about survival than recovery.  Nevertheless, I sleep intermittently, wrapped in the cocoon of my bag, as a hard frost grips the land.  At 4am I’ve had enough and wriggle out of my bag to begin a fight with my soaked running shoes which are by now frozen stiff.  Feeling a little refreshed I elect to experience the sunrise from Stob Dubh, a peak I’d only visited once and a potentially fine viewpoint as well as the fulcrum of the route.  At the first stile, I leave my sack and continue unencumbered up the unremittingly steep, grassy slopes that eventually lean back to an isolated summit.  The sunrise is pleasant but unspectacular – a reminder that these things can’t be forced.  A cap of cloud hangs over Bidean but elsewhere all is clear and a fine day beckons.  Though dulled, my physical deterioration is stemmed and I can embrace the day to come.  Nevertheless, I feel a lingering disappointment at abandoning my intended route, despite reason dictating otherwise.   I had learnt that my father had suffered a heart attack and there is no question of delaying my return so I need to make my booked train home.  At least I am spared the brutal slopes at the head of the glen that would undoubtedly have reduced me to a quivering jelly. 

Sunrise from Stob Dubh

Managed heather fires burn in the glen as the full light of day illuminates the surrounding peaks.  An unaccustomed warmth confirms the arrival of the meteorological spring, the hills shorn of their winter mantle.  All is brown and dead looking after the winter, yet the promise of spring is in the air, birds singing merrily in defiance of the deadness that was.  ‘Rumpole of the Bailey’ relieves the monotony of the forest roads leading up to Beinn Fhionnlaidh. I abandon the pack near Meall nan Gobhar to proceed more swiftly to the peak. The transformation in my rate of progress is marked as enjoyment replaces toil.  On the fine summit ridge, a golden eagle soars above the cliffs, unmistakeable by its wingspan – a true lord of the mountain.  I humbly continue up and down, and thence by a succession of twinkling lochans toward Ben Sgulaird.  As the afternoon eases toward evening, it brings forth a richness and harmony, aided by the gentle fall of the burbling burn.  The slabs of Beinn Trilleachain glow in the soft afternoon light, whilst behind, the truncated wedges of the Buachailles rise sternly out of the sun-graced moor.  With each passing minute, the browns turn yet richer, until nearing sunset, a royal glow envelops the moor and the mountains above. This is a thing of true awe, a moment of transfiguration and power that burns the landscape.  I race up toward Sgulaird’s summit to meet the dying sun as it dips below the horizon over Mull, leaving a deep orange glow on the seaward horizon.  And then the spectacle is over as light is swallowed by the night.  Only the lights of distant Oban and fishing trawlers twinkle against the folds of the hills.

Mull from Beinn Sgulaird

I fumble in the half-light over Sgulaird’s subsidiary tops, until I arrive at a sheltered nook just beside a bulldozed track.  There is water right beside and it makes a good bivvy site.  The moon is in the ascendancy as I relish the inner warmth that comes from a hot meal. It is already cold with a sparkling frost, so I am soon encased in my bag. Yet this time I struggle to sleep. Whether it is the cold, fatigue or the pale moonlight, it matters not, but the night passes slowly as I drift in and out of sleep.  I am not reluctant to fire up the stove before a 5:30 am departure. Cloud now obscures the sky, rendering an inky blackness to everything about.

Dawn on Creach Bheinn

I make stuttering progress toward the rock-littered summit of Creach Bheinn, lost in a dull mental nothingness. The night slips away. It is less of a sunrise and more of a slow emergence of light. As the sun grows higher, it breaches the clouds to the East, sending forth mystical shafts of light.  I pick good lines on the rough slopes of these final hills, moving steadily forward.  My only companions are the deer that fix an intense gaze on me I pass. Winter moves to Spring on the final descent.  Remarkably, the bright yellow of flowering gorse greets me as I reach the road.  A peace emanates from the gently lapping sea as I amble along to Connel Bridge.  This is another world of gentleness and calm.  I arrive at the station where a cat trots along the platform. At my approach, it hops onto the rails and skilfully runs along a single rail before hopping off home.  

Map of intended route

Map of route taken

Photos