tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146044522024-03-19T05:33:06.361-07:00Fleetwood's Long Mountain ChallengesThis site is a record of my long distance running (and walking) adventures. Be inspired!John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-78012244430045095322023-06-28T04:37:00.002-07:002023-06-28T05:05:51.669-07:00Full Etive Round, 2 - 4 June, 2023<p><i>100km, 11175m ascent, 58 hours</i>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In 2005 I completed a circuit of Glen Etive from the Trilleachan
slabs to Ben Starav. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>12 years later,
Digby Harris devised a shortened route based on the Munros from Beinn Fhionnlaidh
onwards. Both constitute circuits of Glen Etive beyond the loch, and my eye
couldn’t help but be drawn to a much fuller circuit of Glen Etive, taking in
the loch itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The loch meets the sea
near Oban but the last 10 miles of it are lowland country which held little
attraction on the Southern side. I therefore determined that a ‘round’ from the
narrowing at Bonawe would make the most logical route, given that the narrows
are little more than 300m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ferry
ceased long ago, so a kayak across the loch seemed the obvious solution – that is,
it would be if it were not for the strong tidal currents requiring that I hit
it at the right time. The logistical constraints therefore persuaded me to
finish on the opposite side of the loch and call it a day there, making my way
back to the start (20 miles) by a combination of train, hitching or walking.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfApt8a0HS5tnnEMEWkup_MyOP8inxqIHsJzzAxrstNa3hf7-8-JSp0s5X71bwuOyhCKVVnhuNuUdsS6rz5cPxcf156eL5emxakn6X--EahQX1IdHGGlYBq7jcgiSr6l3hQyGgowI8FG88sJ_dYANp5pErGHBeRvFxh3ZgfEadVhPJJUcqKmbLVg/s986/etive%20full%20round%20overview%20map.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="986" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfApt8a0HS5tnnEMEWkup_MyOP8inxqIHsJzzAxrstNa3hf7-8-JSp0s5X71bwuOyhCKVVnhuNuUdsS6rz5cPxcf156eL5emxakn6X--EahQX1IdHGGlYBq7jcgiSr6l3hQyGgowI8FG88sJ_dYANp5pErGHBeRvFxh3ZgfEadVhPJJUcqKmbLVg/w400-h313/etive%20full%20round%20overview%20map.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Like all such routes, it looks logical on a map, tracing a
line around Loch Etive and the upper glen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In reality, the loch and glen are often hidden, and the symmetry of the
route is not perceived. Its scale is such that the continuity of the route is
not perceptible on the ground. Nevertheless, it makes a grand circuit reaching
all the way from Taynuilt to Glen Coe and back again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is much rough and trackless terrain,
particularly on the lower slopes away from the Munros and the steepness is such
that it has a cumulative effect beyond the bare statistics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I were to choose one word for this round
it would be BRUTAL. It is undoubtedly the most brutal round I have undertaken
due to the almost unrelenting steepness and mind-numbing quality of some of the
terrain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also adds wild, unfrequented
hills to the shorter rounds, as well as the fine ridges of Ben Cruachan. For
the very fit, it would just about be achievable in 24 hours so would make a
testing challenge of some character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
me in the late twilight of such endeavours, it was enough to complete it without
any concern for time, grinding my way round to end where I had started. It
prompted me to reflect on why I felt compelled to do this – what calls me to do
something so uncomfortable and unheralded? I’ve summarised these reflections
and described my round <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/1wi1v1veyvx8wl0/Asking%20the%20Question.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">here</a>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://explore.osmaps.com/route/5995545/etive-full-round" target="_blank">OS Map</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/1wi1v1veyvx8wl0/Asking%20the%20Question.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Article</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Long-Days-Out/Etive-Round" target="_blank">Photos</a></p>
<p></p>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-43853326453173153522023-03-06T06:15:00.000-08:002023-03-06T06:15:22.327-08:00 Round of Loch Etive, 27 February - 2 March 2023<p><i>94.8 km, 8240m ascent, 3 days</i></p><p><br /></p><p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal">Almost 25 years ago I completed my first long round – the
Bob Graham.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </p><p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7suLhGurm8l_InpPu9pQkjlL0aueT9KDdb_yFS2vQn-2q8G_kbOvjd89y70_Pp1KC8xlNjeJK_KU7Gg4H0YoEPyXx-fyyry6PGQFwn-0AokMw5RB7unjxk86cmmFFKmLMPUiUCqEjGqcbhtBQB-rg9SN7X6tadEUuV_Qy-hv-T_mAKdyzrhI/s1081/etive%20full%20round%20map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1081" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7suLhGurm8l_InpPu9pQkjlL0aueT9KDdb_yFS2vQn-2q8G_kbOvjd89y70_Pp1KC8xlNjeJK_KU7Gg4H0YoEPyXx-fyyry6PGQFwn-0AokMw5RB7unjxk86cmmFFKmLMPUiUCqEjGqcbhtBQB-rg9SN7X6tadEUuV_Qy-hv-T_mAKdyzrhI/w400-h289/etive%20full%20round%20map.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The intended route</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IUx-GZSHuuL8fVtJPqztuozo94ovxs_Y6uX8oMQr8N_uHT1KrHoNOBVGMlDy1fTdvA0yapJKjmjQyieLa_0Au8JZpq3IvwQCghqSljCGNlGPWsZ0J08heZAwUwmCJhBZBsjRcT4dFxGsLIDMY1bQ7ul0M3sqLKSkCftjLiITw3iIaH_u0FM/s1115/loch%20etive%20round%20map.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1115" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IUx-GZSHuuL8fVtJPqztuozo94ovxs_Y6uX8oMQr8N_uHT1KrHoNOBVGMlDy1fTdvA0yapJKjmjQyieLa_0Au8JZpq3IvwQCghqSljCGNlGPWsZ0J08heZAwUwmCJhBZBsjRcT4dFxGsLIDMY1bQ7ul0M3sqLKSkCftjLiITw3iIaH_u0FM/w400-h279/loch%20etive%20round%20map.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The route followed</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Following</span> 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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My torch issues
a weak beam, which is puzzling given that I’d just fully charged the batteries.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am weary after the journey and a weekend away, and the
night drags on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As always, the lack of
perspective and the need to focus in the darkness, elongates each rise and fall
as the hours ground by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is clearly intended for shooting parties, being equipped with
Rayburn, sink and electric light. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I doze in the soft embrace of an armchair
whilst my little stove chugs away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
suitably Scottish repast of porridge is followed by oatcakes and tea – a
warming breakfast to counter the frosty environs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7xHPiOb5At3swRUPpIOSbnt3MtOruzIGBkAIAEVOpIXQBNFvm5d6X16MPAn32FBA2SOHbQGc8mgMJ_KR5JQWOAWz_NSgBTaR6UIa16WJmY8IfVL59DXfyPHP0rGx37NU3txLON6tTDW7na5DIEP6K8FTt8tCk268QJclvKevhfCdeSjenNs/s6016/DSC_4078.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7xHPiOb5At3swRUPpIOSbnt3MtOruzIGBkAIAEVOpIXQBNFvm5d6X16MPAn32FBA2SOHbQGc8mgMJ_KR5JQWOAWz_NSgBTaR6UIa16WJmY8IfVL59DXfyPHP0rGx37NU3txLON6tTDW7na5DIEP6K8FTt8tCk268QJclvKevhfCdeSjenNs/w400-h268/DSC_4078.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Summit of Beinn nan Aighenan<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is with regret that I turn about to
retrace my steps to my pack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hjkqM36YmBchcfSAcRglK_7hZG6GZzxFPFYsEhyq7V-0ZOnsBKjQwUwUsfc4Y4o8v5AH5wE8k_GgEJ1Ht_UZtNEawyleaBxMjy4xkZ9TJLB4_3m9SCsvZsTEiY0B8tZd5kEznSv05AsgbxPpALzp0erx3ouQCN6em0T39EIQxuKzXNa465w/s6016/DSC_4140.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hjkqM36YmBchcfSAcRglK_7hZG6GZzxFPFYsEhyq7V-0ZOnsBKjQwUwUsfc4Y4o8v5AH5wE8k_GgEJ1Ht_UZtNEawyleaBxMjy4xkZ9TJLB4_3m9SCsvZsTEiY0B8tZd5kEznSv05AsgbxPpALzp0erx3ouQCN6em0T39EIQxuKzXNa465w/w400-h268/DSC_4140.jpeg" width="400" /></a></i></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ben Lomond poking out of the cloud<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Southern
slopes of Stob Coire an Albannaich always seem to stretch out and this occasion
is no different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At this pace I would still
be eking out the miles in the dark on a downwards trajectory of bodily
deterioration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I close my eyes and sit stupefied,
lazily munching my way through a late lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is almost fully dark by the
time I stumble out of the wood onto the sure surface of the vehicle track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I poke around for a suitable bivvy spot,
eventually finding a very sheltered location beside the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bivvy when, damp and exhausted
is more about survival than recovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nevertheless, I sleep intermittently, wrapped in the cocoon of my bag,
as a hard frost grips the land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sunrise is pleasant but unspectacular – a
reminder that these things can’t be forced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A cap of cloud hangs over Bidean but elsewhere all is clear and a fine
day beckons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though dulled, my physical
deterioration is stemmed and I can embrace the day to come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nevertheless, I feel a lingering
disappointment at abandoning my intended route, despite reason dictating otherwise.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least I am spared the brutal slopes at the
head of the glen that would undoubtedly have reduced me to a quivering
jelly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Gn7d1NQOXuB7u7eQzfO-aGbfCy8xsl742j8kU6U6IFSSoVr0RchUGPfZgYQTj4Tx1Tm-cj8j7WjK35TWBZjnnJba9LVeajyi7_pkcXFgqRhG-9VS64-8qY3AVBydJByl56EeR9A3IBsYZRf-2Yq9dZdrC0N63MwNDmCgK9wvLN6pRTffUTM/s6016/DSC_4219.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Gn7d1NQOXuB7u7eQzfO-aGbfCy8xsl742j8kU6U6IFSSoVr0RchUGPfZgYQTj4Tx1Tm-cj8j7WjK35TWBZjnnJba9LVeajyi7_pkcXFgqRhG-9VS64-8qY3AVBydJByl56EeR9A3IBsYZRf-2Yq9dZdrC0N63MwNDmCgK9wvLN6pRTffUTM/w400-h268/DSC_4219.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sunrise from Stob Dubh</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Managed heather fires burn in the glen as the full light of
day illuminates the surrounding peaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An unaccustomed warmth confirms the arrival of the meteorological
spring, the hills shorn of their winter mantle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the fine summit ridge, a golden
eagle soars above the cliffs, unmistakeable by its wingspan – a true lord of
the mountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I humbly continue up and
down, and thence by a succession of twinkling lochans toward Ben Sgulaird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the afternoon eases toward evening, it brings
forth a richness and harmony, aided by the gentle fall of the burbling
burn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then the spectacle is over as light is
swallowed by the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the lights
of distant Oban and fishing trawlers twinkle against the folds of the hills.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPPvFb-QfQwcF-yrXbkv76hNMvam1yARoCDxjLbPQXGNphUEzJA9dHLKbPSY3uo_btj_Z_YmpWBqJ0UtzydeBKStKepQ7CT8o5hlr66TG5goEg_jBTrWiVIdV3DrrLu3XV-58nYHjOyYE943cYEL94LNXhKRobYtgGpTtHRoCfCExBaw6qYE/s6016/DSC_4364.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitPPvFb-QfQwcF-yrXbkv76hNMvam1yARoCDxjLbPQXGNphUEzJA9dHLKbPSY3uo_btj_Z_YmpWBqJ0UtzydeBKStKepQ7CT8o5hlr66TG5goEg_jBTrWiVIdV3DrrLu3XV-58nYHjOyYE943cYEL94LNXhKRobYtgGpTtHRoCfCExBaw6qYE/w400-h268/DSC_4364.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mull from Beinn Sgulaird</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I fumble in the half-light over Sgulaird’s subsidiary tops,
until I arrive at a sheltered nook just beside a bulldozed track.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is water right beside and it makes a
good bivvy site.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvYiPb85sYWy1wACT03oooIFrzMFV7wmIV4qd5QPB2lRQ1R6GRIR4PDFzQ6AkmDSIYRpZt-da9O4k8c0XFInac1S1Jb3pg7v9ImJUTTm4FXlcOsAwISvV7YfMwTM4LXF766qM9mz1KwVtSZ-EvgBcv-IDuE0cM9IiBMi32WkyWuBRIiL_rnU/s6016/DSC_4381.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4016" data-original-width="6016" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgvYiPb85sYWy1wACT03oooIFrzMFV7wmIV4qd5QPB2lRQ1R6GRIR4PDFzQ6AkmDSIYRpZt-da9O4k8c0XFInac1S1Jb3pg7v9ImJUTTm4FXlcOsAwISvV7YfMwTM4LXF766qM9mz1KwVtSZ-EvgBcv-IDuE0cM9IiBMi32WkyWuBRIiL_rnU/w400-h268/DSC_4381.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dawn on Creach Bheinn</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pick good lines on the rough
slopes of these final hills, moving steadily forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My only companions are the deer that fix an
intense gaze on me I pass. Winter moves to Spring on the final descent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Remarkably, the bright yellow of flowering
gorse greets me as I reach the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
peace emanates from the gently lapping sea as I amble along to Connel
Bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is another world of
gentleness and calm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/i680p5c4v5wfbxk/etive%20full%20round%20map.jpg?dl=0" target="_blank">Map of intended route</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/pnqj6uw661ip6lt/loch%20etive%20round%20map.JPG?dl=0" target="_blank">Map of route taken</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Long-Days-Out/Loch-Etive/" target="_blank">Photos </a><br /></span></p>
<p></p>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-37465904489119616602021-08-15T03:39:00.001-07:002021-08-15T03:39:17.945-07:00The Glen Lyon Watershed 31 July – 1 August 2021<p class="MsoNormal"><i>121 km, 10,000 m ascent, 47 hours 15 minutes</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZ1fvPluBU38gUoxmViU3T5bOBHjLUyYpq7trc-8Ldu1QfNCJVwwemQz2sG2h8oojHbnDPl6oWYJeJizzc1YWnDSlBUJiEsKltQVT_QqDC5-yZBDqbMin759nSm0u5_TVVkCX4w/s1092/glen+lyon+watershed+overview+map.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="1092" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZ1fvPluBU38gUoxmViU3T5bOBHjLUyYpq7trc-8Ldu1QfNCJVwwemQz2sG2h8oojHbnDPl6oWYJeJizzc1YWnDSlBUJiEsKltQVT_QqDC5-yZBDqbMin759nSm0u5_TVVkCX4w/w400-h265/glen+lyon+watershed+overview+map.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The fine natural line of the Glen Lyon Watershed<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Glen Lyon is the largest enclosed valley in Scotland,
belonging to both east and West, or perhaps to neither - a place in between the
southern central and eastern Highlands, it is shunned by the masses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It does not boast the rocky crests of Glencoe
or the fierce grandeur of the Cairngorms, yet has its own subtle charm found in
the woods and greenery of the lower glen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Two groups of Munros provide a ticking feast for the avid bagger, including
the justly popular Ben Lawers. Yet for the most part, this is wild untracked
country of rough grass, bog and heather, where summits are hard won and little
travelled. Yiannis Tridimas had established a tough round of the Corbett Hills
at the western end of the glen, but my eye was drawn to the possibility of a
traverse of the full watershed - a great natural line around this elongated glen,
embracing 17 Munros, 8 Corbetts and a Graham.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The seed was sown and, on this occasion, the wait from germination of
idea to fruition was short.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within a
week I had secured the support of my friend, Wes, and was once again on the
road North to a new adventure.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisimdKmiJyomcxbnKW36KEdXe1zD9_knfpHzz5F0Y9HjOK2X7F6Qa-S9cSAOXXyIuafjYNmGZ3QiKXQib7vVBpHrDP_yzxdiQ3L6dc-li9iRBP5mnKJXisgi5V6Oon_LO51XBf9Q/s949/glen+lyon+watershed+location+in+scotland.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="949" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisimdKmiJyomcxbnKW36KEdXe1zD9_knfpHzz5F0Y9HjOK2X7F6Qa-S9cSAOXXyIuafjYNmGZ3QiKXQib7vVBpHrDP_yzxdiQ3L6dc-li9iRBP5mnKJXisgi5V6Oon_LO51XBf9Q/w400-h303/glen+lyon+watershed+location+in+scotland.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The watershed lies between East and West</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We park at the high point of the road to Bridge of Balgie in
the hope of a midge-repelling breeze, but none is to be had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A drizzly night eases into a grey dawn where
the midges are felt but not seen. A 5 am departure is a relief to escape the
clouds of midges and the confines of the tent. Tendrils of mist play with the
soft outlines of the Tarmachans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Feet
soon absorb the pervasive moisture of the lush vegetation and I forlornly
squelch upwards in dispiriting drizzle, somewhat fatigued by the discomfort of
the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all feels forced, flat,
cheerless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mood reflects the greyness
all around. I can only wait for things to change and hope for a lifting of the
cloud and an accompanying rejuvenation of spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For now, there is no relent in the thick
blanket of mist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Steep wet grass leads
to more steep wet grass. The Munro of Meall Gheordie provides some relief, but
the trackless miles to Meall nan Subh (hill of the raspberry) demand, patience
and persistence. By the time I meet Wes at the hydro road I'm ready for food
and company.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWBOHH3qNfClMDpTbzy7jpOGoQNyevxAimq8pvR4Ar8CM7RPtnkDK6t8gV2T7zmXnVWyTNUxKv7GEhiylzLKOEHggoV2InWZ4_ZHWTMrfL9WClhDLqGIA_CZsq4oTCdy87lleaCQ/s2048/IMG_0890-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWBOHH3qNfClMDpTbzy7jpOGoQNyevxAimq8pvR4Ar8CM7RPtnkDK6t8gV2T7zmXnVWyTNUxKv7GEhiylzLKOEHggoV2InWZ4_ZHWTMrfL9WClhDLqGIA_CZsq4oTCdy87lleaCQ/w400-h300/IMG_0890-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Challenging trackless terrain<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />This has the desired effect of enthusing me a little for the
hours ahead, and as the clouds part, a brightness enters my spirit. I'm
psychologically prepared for the drawn-out approach to Beinn Heasgarnich which
marks the start of more familiar country. Not that it's easy - the Corbetts of
these parts are the real monsters - lacking the travelled ways of the Munros
and sporting thick tussocky grass on jarringly steep slopes. My feet feel the
strain of the constant twisting and turning on the tussocks. One ankle-twisting,
green wall leads to another, so I'm pleased once more to meet Wes at the far
western end of the Glen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gorge on a
tin of pears and a prepared rice and ratatouille meal as I bathe in warm
evening sun. This will be my last support point until the far eastern end of Glen
Lyon, so I take the time to rehydrate, eat and recover. But like on an Alpine
climb, you can never really relax until you're safely back. This temporary
escape from the challenge is just that- temporary - the knowledge of what lies
ahead can be ignored for a brief moment, but it is always there, nagging,
looming, pressing.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpH9SSIdnhqB783E97wjdYuSyggJ1hxtkhi93tO9JbMlDJ5qYhBqIRbrJYAV5Whyphenhyphenci49abVQYpcPojcwHG02Nw04mi-rTCOee5sF1oJA-T2ZXQYbb80Ka7weeVM2d43f262oIlg/s2048/IMG_0927-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpH9SSIdnhqB783E97wjdYuSyggJ1hxtkhi93tO9JbMlDJ5qYhBqIRbrJYAV5Whyphenhyphenci49abVQYpcPojcwHG02Nw04mi-rTCOee5sF1oJA-T2ZXQYbb80Ka7weeVM2d43f262oIlg/w400-h300/IMG_0927-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sunset over the Buachaille</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For the present, I am content to delight in the rich glow of
early evening when all is as it should be. I pass two campers on the ascent of Achaladair,
but I'm then alone, at one with the mountains. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the shadows grow, the colours deepen and an
extensive panorama opens out to the West- Ben Cruachan, the Blackmount, Glencoe,
Ben Nevis, Rannoch Moor-all imbued with deep significance, memories embedded
into their shadowy forms. And as the sun sinks on the horizon, the sky is
painted pink above the jagged line of mountain. The daily pattern is a timeless
cycle, but each is special, a thing of wonder and awe that demands attention,
cries out to the soul and calls for the silent worship of the heart. The drab
dawn is a distant memory, banished by the ecstasy of this place of thinness.
The moment passes, but the glow dims slowly, delaying the onset of night. I
make it to the top of the steep descent to Beallach Meadhrain before bowing to
the inevitable and scrabbling for my torch. Disaster! The torch fails to light.
No matter- I search for my spare batteries and fumble to insert them in the
torch. Up, down, all the same way, reverse it- no good. I admit defeat and with
an inward sigh, start to descend the slope, lit only by my phone torch. All too
soon, the slope steepens to a disconcerting angle of about 45 degrees. I can't
see the gaps between the tussocks and slabs provide a further hazard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m forced to abandon my poles and grope my
way down, feeling for the footholds, phone in mouth. It's painstakingly slow,
but I'm still moving, eating up the hours of darkness. I take stock at the pass
and try the head torch once more. The old batteries yield a pitifully faint
glow, but in the uphill direction this proves to be sufficient for the stagger
up the impending slope, poles planted firmly to pivot my way upwards. Night
draws out. There is nothing to distract my attention from the never-ending
fumbling over tussocks that constitute a continual trip hazard and make for
jerky, uncertain progress.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the dawn comes, it is a gradual affair, mist obscuring
summits to the East. My feet are wet, I'm moving slowly and I'm cold. It's a
cheerless dawn- a thing to be endured for the promise of better times. I just
keep moving, pole after pole, one plodding step after another. The rounded
summits come and go until a horrific tangle of heather, tussocks and bilberries
drops precipitously to the Lairig Ghallabhaich. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I emerge gratefully to the sanctuary of the
dirt road, where I tuck into a second breakfast. The sun has banished the
tribulations of the night, and even the steep, trackless heather cannot reverse
my growing sense of content. I sample the profuse bilberries on the steep
ascent of Ben Dearg, drawing on the knowledge that the trackless wandering will
shortly be over, replaced by the comforting paths of the Carn Mairg Munros. A
glorious summers day is underway as I join the Munro baggers on Carn Mairg.
Freed from the trickery of the tussocks, I make more certain progress Eastwards.
I can see Ben Vrackie and Beinn a Ghlo beyond the A9, markers of my progress
from West to East. I depart from the Munro bagger trail and follow the long
watershed ridge that eventually leads to the foot of Glen Lyon. By the time I
reach Wes at Fortingall, it is early evening and time for tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxsPLSXUz-lRHF6BZ3UkqUvNCcleWRSO4Dea4Hqk_UgRq6AXcyU9abxatwt32cJGCyitbsH44yHHKnaEF8KeyLCc2Bny6ECUCXxNCD24q8nJFWS6VWleV3qo_9vVfunrdGSsvjRA/s2048/IMG_0960-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxsPLSXUz-lRHF6BZ3UkqUvNCcleWRSO4Dea4Hqk_UgRq6AXcyU9abxatwt32cJGCyitbsH44yHHKnaEF8KeyLCc2Bny6ECUCXxNCD24q8nJFWS6VWleV3qo_9vVfunrdGSsvjRA/w400-h300/IMG_0960-2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lower Glen Lyon at Bridge of Lyon</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We are now out of the mountains, almost a stone’s throw from
the Eastern end of Loch Tay, so it feels like an end point, which, for me, it
is not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A second night beckons on the
climax of the round – a traverse of the fine ridges of Ben Lawers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Armed with a functioning torch, I set forth
in the balmy evening air of summer, stiffly shuffling along the road to cross
the Bridge of Lyon and from there, to follow the valley road to Fearnan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is all very reminiscent of long Alpine
days, re-ascending out of the valley after a good feed, warmed by the evening
sun and bitten by insects in steamy forests.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The track out of Fearnan is most unlike Alpine trails, however,
degenerating into a thrash through bushes and stinging nettles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am glad to escape the trees and begin the
long ascent of Meall Greigh, basking in the evening sunlight as the shadows
lengthen and the golden hour approaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Loch Tay shimmers, fjord-like, as the slopes above turn a rich ochre and
the warmth of the sun fades in a cooling breeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I make steady, plodding progress up to the
second Munro, lifted by another magnificent sunset; but as night falls time
loses meaning – minutes seem to drag by, yet hours pass in a flash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Legs wobble on the steep descents, only
propped up by poles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The torch is a
veritable car headlamp in comparison with the night before, revealing An Stac
as a looming tower that spirals upwards into a mysterious mist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mist comes and goes, but largely grows
until all is enveloped in its soft embrace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Time ceases to matter as long as I am moving forwards, eking out the
miles in a befuddled stupor through the fog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I distract the brain from the slow death of the night by listening to
‘Tales of the Norsemen’ - the stories of Thor, the ice giants and the tricky
Loki which seem supremely suited to the time and place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
are moments when the mist clears to reveal a star-studded sky, but for the most
part all is smothered by cloying fog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On
and on its goes, until I’m astonished to see a lightening in the sky that
promises a new dawn. At 4:15a.m. the night is drawing to a close as I greet Wes
with a knock on the van door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/route/9293152/Glen-Lyon-Watershed" target="_blank">Map </a><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Landscape/2021/Glen-Lyon/" target="_blank">Photos </a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/YGaDzrfI3-Y" width="320" youtube-src-id="YGaDzrfI3-Y"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span></p>
John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-67894096336603892822021-07-26T12:31:00.000-07:002021-07-26T12:31:04.922-07:00Sutherland Round, 28-29 June 2021<p> <i>91.7 km, 6450m ascent, 28 hours</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8iZDtggaOXEdbFd_HwoMIJMPIk0LdgMPxgMEN71Yd6oUEqcnyf_1MdWFfdxXlCBlyO6-MDZYODo7_NTz-sbhAvyxHllg5RkviJLQqZ7S-U0Rh5Fa6ZwPG95HqjikHx1o6jPRxZw/s639/sutherland+round+overview+map.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="639" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8iZDtggaOXEdbFd_HwoMIJMPIk0LdgMPxgMEN71Yd6oUEqcnyf_1MdWFfdxXlCBlyO6-MDZYODo7_NTz-sbhAvyxHllg5RkviJLQqZ7S-U0Rh5Fa6ZwPG95HqjikHx1o6jPRxZw/w400-h326/sutherland+round+overview+map.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><i><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Sutherland – sounding like a land of the South but actually
marking the far North of these Isles – home to Cape Wrath, Ben Hope (the most
Northerly Munro) and latterly, the marketing genius of the North Coast 500,
this is a land of empty spaces, ancient rocks, myriad lochans and dreamy
shorelines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, ‘The North’ somehow
resounds with mystery and intrigue, exploration and adventure, a big unknown
that pulls me irresistibly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet like a
Bunyan pilgrim, I had hitherto failed to pay more than fleeting visits, being
ensnared by more accessible playgrounds. A family holiday finally provided the
opportunity to rectify this omission, and scrutiny of the map revealed a satisfyingly
logical natural line, linking several of the major summits, most notably the
very fine shattered ridge of Foinaven, the queen of these parts.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzxNOnO8IxZT0Yf21VJDJb9w235bjcxz9zwKOTc4DZT3d-qqYzFrXjfudBNlZtKw5czVZJnwQc9PfJ3wcqakOQ_gKZqQfMur_aPMS9m1HGGrN4TOwVQoS3oIIDMTUO7JvrntqS3A/s2048/DSC_2495.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="2048" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzxNOnO8IxZT0Yf21VJDJb9w235bjcxz9zwKOTc4DZT3d-qqYzFrXjfudBNlZtKw5czVZJnwQc9PfJ3wcqakOQ_gKZqQfMur_aPMS9m1HGGrN4TOwVQoS3oIIDMTUO7JvrntqS3A/w400-h268/DSC_2495.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Foinaven at sunset</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Keen to put the route to the test, day two of our holiday
saw me bundled out of the car and ready to go at the amenable hour of ten to
ten in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Except of course,
that you are never ‘ready’ to go, apprehension at what lies ahead and the vagaries
of an ageing body, conspiring to create uncertainty and a vague feeling of
inadequacy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only by pushing this aside
and placing one foot in front of the other, does the journey begin.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdlrcxZ9jQJTOjsJ8C5Yd9biLJ7T2VNSlJo3e7xB4hI27yHaY2PRFR7dhd6GIl6MVPpjEL2UREDslbgmb_bu-X-YVZPymbmZ7CE8p9Of9iPETtPB9vmk4GRbOyE9ntpyBNSR_BA/s2048/DSC01742%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkdlrcxZ9jQJTOjsJ8C5Yd9biLJ7T2VNSlJo3e7xB4hI27yHaY2PRFR7dhd6GIl6MVPpjEL2UREDslbgmb_bu-X-YVZPymbmZ7CE8p9Of9iPETtPB9vmk4GRbOyE9ntpyBNSR_BA/w400-h266/DSC01742%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ready to go?</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Somewhat surprisingly, the lethargy of the day before has
been dispelled, and rested by an increasingly rare good night’s sleep, I make
efficient progress on a splendid stalkers track. Even when this ends, the
springy vegetation facilitates easy going, dried by months of fine weather
which has transformed the otherwise ubiquitous bog into something far more
pleasant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The morning mist lifts
steadily above the summits, banished by the ever-growing power of the sun. The
lochans twinkle, birds sing merrily and all is well with the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing interrupts the overwhelming sense of
well-being. I’m in resonance with the beat of the land, moving through it, yet
connected, attuned, integrated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
feeling of at-one-ness grows as I descend to the sea, bounded by rugged rock
walls and plunging waterfalls. I meet the first people at Glendhu Bothy,
sunning themselves on plastic chairs, but there’s little to disturb the harmony
on the run-in along the sea loch, glinting in the midday sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bold buttresses of Quinag hold the gaze
at the head of the loch, whilst the Stack of Glencoul protrudes thumb-like to
the Southeast, beckoning for another day.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For now my thoughts are firmly centred on lunch and
re-hydration, both of which are fully satisfied at my first point of support. Alison
has assembled an array of goodies on the parcel shelf of the car, from which I
graze as I please.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sun beats mercilessly,
more characteristic of a Mediterranean shore than the far Northwest of
Scotland. I embrace the warmth, but chug slowly up the NC500, Scotland’s own
Route 66, and now a procession of motorhomes, campervans and roaring motorbikes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m glad to turn off the road after a couple
of miles and follow the minor road down to a fish hatchery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pass a worker on my left and am about to join
the stalkers track when I’m stopped in my tracks by a tirade of verbal abuse. I’m
directed to turn around and return to the main road, since this road is closed
and there are helicopters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never
manage to ascertain quite why the presence of helicopters is relevant, but am
led to believe that they are there on some sort of clandestine mission of
national security.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t buy this
argument, and despite the intimidation, simply state that the stalker’s path is
a matter of metres away and I am going to proceed to it whatever the aggressor
says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m undeniably shaken by this
intimidation, but no gun is pointed in my direction, nor is a vicious hound
released, so I determinedly jog away until the swearing hothead is nothing but
an unpleasant memory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m bothered by this
unexpected and disturbing altercation, but the gentle miles of delightful lochan
strewn terrain soon dissipate my disquiet and the world is restored to its
natural rhythm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the previous
experience was unexpected, then so is this – a delectable patchwork of crag and
lochan, with the glittering sea beyond and the conical form of Ben Stack
drawing ever closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing disturbs
the at-one-ness for I am alone, but yet not alone – a part of this intimate landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzHz775YRqx29MRWc8lqquI-lKJvnXo3Uv20C9znL6dvZvumupv7EbV_68xIVVIxqLqEJIBC3l_50xNY-a2uG5cN7znnTItZHD2Io0ieetLylGjA_fVNBA1Zc1RjhRiznLzW14g/s2048/DSC01753.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXzHz775YRqx29MRWc8lqquI-lKJvnXo3Uv20C9znL6dvZvumupv7EbV_68xIVVIxqLqEJIBC3l_50xNY-a2uG5cN7znnTItZHD2Io0ieetLylGjA_fVNBA1Zc1RjhRiznLzW14g/w400-h266/DSC01753.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ben Stack rising above Loch Stack</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />On the summit ridge a helicopter swoops in, but I am not
whisked off the hill to an internment camp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead, I chat amiably to workers on the telecoms mast who are engaged
in a maintenance exercise, facilitated by the helicopter winching equipment in
and out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The helicopter makes two more
journeys as I lollop down the broad ridge to my teatime support.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I’m well short of half-way, but this will be my last point
of support, and untroubled by midges, I can sit back and enjoy a proper feed
before the ardour of the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mist
starts to envelop Ben Stack, lending it an air of mystery, whilst my next hill,
Arkle, remains clear in the soft light of evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pack my new running vest to the brim, such
that it is bulging at every seam, and begin the real adventure, all that has
gone before being the aperitif, the warm-up act for the main show.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The feeling of content is palpable – a refreshing
breeze counters the heat that seems to ooze out of the ground, and causes
gentle ripples to run up rhythmically against the shore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stop briefly to savour the serenity,
imbibing the evening air and drawing on the perfect peace. The moment is all
too brief, but made all the more special by its brevity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJF8HlqxviWK3a_h_WV8H-8QZF0pxZb21jJvg9QeLSL4bnVqTP7pJnwTTx8nD3lo0su39916nLFwk9nkX7urviF9cy0SVbm6V_qAi0h93ZLoNPu0KBOHaPfcEWIIFKkihBLLsI0w/s2048/DSC01767.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJF8HlqxviWK3a_h_WV8H-8QZF0pxZb21jJvg9QeLSL4bnVqTP7pJnwTTx8nD3lo0su39916nLFwk9nkX7urviF9cy0SVbm6V_qAi0h93ZLoNPu0KBOHaPfcEWIIFKkihBLLsI0w/w400-h266/DSC01767.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The mists bubble up below Arkle</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />The path passes between two giant boulders in a wood, conjuring
images from Tolkien, but Gandalf does not cry ‘You shall not pass’ – that’s
already been said by the hatchery man – and I continue in the balmy atmosphere
of a perfect summer’s evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rise
out of the deep shadows to chase the sun up the silvery scree. Mist swirls in
and out of the valley cauldron, tops poking above the fog blanket that reaches
out to the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A royal highway leads
onto the summit of Arkle, a line above the clouds, perfect in symmetry and
form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Opposite, the long stony ridge of
Foinaven rises above the sea of mist that now envelops the valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reluctantly I descend into this sea, skittering
steeply down unstable scree and troublesome heather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mercifully this abates as the long descent
proceeds, but each step down is a step to be won back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is now 10 pm and the sun sets a delicate
pink on the rocks above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I
reach the summit ridge, the sun has long set but Arkle retains a deep pink hue
above the dense sea of bubbling cloud.</p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh49r1sIzn5kkFEH2FCFopgfGOxssKCu8wLNBpdgtXXng5U_8vIqcZdALBuT9znNktMJPnIpbhExIkCmxl_tC8KHEOpGeInpby3FW2mJe7Nh82a0cVubUV38rNG23hKCdQmrg4Kiw/s2048/DSC01798.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh49r1sIzn5kkFEH2FCFopgfGOxssKCu8wLNBpdgtXXng5U_8vIqcZdALBuT9znNktMJPnIpbhExIkCmxl_tC8KHEOpGeInpby3FW2mJe7Nh82a0cVubUV38rNG23hKCdQmrg4Kiw/w400-h266/DSC01798.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The afterglow beyod the sea of fog</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">Day is not yet ready to surrender to Night and delivers a
last hurrah that tops all that has come before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The sharp rocky ridges become dark silhouettes rising above the fog,
tendrils of mist whisked across their flanks by a stiff wind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stumble down and then up the broken rock
ridges, half-seeing, half-feeling my way with my poles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is an energy in the cutting wind, a
spinning vortex that spits out of the cauldron.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And to the West, a deep orange glow holds the gaze, an intense line of
fire marking the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only Foinaven’s
highest summits lie above the now dominant sea of fog that stretches to the
Western seaboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a purity in
their form – stark black pyramids rising out of the bubbling brew, and still
the furnace-like glow bounds the horizon, though it is now 12:40 am. The magic
continues as the moon rises to full power, gleaming brightly over the fog
blanket. Mists play with the peaks, swirling unpredictably to and fro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4AKIgVxjAeUJ1puCSw-8NIf1LDkeDUFpIDs53-2_R5yb3DOx3nMJwmtqqRmOlLb8t28phz9obwFV_Mqp83e11fp485WtzrKAPhcl6nwz3rIsS-CIh_cNkqPJI8yqV0VMPXy3qAw/s2048/DSC01806.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4AKIgVxjAeUJ1puCSw-8NIf1LDkeDUFpIDs53-2_R5yb3DOx3nMJwmtqqRmOlLb8t28phz9obwFV_Mqp83e11fp485WtzrKAPhcl6nwz3rIsS-CIh_cNkqPJI8yqV0VMPXy3qAw/w400-h266/DSC01806.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Moon over Foinaven</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal">And then the show stops, the magic is lost, the fire goes
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m enveloped by the mist, not to
emerge for another eleven hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rocks are
greased as all is gripped by a dap, insidious cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The torch beam bounces off the mist and my
world is reduced to a dreary, grey microcosm, a repeating loop that never seems
to end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Day emerges but gradually,
tentatively emerging out of the gloom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Summits come and go, but there is a monotony in the process. Lack of
sleep, the physical demands and the sameness of it all, makes for a drawn-out
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is now all about
finishing. There is little joy, just a determination to realise the
vision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The magical has become mechanical
and the moving parts are creaking, sorely in need of service.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, the gloom lifts on Ben Hee as the sun makes a
re-appearance for the last couple of miles down the glen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I meet the first person since leaving my
support and then I’m back. The circle is complete, the round has become a
reality, I can stop.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Landscape/2021/Sutherland" target="_blank">Photos </a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/route/5670348/Sutherland-Round" target="_blank">OS Maps Route </a></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/-NmZiuLjWSY" width="320" youtube-src-id="-NmZiuLjWSY"></iframe></div><br /> <br /><p></p>
John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-88228433475124733412021-06-10T05:06:00.004-07:002021-06-10T08:55:00.343-07:00Torridonian Round 28-29 May 2021<p> <i>72 km, 7270m ascent, 33 hours 45 mins</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9zPwnc_P6mnudGDsjUaU19pEE-4iIh28dA2XCc42oPVElJyDw3d_OACWzsf8hV3As1hpbpgz4Ic8FwA57pew5bYKAP7zVHtaOxMCOWjKfvy_e31epR-7p4l_H4MU3STfYUFTJg/s987/torridonian+route.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="987" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9zPwnc_P6mnudGDsjUaU19pEE-4iIh28dA2XCc42oPVElJyDw3d_OACWzsf8hV3As1hpbpgz4Ic8FwA57pew5bYKAP7zVHtaOxMCOWjKfvy_e31epR-7p4l_H4MU3STfYUFTJg/w400-h260/torridonian+route.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />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".<p></p><p>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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.<br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7a6LTzoXVMfiNToUA6-LZ_OgvSkgRJYSqWFtTpT80-PgX4bCt6z4Pns20P6osYvWBKiGrAmPwFBsyrl-A194I3-EiDwfgzY983ht3pQOnGVKEGUH-nVZvvhkBwlB_8hZYTpMyQ/s5472/DSC01609.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7a6LTzoXVMfiNToUA6-LZ_OgvSkgRJYSqWFtTpT80-PgX4bCt6z4Pns20P6osYvWBKiGrAmPwFBsyrl-A194I3-EiDwfgzY983ht3pQOnGVKEGUH-nVZvvhkBwlB_8hZYTpMyQ/w400-h266/DSC01609.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Looking out over Flowerdale Forest<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />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. <p></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUBMDTs6JydF9DS8kQyUyDzqwAfzIETuuApvfOrWj18ciC38zrMWb-9oFEriIKxhyphenhyphenysWgaQ1HAAXTYo55-reYmmp17vac9RB7nFMDFSWKPsGeAhr3B-94t7DxADiBqpJiSks0fQ/s5472/DSC01615.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUBMDTs6JydF9DS8kQyUyDzqwAfzIETuuApvfOrWj18ciC38zrMWb-9oFEriIKxhyphenhyphenysWgaQ1HAAXTYo55-reYmmp17vac9RB7nFMDFSWKPsGeAhr3B-94t7DxADiBqpJiSks0fQ/w400-h266/DSC01615.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sunset on the Triple Buttresses</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />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.<p></p><p>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.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7s2rFebzLn_oyH_hyyfjOJJmDxsrEa8iMHJwPAVttJ8GTXpCn7K1GsFVNH8t8JRAUV_bYtXv0MLfrmTDx2vPzj57tOtZ4XVR7dGLxztsLianLFylauOLS99GaVq3z24Ic-PtKw/s5472/DSC01627.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV7s2rFebzLn_oyH_hyyfjOJJmDxsrEa8iMHJwPAVttJ8GTXpCn7K1GsFVNH8t8JRAUV_bYtXv0MLfrmTDx2vPzj57tOtZ4XVR7dGLxztsLianLFylauOLS99GaVq3z24Ic-PtKw/w400-h266/DSC01627.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sunrise on Sgurr Dubh</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>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. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghCzag3Tk5MKeArh9CGdH7_aPO2xBMVNEXNjlsKUTnDhTMU24sNr4hyfOr6BlqTg_tEa2-bDwKdrEqEOZtZQ_KW1uEW4SLijIT_DY3LU95NAvKwX1F-BkvGq_VhPHbHAHbnK0nXw/s5472/DSC01636.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="5472" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghCzag3Tk5MKeArh9CGdH7_aPO2xBMVNEXNjlsKUTnDhTMU24sNr4hyfOr6BlqTg_tEa2-bDwKdrEqEOZtZQ_KW1uEW4SLijIT_DY3LU95NAvKwX1F-BkvGq_VhPHbHAHbnK0nXw/w400-h266/DSC01636.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Glad to be on the final summit</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>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.<br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fUdQdHZxH8w" width="320" youtube-src-id="fUdQdHZxH8w"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://youtu.be/fUdQdHZxH8w" target="_blank"><i>Video</i></a><br /></div><br /><p></p><p><a href="https://www.smugmug.com/app/organize/Landscape/2021/Torridon" target="_blank"><i>Photos</i></a></p><p><a href="https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/57.53506,-5.45854,13" target="_blank"><i>OS Maps Route<br /></i></a></p>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-55902681951987352672020-09-06T01:07:00.000-07:002020-09-06T01:07:05.469-07:00Laggan Round 30-31 August 2020<p> <i>63 miles, 6700m ascent, 33 hours</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFiWmMUEvkVdQSLoAk6obhbMCWOCy15xoBurvgHLVNP8eThb7IM53K5Jk1IVRWifTWfhJMeH_-DE5d0Ubwh2uo8H9aQ9loACqkdIdyLvnQ1pAeU3P8oEFBE42oR6R7hGnWSxrxYw/s563/laggan+round+map+image.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="563" height="491" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFiWmMUEvkVdQSLoAk6obhbMCWOCy15xoBurvgHLVNP8eThb7IM53K5Jk1IVRWifTWfhJMeH_-DE5d0Ubwh2uo8H9aQ9loACqkdIdyLvnQ1pAeU3P8oEFBE42oR6R7hGnWSxrxYw/w500-h491/laggan+round+map+image.JPG" width="500" /></a></div><br /><i></i><p></p><p>2020 has proved to be a bumper year for long distance hill running with almost every major record seemingly broken. In my own small way I've had a bit of a bumper year too, albeit in a different way. I might be incapable of running at a decent pace, but I still enjoy exploring and putting long routes together. August Bank Holiday was the last real opportunity to do so and I made the most of it with the third of my long rounds in the space of 6 weeks. </p><p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</style>
<![endif]--></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">It was all Donnie Campbell’s fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d been following his tracker on his
clinical demolishing of the Munros inside 33 days, when I happened to spot a
line on the map that I’d not observed before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of Donnie’s unfeasibly long days was a traverse of the hills South
of Loch Laggan from the Eastern Munros of the Ramsay Round to Ben Alder and
Creag Pitridh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Donnie finished his day
there before continuing over Creag Meagaidh and the Monaliath the next day, but
I couldn’t help noticing the potential for an attractive circuit of the Loch,
concluding with the Creag Meagaidh hills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The distance worked out at a pleasingly round 100km, cementing the
thought. <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/va2kdty4cbo0pk0/A%20Round%20of%20Loch%20Laggan.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Download full article.</a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/route/5707349/Laggan-Round" target="_blank">OS Map </a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Outdoor-Activities/Long-Days-Out/Laggan-Round/" target="_blank">Photos </a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/dHrd3LMoTkk" width="320" youtube-src-id="dHrd3LMoTkk"></iframe></div><br /> <br /><p></p>
<p><br /></p>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-39291539148337925902020-08-22T10:02:00.005-07:002020-08-23T01:47:31.325-07:00 Kingshouse Round Revisited 8-9 August 2020<p></p><p><i>51 miles, 27,000 feet, 35 hours</i></p><p>Between 2005 and 2007 I devised three rounds of <a href="http://longdistancechallenges.blogspot.com/2006/05/kingshouse-13-may-2006.html" target="_blank">Glencoe and Glen Etive</a>. These were all bruising, but magnificant mountain adventures of great character. Renewed enthusiams for long rounds led me to have another go in an attempt to determine the best of these. Examination of the maps and reflection on my previous rounds led to me concluding that the round starting and finishing at the Kingshouse was the finest of these, but only a repeat would really settle the issue. </p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEvZxoE7X1TeURiqU6K25s28aPXF2u1bC1uBa2oKtdaUTIFWqjTeRLQ3HjYxwp1YDU6s8eGz8Rjb_usj3RfKSpF6Dk8-Q-9E2v8BJ0tzRXJ9o7BvRB2LBtPzJNlGUHJC5Dvh1mbQ/s786/kingshouse+round+map+outline.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="786" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEvZxoE7X1TeURiqU6K25s28aPXF2u1bC1uBa2oKtdaUTIFWqjTeRLQ3HjYxwp1YDU6s8eGz8Rjb_usj3RfKSpF6Dk8-Q-9E2v8BJ0tzRXJ9o7BvRB2LBtPzJNlGUHJC5Dvh1mbQ/w400-h366/kingshouse+round+map+outline.JPG" width="400" /></a></p><p>The only small issue was that I am now 55 and unable to run as I once could. Nevertheless, I convinced myself that maybe it wasn't as hard as I had previously imagined and after all, the raw statistsics didn't seem that challenging. Maybe I could even improve my time? In my dreams! You don't move quicker at 55 than 41, especially if your legs don't play ball. I won't be repeating any of my other routes any time soon.</p><p>Yet, this was a good experience and confirmation that this has the potential to become a classic round that belies the relatively modest mileage. There are no out-and-backs, it follows reasonably natural lines for the most part and includes some good scrambling. And there's still the carrot of being the first person to complete it within 24 hours which should be eminently feasible with support.</p><p><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/zv7zbfhuqh2w78g/Kingshouse%20Round%202.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Full Account</a><br /></p><p><a href="https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/route/5677182/Glencoe-and-Etive-Round-from-Kingshouse" target="_blank">Full Map</a></p><p><a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Outdoor-Activities/Long-Days-Out/Kingshouse-Round-2/">Photos </a><br /></p><p><i> </i><br /></p>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-84107630924764512582020-07-25T01:24:00.002-07:002020-07-25T01:31:49.439-07:00Loch Shiel Round, 17-18 July 2020<i>55 miles, 20,300 feet, 29 hours 20 mins</i><br />
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Having broken my promise not to do any more 24 hour challenges with the Covid Crawl, I couldn't resist having a go at another just two months later. I was under no illusions as to my physical state, but a last-minute booking of a cottage at Morar led to a perusal of the map and the possibility of a very pleasing route around Loch Shiel caught my imagination. I couldn't resist and the idea took hold in my imagination: an attractive line over 10 Corbetts (Scottish hills over 2500 feet with a minimum ascent of 500 feet required on all sides) around a fjord-like loch with few road crossings, no out-and-backs and all in what I consider to be the roughest ground in Britain. This promised to be a true adventure requiring resolve, a certain doggedness and commitment. I was not to be disapppointed.</div><div><br /></div>
<br /><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6diBWNHy8gLKYWiQRKtugOwM1bsRpIefJ5qwY-HrRBsfs5sdjEnyaXfGkWucjmk-M8tphsYAtCU2Mz5_6rfK15SEudx0VzEjGOSBLgG9rUKTSV50EHL8K4fZGWtmxuC6CPa1B_A/s1600/IMG_0155.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6diBWNHy8gLKYWiQRKtugOwM1bsRpIefJ5qwY-HrRBsfs5sdjEnyaXfGkWucjmk-M8tphsYAtCU2Mz5_6rfK15SEudx0VzEjGOSBLgG9rUKTSV50EHL8K4fZGWtmxuC6CPa1B_A/w500-h375/IMG_0155.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>Looking across Loch Shiel to Beinn Odhar Beag</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Yet, it hadn't seemed that way. The blue skies of Lockdown had long since been replaced by the more familiar grey of a Scottish summer, and it appeared as if my chance of trying the Round would be thwarted by a succession of Atlantic fronts - that is until the very last day of our week away when a window of opportunity presented itself. Thus I found myself amongst the Harry Potter fans at Glenfinnan on an overcast Friday morning, ready to do battle, not with forces of the dark side, but with the voracious undergrowth that abounds in these parts. <br /></div><div><br /></div>
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The monument gives the start a certain presence and sense of occasion. The grockles are soon left behind and the first challenge of the day lies ahead. In these hills there is a reversal of the normal order of things whereby the higher one goes, the tougher the terrain. Instead, the heights are a merciful relief from the impenetrable jungle of thigh deep tussocks and head high bracken, often with no semblance of a deer trod, let alone a path. But I am in luck: a rough forestry track leads through the lower slopes until I can cut up to the top of the forest on rough grass. There are no trods here, but the tussocks are of modest proportions. I gain height and soon I'm over the first knoll and onto the summit of the first proper hill - a Marilyn (hill of more than 150m of prominence) and a new one for me. I seem to be moving efficiently and I start to enjoy the sunshine which intermittently breaks through the clouds. This is new territory for me - a mix of rough grass and equally rough slabs that punctuate the greenery. I take to the slabs at every opportunity, revelling in the friction. At times, the wetness on the North-facing aspects demands care, but nothing that causes undue concern. This is a wild, untamed quarter, far from the sheep-mown grass of the Lakeland fells or the more frequented ridges of the Munros, and for me, that's its appeal - an unchartered land of roughness. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWipKLLLauNyLCf_0L52n1dkCF2X59pycwhaXrP8jzAAPEzK4r8LLKcmRiNqyA3siAO_gcw79kFEskjua7aeZfy5iCzzE9Y-ztYtzi0wpGmhRAh_jfuD6SFmwHMmR24B69Dcw0tw/s1600/IMG_0143.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWipKLLLauNyLCf_0L52n1dkCF2X59pycwhaXrP8jzAAPEzK4r8LLKcmRiNqyA3siAO_gcw79kFEskjua7aeZfy5iCzzE9Y-ztYtzi0wpGmhRAh_jfuD6SFmwHMmR24B69Dcw0tw/s1600/IMG_0143.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWipKLLLauNyLCf_0L52n1dkCF2X59pycwhaXrP8jzAAPEzK4r8LLKcmRiNqyA3siAO_gcw79kFEskjua7aeZfy5iCzzE9Y-ztYtzi0wpGmhRAh_jfuD6SFmwHMmR24B69Dcw0tw/w500-h375/IMG_0143.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>Rugged country - Sgurr Ghiubhsachain</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I make good progress to the fourth major summit of the day where the logical ridge line is replaced by a plunging descent to the forest below. Predictably, the ground is composed of ankle-twisting tussocks and in the lower reaches, a blanket of bracken that hides the booby traps. I head down a ride in the trees to reach the river which is mercifully easy to cross. Its now sunny, but the pesky wind is making its presence felt. The slope above looks ominously steep but the ever-present tussocks ease to an attractive line of slabs which lead to the summit of Carn Nathrach. My legs are starting to feel the effect of such unforgiving terrain and the steep descent and subsequent ascent reinforces this gradual eroding of will and sinew. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBPJasc9XTCHtL8YI9rFyYOvrk63g9nI6x28d6fykn261taIg4lhe2_31cBxEvSEOd-VI_Eo1MuU5tx0qQAvyYghj3_c5wf31BEDiwXnOnj9MYjCPQnZgJXNIRo76qLuGX0IlFg/s1600/IMG_0167.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlBPJasc9XTCHtL8YI9rFyYOvrk63g9nI6x28d6fykn261taIg4lhe2_31cBxEvSEOd-VI_Eo1MuU5tx0qQAvyYghj3_c5wf31BEDiwXnOnj9MYjCPQnZgJXNIRo76qLuGX0IlFg/w500-h375/IMG_0167.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>The fine cone of Sgurr Dhomnhuill</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But the next hill is a cracker - Sgorr Dhomnhuill - a true cone of broken rocks and grass that stands proud above the wilds of Ardgour. For the preceding 6 days I've not seen a solitary person on the hills so I'm somewhat stunned to come across a couple of walkers at 4:45 pm. They are soon out of sight and I once more have only deer, frogs and birds for company. The bogginess of the land is evidenced by the copious amphibians that seemingly dart out of nowhere, frozen to the spot at my sudden arrival. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div> <br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsspxb9102n3BGnC4TrpHNHXlbmgLt2V37p36D1n8-MVy0RIRsbjYMvpoQoAR2F2eP6N8-wq2Mzk2yETr0qWu54vgO7nMcLz164UuBGdiaWZWhSldqvJA4ZYmQa3Fa201wY0Z9w/s1600/DSC_7737.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsspxb9102n3BGnC4TrpHNHXlbmgLt2V37p36D1n8-MVy0RIRsbjYMvpoQoAR2F2eP6N8-wq2Mzk2yETr0qWu54vgO7nMcLz164UuBGdiaWZWhSldqvJA4ZYmQa3Fa201wY0Z9w/w500-h333/DSC_7737.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>One of the very many frogs<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div>A long descent ensues to Strontian, but the second half is a delight, passing as it does through the natural woodland of Ariundle and taking the form of a good path - yes a path, a real path, then a road! It's now 6:30 pm so I sit outside the cafe and visitor centre at Ariundle which surprisingly seems to be open. Yet I have no money so I just sit on the bench and munch my wraps. An elderly lady comes out to enquire after my health. I must look bad. I inform her of my route and plans for the rest of the evening and she clearly thinks I'm bonkers. She's probably not far wrong. I make my way up the small road towad Polloch and take a short-cut to the path up someone's drive. No-one seems to mind or at least, no rabid dog leaps out at me, so I can enjoy the mellow evening of soft sunlight casting a golden glow over the grassy hills.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoN557riFwQ24WocEH2nIJbewjcvLLz_gryYKDeHGSQ5ObThe3JxDGXHyztQzgpcAz3PdDpUSnlE90S20Y3bswn0gI47je-QioYb4SWdyhsSeWLd7a5c6COolRPd_lRYwAqh6a7w/s1600/IMG_0176.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoN557riFwQ24WocEH2nIJbewjcvLLz_gryYKDeHGSQ5ObThe3JxDGXHyztQzgpcAz3PdDpUSnlE90S20Y3bswn0gI47je-QioYb4SWdyhsSeWLd7a5c6COolRPd_lRYwAqh6a7w/w500-h375/IMG_0176.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>Looking back to Sgurr Dhomnhuill</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The sunlight fades as I reach the moor and by the top of Beinn Resipol, the mist rolls in and my hoped-for sunset fails to materialise. You can't manufacture magic moments, you can only make them more likely, and on this occasion, its not to be. Still, the evening remains fair and shafts of sun do break through the cloud base to light up the lush vegetation below. I slosh through the bog to my one and only point of support - a small bag of food and drink left by Alison. It is hanging on the door of the art gallery at Resipole. Apparently, the owner was interested to hear of my journey and even asked if anything needed putting in the fridge. Sadly, I didn't prepare anything that interesting and if I had, the midges would have ensured that my stay was brief. <br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjle8rwlxF-mXpzsSOdB6B7VRjOPHcmkUaGa2c16pgLW5cUJc6aQxtr0Eg9wwR2hzkAP1YFhq_Y2tysca9i372UBos4xjjh2Ld6kLuhYpiJLy5o98H8ehV43eoH7MdMwaZ-Jc86MA/s2048/IMG_0182.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjle8rwlxF-mXpzsSOdB6B7VRjOPHcmkUaGa2c16pgLW5cUJc6aQxtr0Eg9wwR2hzkAP1YFhq_Y2tysca9i372UBos4xjjh2Ld6kLuhYpiJLy5o98H8ehV43eoH7MdMwaZ-Jc86MA/w500-h375/IMG_0182.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>Just before sunset descending Beinn Resipol<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Driven off by the wee beasties, I settled into a slow trudge along the road. This is a round where 10 miles of road is sandwiched between the rough bounds of Ardgour and Moidart. Like most hillrunners, I don't like road running and wondered whether it would spoil the round, but I have to say that in this instance it didn't. Its a Northwest Highland A road - i.e. single track - that winds around the coast and after 10:30 p.m. only the bats and birds disturb the night air. I don't need a torch as there is light high in the sky and I can mosie along, lost in my thoughts and the rhythm of the miles. I settle into a slow pace but the hours don't drag as I've stablished a natural rhythm that fits the serenity of the night. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Neverthless, I choose to cut the corner to save a further 2 miles of road and don my torch to cross the moorland to a path on the far side. An obstacle looms out of the darkness: a fence that looks ominously electric. I test it -no it doesn't seeme to be switched on - and then OUCH! I examine the fence and the grass tufts sink under my weight. The top wire is sufficiently high that I could have a nasty end to my excursion, frying my vitals. I place my rucksack on the wire and lever myself carefully over the fence. 500m of bog leads to another fence where I take the same precautions, and a further 500m takes me to the final crossing. What are they keeping in here to justify such fortifications? I fail to discover anything worthy of the deterrents and pick ujp the path to the Moidart Estate Lodge. A sign indicates that the path goes to the right, but my map tells me that I need to cross the river on the obvious road past the lodge and I am in no mood to be faffing about in the pitch black trying to find a way across the river. Just five days previously I had wallowed in the bog trying to cross this same river without swimming and I was not got going to repeat the experience. Given that its the wee small hours, I have no qualms about ignoring the private signs and crossing the bridge. No trolls emerge, nor does a hound of the Baskervilles leap out at me as I pass the lodge. All is quiet in the glen, although the tussocks have re-emerged and the squelching has resumed. A faint sickness reminds me that it is un-natural to be slogging up a hill in the early hours, instead of nicely tucked up in bed. It is here that I really start to labour, reliant on poles to prop me up and keep me mving forwards. Mist starts to envelop the summits, the pesky wind resumes its play and the unmistakable pitter-patter of rain falls from a leaden sky.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Z7xR_vBphagde2iV-APeoDfzBv1LQ_toudHGYQvNY2iMzClGpsWo3iSI4Gul8cYo-9HZcke999Bb9_vzCYwBU5XVBwoVOb3Bj478O2lUFyCcQFzZIAPdfh3ON8pmiVHB2U6I5w/s2048/DSC05783.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Z7xR_vBphagde2iV-APeoDfzBv1LQ_toudHGYQvNY2iMzClGpsWo3iSI4Gul8cYo-9HZcke999Bb9_vzCYwBU5XVBwoVOb3Bj478O2lUFyCcQFzZIAPdfh3ON8pmiVHB2U6I5w/w500-h333/DSC05783.JPG" title="The view from Roshven on a better day" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>The view from Roshven on a better day</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <br /></div><div>Some mornings are glorious times to be alive. This one is not: the wind knocks me around a bit, it starts to rain in earnest and the dark of day replaces the dark of night. I am glad of my last-minute decision to pack my full waterproofs and gloves. These hills are more familiar, but today they are bare - stripped of colour and warmth - and the day enters a mechanical phase of plodding onwards in the hope that things will improve. Eventually, of course, they always do, and patience is rewarded with a break in the rain and the mist. This is clearly going to be a day of showers and bright intervals, which largely reflects my mood. A bright interval takes me over the narrow crest of Druim Fiaclach which today is slippy and time consuming. If this ridge were in more accessible parts and 50m higher (Munro height) it would feature in many a guide book, but here it is largely devoid of tracks, requiring the following of your nose around the little pinnacles and over linking necks. I take an age blundering down the awkward terrain to the col, conscious of the need to avoid a twisted ankle on the tussocks and slimy rocks. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgfeia_NVPMgWp4oC5tpSEJc5C_X-UpimFMlyJxK044vJlBBkOMPbdm_zAzAT88XSRPv-vX6wbuKHsfZZ1Ps2gMjqmNWUCLXcy9KlRidXixyV9ohRkelC4K1S_sldwDu6n-G69g/s1600/IMG_0191.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgfeia_NVPMgWp4oC5tpSEJc5C_X-UpimFMlyJxK044vJlBBkOMPbdm_zAzAT88XSRPv-vX6wbuKHsfZZ1Ps2gMjqmNWUCLXcy9KlRidXixyV9ohRkelC4K1S_sldwDu6n-G69g/w500-h375/IMG_0191.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>Parting mists on Beinn Odhar Mhor</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div></div><div><br /></div><div>If there's one thing these outings have taught me, its patience and humility, virtues that don't come readily to me. These qualities are sorely needed, as the flow of the early stages of the round has been replaced by step-at-a-time plodding up and down mist-enshrouded expanses of steep hillside, punctuated by bands of rock breaking the monotony of the tussocks. An occasional stag leaps away, leaving me in awe of its agility and power, when all I can do is plod away. Still, the day has improved to sharp showers and sunny intervals, and the end is nearing. The route reaches a fitting climax on the rugged flanks of Beinn Odhar Beag and Mhor, where mist rolls up from Loch Shiel to dramatic effect. I celebrate with a last piece of flapjack in the rain (really living the high life), before contemplating the exceptionally rough descent to the loch.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgziQvs_SVL2HeX8fYWK3eMLONfsZwIFhFvXHtyoLuYQ5DCfctA8GKChv2-pI-OScFgyWoHZgL3Gp7N-h_m8DggUJwcaiQLD50hyphenhyphenqCb9Q4SdY3Cd9WPflQZipcUrs9IM9w_XE3SSA/s1600/IMG_0195.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1203" data-original-width="1600" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgziQvs_SVL2HeX8fYWK3eMLONfsZwIFhFvXHtyoLuYQ5DCfctA8GKChv2-pI-OScFgyWoHZgL3Gp7N-h_m8DggUJwcaiQLD50hyphenhyphenqCb9Q4SdY3Cd9WPflQZipcUrs9IM9w_XE3SSA/w500-h375/IMG_0195.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>Looking a bit zoned out on the last peak - Beinn Odhar Mhor</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am grateful to have recced this section just two days earlier as it prepares me mentally for what is an exceptionally demanding, but engrossing, bit of the Highlands. It begins with a wild expanse of slabs, crags and the ever-present tussocks leading to a chain of enchanting lochans. More enticing slabs take one down to the Highland jungle. At first a way can be found beside a watercourse, but all too soon, there is no option but to cut through the head-high bracken and the thigh deep grass that hides inumerable holes and rocks. Despite the growing heat I keep my waterproof trousers on as a guard against the ticks and humbly stagger toward the lochside where temporary sanctuary can be found. I say temporar, because the shoreline cannot be followed in its entirety and a more direct line has to be taken through more bracken and deep grass to arrive somewhat dazed at the end of the track leading back to Glenfinnan. At 2:20pm, Alison calls to me from the overflowing car park where I slump into a chair and attempt to effect a recovery for the long drive home. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSB9sE0GNhdaaB7IGN_s3xllZM4CYEi9UOTO-F8KviwXfywuE-SR88HaFMWmeih2s573mFKdKPyTd4uMb2Htu3NEqPH9IPH1vLBaX_AdlNCKiXJs9qxRQ0REXxF9vt7P5UkwbHg/s2048/P5290508_edited.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTSB9sE0GNhdaaB7IGN_s3xllZM4CYEi9UOTO-F8KviwXfywuE-SR88HaFMWmeih2s573mFKdKPyTd4uMb2Htu3NEqPH9IPH1vLBaX_AdlNCKiXJs9qxRQ0REXxF9vt7P5UkwbHg/w500-h375/P5290508_edited.JPG" width="500" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><i>Loch Shiel from near the start and finish (note the blur of the midges!)<br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>
<div><br /></div><div><a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Outdoor-Activities/Long-Days-Out/Loch-Shiel-Round/" target="_blank">Full Images</a></div><div><a href="https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/route/5363103/Loch-Shiel-Round" target="_blank">Route Map</a><br /></div>
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<br />John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-29190011030970246382020-05-22T11:07:00.001-07:002020-11-21T00:11:10.790-08:00Covid Crawl, 7 May 2020<i>60 miles, 17,900 feet, 23 hours 45 mins</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrtWNAb5X1H56xNlyOj0PHGGqMdpbl02r3tGSZ2DppFv5Sv5s4N2ADS7yFksNk92mJe6PWze1YRJvWFp20lOaJU-tOLiDzXqKwT3iunm8iUruvx_3hcGnvlYYkny911WfJa5RoA/s1600/covid+round.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="543" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqrtWNAb5X1H56xNlyOj0PHGGqMdpbl02r3tGSZ2DppFv5Sv5s4N2ADS7yFksNk92mJe6PWze1YRJvWFp20lOaJU-tOLiDzXqKwT3iunm8iUruvx_3hcGnvlYYkny911WfJa5RoA/s640/covid+round.JPG" width="540" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/route/4862844/Longsleddale-and-Ullswater-Round" target="_blank">Detailed Route Map</a><br />
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Social distancing is easy in Longsleddale.<i> </i>There's few people, lots of space and lots of open ground with few gates or stiles to contaminate or be contaminated by. I count myself fortunate to live here in such a time as this, especially given the immaculate weather that the virus seems to have heralded. Days of unbroken sunshine, skies clear of vapour trails and fells empty of people, have been the one escape from the depressing limitations of lockdown. But I know these fells well and the instinct to explore meant longer and longer outings from the house. First, the 20 mile round of Longsleddale over Ulgraves, Brunt Knott and the rough environs of Skeggles Water to the more trodden higher fells and the whaleback ridge of Capplebarrow and pointy summit of Whiteside Pike. Then additions over the Shap fells and down to Haweswater and over to Kidsty Pike and back along the Ill Bell Ridge. Finding somewhere 'new' was getting increasingly arduous, eventually extending the Longsleddale round to a 45 mile yomp adding over High Street to Glenridding and over Sheffield Pike to Stybarrow Dodd and Helvellyn. On the long way back, I ran out of water, failing to find any flowing streams on the baked earth on the high ridges of Fairfield, Stony Cove Pike and Ill Bell. In all these excursions I never met more than a handful of people in an eerily empty landscape.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPtc8Jo94BiDFvnIFSP7nLUkfxw9eikiXp-w9cUat9qQh1EJeR6HnpfdQuAIcMGU8F6nMdw1dQHvaWFTFiyHqvtydSRK0SO32Uve11knZOIVCuXyV2XKMm6x1f2DiJO087bjyXIw/s1600/DSC00463.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPtc8Jo94BiDFvnIFSP7nLUkfxw9eikiXp-w9cUat9qQh1EJeR6HnpfdQuAIcMGU8F6nMdw1dQHvaWFTFiyHqvtydSRK0SO32Uve11knZOIVCuXyV2XKMm6x1f2DiJO087bjyXIw/s400/DSC00463.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise on Ulgraves (click image to view)</td></tr>
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I thought I might leave it at that, as 'running' is a bit of a misnomer for me these days. Age has not been kind, with acute stiffness and non-proverbial pains in the backside, but an idea had formed in my mind and the thought got the better of me. I like staring at maps and an aesthetically pleasing loop presented itself, running all the way from the house over the Kentmere, Fairfield and Helvellyn fells to Pooley Bridge, and back again over the long High Street and Longsleddale ridges - a sort of extended Ullswater Horseshoe. The route kept high so very few gate crossings, hardly any people and easy ground, making it a low risk enterprise. If I did suffer an injury, I'd crawl off rather than call the rescue. With no travel involved, I considered it a Covid compliant outing, albeit stretching the definition of 'local'.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANWnv_lFy8vw0oO6dh9HNQlYcHRFmHgWDe6WhM6ri0fdBHhviljSbIJIb4ni91yIsZ5KOhLZdi52Ym0w8lL1GodngP5fxay8MM2thYeqMK9xaX5KlxX6dSRgHlMZB2PpABAjZmw/s1600/DSC00468.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANWnv_lFy8vw0oO6dh9HNQlYcHRFmHgWDe6WhM6ri0fdBHhviljSbIJIb4ni91yIsZ5KOhLZdi52Ym0w8lL1GodngP5fxay8MM2thYeqMK9xaX5KlxX6dSRgHlMZB2PpABAjZmw/s400/DSC00468.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning light approaching Brunt Knott (click image to view)</td></tr>
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So ten days later at 5am, I find myself once more pounding the hard earth up Ulgraves, to be greeted by sunrise on the summit. I feel weary but mellow, and unlike in former years when I would have eased over such ground on fresh legs, I shuffle along with heavy legs. I've learnt to adapt to this slower pace which has its advantages. It allows time to fully imbibe the heady brew of birdsong, golden rays of sunshine on frosted ground and the freedom of open space. In any case, it's too nice a morning to hurry, so I saunter over the familiar ground to Brunt Knott and onwards to Kentmere. It's still early and there's little sign of activity beyond the cacophony of chirrupping birds and baaing lambs. I had learnt my lesson from the previous Helvellyn excursion and fill up the water bottles before the climb to Yoke, for there would be precious little before the distant Dockray.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxP1y-KC6ZiP1ZclfaEb7MszHKc8lwlnnXB0Lmj3eXdW0lBlPoYZfPLIPDJbfejkaq6Gt_TfofbCbl2HrjGXZWJWUJkUgXyPkyjfSGpt0-E2zxeCRCVKggX_Amc58u21ZS6HDSCA/s1600/DSC00480.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxP1y-KC6ZiP1ZclfaEb7MszHKc8lwlnnXB0Lmj3eXdW0lBlPoYZfPLIPDJbfejkaq6Gt_TfofbCbl2HrjGXZWJWUJkUgXyPkyjfSGpt0-E2zxeCRCVKggX_Amc58u21ZS6HDSCA/s400/DSC00480.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking to the head of Kentmere (click image to view)</td></tr>
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Early morning grogginess wears off on the rollercoaster ride over Ill Bell and Froswick, and by Kirkstone I had seen no-one. The car park is strangely deserted with not one car parked. I pass a lady on the ascent of Red Screes, but she had walked from Ambleside and I am soon alone once more. The high fells of the Lake District are a very different place when devoid of people - an empty quarter above the life of the valleys. After weeks without rain, the land is parched and dried up; the greenery turned an ochre brown. Yet this time I manage to find water near Scandale Pass and come upon the familiar face of Ben Abdelnoor, trying to sort out the mysteries of his iphone. Our socially distanced chat is soon over and my day on the bare mountain resumes. Stone, earth and sky meets in an empty land. No water, no people, little life. The tops pass silently - Dove Crag, Hart Crag, Fairfield, Seat Sandal, Dollywagon, Nethermost and finally Helvellyn where the reverie is broken by a few fellow escapees. The summit is mine to savour alone, so I sit on the edge of the headwall to eat my lunch, legs above the last remaining vestiges of winter.<br />
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Post-lunch lethargy sets in for the romp over Raise to Stybarrow Dodd, leading to the unfamiliar tussocky slopes of Hartside and Common Fell. By Dockray I'm flagging, but what a place to flake out. The shade of the rivcr provides a welcome relief from the intense sun, the burbling brook a rhythmic calm. Fortified by afternoon tea, Gowbarrow comes and goes, then (for me) a road less travelled leads over Great and Little Meldrum to the grassy dome of Little Mell Fell. As the haze of the day disappates to the softer shares of evening, a mellowness follows, amplified by the shady lanes leading to Pooley Bridge. Cyclists are in abundance, enjoying the balm of the evening and the gently lapping waves on the shores of Ullswater. Hobbling along, I'm asked if I am okay, so I must look in pain, but I'm determined to make Pooley Bridge before stopping for tea. I had discovered that the footbridge was closed whilst the crane was lifting the new bride in place, but to my relief, I am late enough to be able to cross and hobble my way through the village. I am at the furthest reach of my journey and a longer than hoped for night beckons.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last vestiges of light on Blencathra (click image to view)</td></tr>
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A summer's evening is my favourite time of day when the harshness of midday is replaced by the richer tones of the golden hour. At such a time, the flanks of the fjord-like Ullswater are a delight, and so it is with renewed vigour that I made the gradual ascent over Arthur's Pike to Loadpot Hill and thence to Wether Hill where darkness descends. With darkness, a fresh wind has developed and with it a gripping chill. I am ill-equipped for the cold which drove me onwards over the long, lonely miles to the windswept summit of High Street, and beyond that the homely dome of Harter Fell. A full moon shines brightly from a clear sky, transforming the familiar to something quite magical - a world of silvery shadows and soft folds. Time speeds up or more likely, I slow down, but time doesn't matter. I'm on no schedule, I just need to keep going, one foot after another, pole after pole. The softness of the moonlight is replicated by the fuzziness of my thinking in the wee small hours. I stumble onwards over the tussocks. All I need to do is to keep moving and the end will draw nearer. Night passes to day on Whiteside Pike and birdsong greets the new day. The circle of the day is almost complete as I reach home. Its as if nothing has changed, except me. The journey has reached its end.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrKJtiMzBgsyELSc797hbYBqQ-Uexwn-PU9izx57x5YDX4_fgYutMo2Ql424UpPW3Y8zLTSHT9Jhhu7gfHv2dDwg7S85j7RS6cjhHwKmrc4eOlc_IUYdJqroL9RusChOGK-4Zww/s1600/DSC_7360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIrKJtiMzBgsyELSc797hbYBqQ-Uexwn-PU9izx57x5YDX4_fgYutMo2Ql424UpPW3Y8zLTSHT9Jhhu7gfHv2dDwg7S85j7RS6cjhHwKmrc4eOlc_IUYdJqroL9RusChOGK-4Zww/s400/DSC_7360.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the end of all expoloring will be to arrive where we started<br />
and know the place for the first time (TS Eliot - Little Gidding)</td></tr>
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John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-35165197359475665132018-06-11T04:35:00.007-07:002020-11-15T04:12:35.912-08:00Assynt Traverse, 27-28 May 2018<i>50 miles, 21,000 feet, 27 hours</i><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">The wilds
of Assynt hold a special place in many mountain lovers’ hearts and I am one of
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boasting only two solitary Munros,
the lack of lofty mountains is more than compensated by a complex landscape of
rocky knolls, a myriad of lochans, rivers and pools and shapely mountains that
rise above, with the Western sea shimmering on those precious days of sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when Tony Wimbush reported his inaugural Assynt
Traverse in 2010, a seed was sown, and opportunity, resolve and a weather
window finally came together eight years later in May 2018.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Whilst not
the longest mountain run, at under 50 miles, the Assynt Traverse packs a punch
that belies bare statistics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the
most part it is trackless and rhythmless – a heady cocktail of sandstone
towers, ankle twisting tussocks, angular stones, committing river crossings and
heather bashing – but lest this description deter you, it is also a mountain
connoisseur’s delight of sharp ridges, geologic history and lonely places. So after 8 years, I finally headed North to have a go. </span><br />
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<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/y4wci937ky524yk/assynt%20traverse%20article.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank"><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Story of My Traverse</span></a><span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
<span face=""calibri" , "sans-serif"" lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Outdoor-Activities/Long-Days-Out/Assynt-Traverse/" target="_blank">Images from The Traverse</a></span><br />
<a href="http://www.gofar.org.uk/transassyntrun.html" target="_blank">Route Details (Gofar web site)</a><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/yxqPNX9nKds/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yxqPNX9nKds?feature=player_embedded" style="clear: left; float: left;" width="320"></iframe>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-1639138539485574592017-04-01T11:40:00.002-07:002020-11-15T04:19:33.005-08:00Strathfarrar Watershed, 27 February - 1 March 2017<i>A remote and committing round of the complete watershed of Strathfarrar in deep snow - 99 km, 7600m ascent, 50 hours </i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/osmaps/route/1061977/Strath-Farrar-Watershed" target="_blank">The Strathfarrar Watershed</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I love maps. My wife, Alison, will tell you that they are a
staple of my bedtime reading, a doorway to new adventures that begin in the
mind and some of which end in the reality of epic days and nights. The Strathfarrar Watershed was borne of such
bedtime perusing, nurtured over a few years but never realised until time,
opportunity and motivation finally came together in February 2017.<span style="font-size: 11pt;">So it is that I found myself contemplating the
first long winter journey for some time on a fair, breezy morning at the lowest
reaches of one of Scotland’s longest glens.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">
</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">I have the unaccustomed pleasure of my friend Tomas to send me on my way,
but then I am on my own for the lonely miles to one of the most remote places
in Britain, as I trace the watershed of Strathfarrar.</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> <a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/lf01s2ff8p3kp83/strathfarrar%20round%20article.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Read more</a></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Outdoor-Activities/Long-Days-Out/Strathfarrar-Wa" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Outdoor-Activities/Long-Days-Out/Strathfarrar-Wa" target="_blank">Photos</a><br />
<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/lf01s2ff8p3kp83/strathfarrar%20round%20article.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Article</a><br />
<a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B78lbFhtvJ1kSXBGZkhFUWJWamM/view?usp=sharing" target="_blank">GPX File</a><br />
<a href="https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/osmaps/route/1061977/Strath-Farrar-Watershed" target="_blank">OS Map</a>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-15448707120459564852016-06-07T05:32:00.004-07:002020-11-15T04:20:26.544-08:00Cuillin Round, 4-5 June 2016<i>The 'super traverse' of the Cuillin taking in the Red and Black Cuillin, 34 miles, 23,000 feet, 29 hours</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The infamous Inn Pinn</td></tr>
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Most outdoors people have heard of the Cuillin Ridge, and possibly the Greater Traverse extending this to Blaven and Clach Glas, but a much lesser known round is the "Cuillin Round". There's a reason for this -its much harder! This is a circuit from Sligachan or Coruisk that takes in the Red Cuillin, Black Cuillin outliers, Sgurr na Stri and Sgurr Hain, as well as little extras on the Main Ridge. As of May 2016, there had only been two completions by bagger extraordinaire, Rob Woodall, and mountain goat, Yiannis Tridimas. The last of these was back in 1999, so after a short trip to Skye in May, the fire was kindled and I thought it was time I had a go.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Sgurr Sgumain as the sun sets</td></tr>
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It is completely different to any other 24 hour round, since it includes considerable sections of hard scrambling and easy climbing and requires an unroped approach to move at the necessary speed. The statistics are modest for a 24 hour round at 34 miles and 23-24,000 feet of ascent, but don't be fooled - the nature of the ground makes this very challenging. It appealed to me because of the Alpine nature of the route and the high scrambling content. I had decided that I would prefer a more relaxed approach and a bivvy part way along, and in any case would be doing it solo and with very little if any support. I secured a lift to Skye and back courtesy of Guy but would have to be largely independent.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near the end looking back at the ridge</td></tr>
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I ended up completing nearly all of the Main Ridge as a recce on the Thursday during which I had a nasty injury to my leg, slept badly and lay around aching on the Friday, before attempting the round on the Saturday and Sunday. You can read my account below but I can summarise it as being one of my most memorable excursions and one to be treasured in my dotage. Highlights included the turquoise sea at Coruisk, the ball of red fire setting from Sgurr Alasdair, climbing down the Inn Pinn by torchlight, the jagged silhouette of the ridge in the night, the testing direct descent from Blaven and the fine Knights Peak. The heat reduced me to a wobbling wreck at times, meaning that I took 29 hours, but the attraction of shortening my time to do it in less than 24 hours is not sufficient to make me want to repeat the exercise in more favourable conditions and with the benefit of hindsight. I'll just treasure the experience.<br />
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<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/clk4a53jaahfnxr/cuillin%20round%20report%20june%202016.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Account of my Round</a><br />
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<a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Landscape/2016/Cuillin-Round/" target="_blank">Photos</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.gofar.org.uk/cuillinround.html" target="_blank">Detailed Information on the Round </a><br />
<br />John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-76744170237408791972014-03-12T14:52:00.000-07:002014-03-19T01:02:54.539-07:00Torridon Ridges 11 March 2014<i>An Alpine day out on Liathach, Ben Alligin, Beinn Dearg and Beinn Eighe, 27 miles, 14,500 feet, 17 hours</i><br />
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<a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Mountainsfolder/Scotland/NW-Highlands/Torridon-March-2014/i-6MbHdFd/0/X3/DSC02782-X3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Mountainsfolder/Scotland/NW-Highlands/Torridon-March-2014/i-6MbHdFd/0/X3/DSC02782-X3.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
After a winter of continuous gales, at last a high pressure window seemed to be merging, so having reserved the time, I drove the long miles to Torridon in anticipation of sun and snow. I was disappointed to see that much of the heavy snow had disappeared, especially on Southern slopes, but the forecast wasn't wrong. My planned night of relaxation at Kinlochewe bunkhouse didn't turn out to be quite as restful as I'd hoped, with just me and 4 builders in residence. The hotel was shut and there's no common room, and not having much in common with 4 burly builders from Glasgow, the evening was not one of gazing into a fire dreaming of the day to come. The snoring lived up to the potential implied their physique and I was glad to get up at 5:30 am after a very poor night indeed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spidean a Coire Leith</td></tr>
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The wind was gusting strongly as I left the car at 6:15 am, but a vivid red sky lit up the hillside as I clambered up the path to the Eastern top. I felt groggy and the rucksack seemed heavy, laden with cameras, kit and food for the day. The lenticular clouds were testament to the breezy conditions but the snow was hard and I looked to be in for a good bracing day. I had the Alpine crest of the sandstone fortress to myself and I was in no rush. I did the out-and-back to the Eastern top, donning crampons for the graceful snowy crest that lay ahead. I didn't feel like rushing and stopped frequently to savour the privilege of being in such a place, alone and blessed by blue skies. The crest over Spidean a Coire Leith was a true Alpine crest followed by a relatively snow-less passage over Am Fasarinen, where frustrating mist began to blow in and out, obscuring the view and requiring some patience to capture photos of the claw-like cornices drooping over the depths below. I got as close as I dared to the crack line, peering out through holes and back at the enticingly beautiful but deadly line of cornices. The Northern Pinnacles looked particularly alluring with an untrodden mantle of curvaceous snow, but not for me today. I jogged off to the West, arriving at the Coire Mhic Nobuil car park at 11:25 am. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cornices leading up to Mullach an Rathain</td></tr>
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I ate an early lunch in the shelter of the trees before resuming my journey up Tom na Gruagaich. By the time I made the summit, the clouds had lifted and I saw the first people of the day. They turned back at the summit where an icy stretch required spikes, but within 50 metres, they were rendered redundant. The snow had been stripped on these seaward mountains, leaving just patches on the ridge. I met a couple of Frenchmen near the gash and from then on saw just one other person - the hills were mine for the day. <br />
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Sgurr Mhor came and went and the sun resumed its ascendancy, banishing the clouds for another day. I kept to the path off the Horns until I'd descended the steeper part, then headed off across the moor to the impending bulk of Beinn Dearg. Fortified by a slab of Christmas cake, I laboured up the unrelenting slopes. This is a brute of a hill, with no easy means of ascent. I was glad of a sandwich behind the summit rocks, before scrambling down the broken ridge. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liathach from Beinn Dearg</td></tr>
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Someone had clearly abseiled the short step having left a loop of cord which I retrieved and pocketed. With a glorious view of the Northern corries of Liathach, the descent was a joy and in the rich light of later afternoon, even the heathery moor failed to spoil a deep sense of well-being. The sun beat down as I reached the set-stone path leading to Coire Mhic Fhearchair, drawing out the pink of the sandstone. I even managed a jog once on the path, but that was soon ended by the steep scree leading up to Morrisons Gully. I was still a little wary of potential avalanche and collapsing cornice risk, but the Gully seemed not to be overhung by a curtain of death, so I ate my last sandwich, put my crampons on and headed upwards. Within a few minutes alarming fragments of ice started to whizz by - probably just a few bits off the side walls. Another 50m up and the ice bullets became a bit more worrying, especially without a helmet, but I didn't fancy retreating all the way down. I kept to the side and things quietened down which was just as well because the front-pointing was placing great demands on my feet and calves. On my fellrunning shoes, the crampons just bent upwards as the angle steepened, placing a huge strain on my slipping feet. There was nothing to ease the growing torture with nowhere to rest and just one axe for security. I came across a bucket seat that a previous party had cut but that only gave temporary relief. For the next 300m of vertical ascent I huffed and puffed up the ice, my lightweight axe failing to penetrate without an energetic thrust. My legs and feet were screaming, I was all in, but I had to keep going. Nightfall was now impending and the headwall was undeniably gloomy. Grade I it might be, but 300m of calf and foot burning kicking and hearty thwacking with a featherweight axe was reducing me to a quivering jelly. At the headwall, I traversed out to the right on ice but to my delight there was no cornice. The beaming moon greeted me as I gratefully emerged from the confines of the gully. It was 7pm.<br />
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I think that I was so relieved to escape from the gully that I continued to amble slowly along in the moonlight, legs still floppy sticks of jelly. I was also dehydrated having consumed little more than 750ml of liquid all day, but I was now enjoying the day again, scrambling up the snow covered rocks to Coinneach Mor. I didn't see the point of heading over to Ruadh Stac Mor. It's a dull trog in the dark and there was little merit in an unnecessary out-and-back. I therefore set course for the long ridge toward Kinlochewe. The snow had by now mostly refrozen, even on the crest and a three quarter moon negated the need for a torch. There is little finer than a snowy crest under moonlight and with no schedule to meet I just went at a (slow) pace that my tormented legs could deal with. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Black Carls the next morning</td></tr>
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The pinnacles of the Black Carls were magnificent. The sharp drop off the first pinnacle looked intimidating in the dark, but despite being more testing than anything on Liathach, was straightforward. In the moonlight it was truly Alpine and an exhilarating finale to the traverse. At 11:15pm I arrived back at the bunkhouse to be greeted by a cacophony of snoring builders. Back to the real world!<br />
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<a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Mountainsfolder/Scotland/NW-Highlands/Torridon-March-2014/" target="_blank">More Images</a>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-33510850777319780892013-05-05T06:14:00.002-07:002013-05-05T08:51:19.021-07:00Lake District Top to Bottom 4 May 2013<i>A straight line route on Easting 270 from Caldbeck Common to Gawthorpe</i>, <i>40 miles, 14,000 feet, 14 hours 50 minutes</i><br />
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Since completing the crossing of the Lake District National Park from East to West on a straight line, I'd contemplated a North-South trip. This line is almost the same distance but much less challenging as it goes with the grain of the land rather than against it and the terrain is more accomodating. Nevertheless, it's still quite tough with the same logistical challenges.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lakeland Cross</td></tr>
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I set off at 5am having got up at 3am, leaving the forlorn looking car beside the lonely road that crosses Caldbeck Common. I walked across the tussocks to the park boundary and followed the compass in the dim light of pre-dawn. I almost immediately went wrong and had to backtrack, before following the compass South, South, South. this sounds simple but in practice its not. Sticking to the bearing just lands you in bog, tussocks, knee deep heather and worse, so I sought out what looked like the most amenable line within 200m either side of Easting 270. The rule is simple - keep as close to the line as possible, but make exception when crossing privately owned land where footpaths should be followed. I also declined to cross and re-cross the full-looking river in Langstrath when an extra 100m detour allowed me to use the bridge.<br />
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At 6:30 am it rained - hard - and I wondered why on earth I had yanked myself out of bed at 3am to slant across dreary slopes at this hour of the day. The 'waterproof' map got soggy, I got soggy and it was all rather dispiriting. Fortunately the rain stopped, the mist lifted temporarily, and with it my spirits. I found a decent line across the lonely fells at the back of Skiddaw and arrived in Keswick for a breakfast of bar and juice on a park bench beside the river. Four miles of pleasant roadside path led to the Watendlath valley, and I followed the permissive path straight to the cafe instead of sticking to my line as I was STARVING. Visions of a fried egg sandwich had me salivating, but instead chains around the doors indicating that the cafe was well and truly shut. Further investigation revealed that they were just gearing up for the day and on enquiry I got a welcome cheese and tomato sandwich. It filled a hole, but not what I had been dreaming of and hardly worth the detour. From there I managed to find tracks all the way to Langstrath where the real test began. A traverse up past Blea Rock took me to Martcrag Moor where my route took an improbable line across scree and grass to the valley floor. One of the delights of a straight line is that it takes you to corners new. This day it was a low level crossing of The Band, an energy sapping frontal assault on Pike O Blisco and a marginally less muscle busting ascent of Great Carrs. I enjoyed the exploratory feel of the dripping black crags below Blisco and the unfamiliarity of the terrain that is alas, all too rare nowadays for me.<br />
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The day was now fine with clear views all around, but a strong wind touched gale force on the tops. I sheltered from this under Great Carrs and had a late lunch. From there to Goats Water I was repelled by a strong headwind, so was glad to drop off the tops, down to the hordes on the Walna Scar track. these were soon left for the peace of the Blawith fells, a wonderful peaceful sanctuary. With the bracken well down, the terrain proved surprisingly amenable and I really enjoyed the serenity of this Lake District outlier. The final gentle hills were an easy end to the day. Or rather to the end of the route, because I still had to get home. the only bus left from Havethwaite at 9 and 10.30pm and I soon discovered that I'd forgotten the map to find my way there. That meant having to take the main road back - a busy A road in failing light. I tiried hitching to no avail so reconciled myself to the 7.5 mile slow jog to Havethwaite. The Barrow road was most unpleasant if not dangerous with no footway for much of it and the light was really fading, but I had no choice. Agonisingly I saw the first bus go past but I knew it wouldn't stop. By way of compensation the pint and a half at the pub went down very nicely. I finally made it back to Kendal at 11.10 where I fortified myself with a bag of chips for the 5 mile walk back home. At 12.40 am I was home and in bed for 1am - a long but satisfying day.John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-2373640779999285862013-02-28T09:10:00.001-08:002020-11-15T04:27:45.395-08:00Winter Broxap Round 24-26 February 2013<i>A non-stop walk round the 29 Munros of Jon Broxap's 24 hour Munro Record Route, 75 miles, 34,800 feet, 61 hours</i><br />
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<a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Scotland/NW-Highlands/Broxap-Round-2013/i-M85rwch/0/L/266-L.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Scotland/NW-Highlands/Broxap-Round-2013/i-M85rwch/0/L/266-L.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A pretty demanding outing completed solo and unsupported apart from dropping one bag of food in Glen Shiel. I'd decided from the outset that I was going to take my large and heavy SLR and spare lens so it was always going to be a plod round, but the 48 hours became 61 largely due to sleep deprivation. This notwithstanding, it was a magnificent and memorable journey and just to complete such a mammoth outing in the depths of winter was highly satisfying.<br />
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<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/40ffql9m8h38bk0/broxap%20round.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Account</a><br />
<a href="https://www.gofar.org.uk/broxap-round" target="_blank">Route and Information</a><br />
<a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Scotland/NW-Highlands/Broxap-Round-2013/28240486_rs8DGm" target="_blank">Photos</a>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-81785493258001150272012-06-12T10:37:00.003-07:002020-11-15T04:29:53.035-08:00Fisherfield Round 8-9 June 2012<i>A 24 Hour Version of my 2011 Round, 59.8 miles, 25,500 feet, 23 hours 50 mins</i><br />
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Despite having completing my Fisherfield round twice in 31 hours, I really wanted to complete this fine round in 24. I'd worked out that I was unlikely to complete the full 2011 round in 24 hours, and in any case, there was too many out-and-backs for my liking. After mulling the possibilities over for a while, I decided upon a logical line that omitted the long detour out to the eastern Fannaichs and also the rather pointless ascent of Meall a Chrasgaidh. In addition, I replaced the rather tedious valley section from Loch a Bhroin to Fisherfield with a continuation of the ridge line to Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair. If there was time I could add in the splendid Corbetts of Beinn Dearg Mhor and Bheag. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSH9FBpgfxireh_8jJ82vs6XHEvsaAd0yH0Nxkp616CplO66OG6WSGmPuho7WJmcW_Z619WKY3NxhEsgzwxcJ48BAY_bjI92HtF_jOGNCVEs8VoTrFIz-yzr97GTri5tbUN664A/s1600/20120606-lochaber_thu-4.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSH9FBpgfxireh_8jJ82vs6XHEvsaAd0yH0Nxkp616CplO66OG6WSGmPuho7WJmcW_Z619WKY3NxhEsgzwxcJ48BAY_bjI92HtF_jOGNCVEs8VoTrFIz-yzr97GTri5tbUN664A/s400/20120606-lochaber_thu-4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cloud that hampered the night section (Photo - Ian Charters)</td></tr>
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So its was that I found myself at Dundonell on an overcast but decent enough evening, this time with the welcome road support of Ian and Pauline Charters. Having brought the attempt forward due to deteriorating weather I set off at 10:17pm. The linking section to Inverlael is one of the delights of the round - a gently rising path that crosses the divide between An Teallach and Beinn Dearg, with stupendous views of An Teallach giving way to a rich tapestry of sea loch, forest and mountain fastnesses. In the gathering gloom I just about made it to the road without the aid of a torch, skidding down the steep final slope in my ancient trail shoes. Just after midnight I arrived the first rendezvous at Inverlael, but the only car was not Ian's. What to do? I had nothing but a bumbag - no food, no water, no coat and no map. In the abscence of any other plan, I nibbled on a bar and flashed my torch pathetically, calling out for Ian. With no response, I walked slowly to the end of the car park. Relief! There lay Ian's car and after hammering on the window, out came Ian. A quick feed and restocking and then onward up the long forestry track toward Beinn Dearg. As I rose out of the forest a light drizzle fell which turned into a grey blanket of thick mist on the summit ridge, the tinder dry slopes having been replaced by slippy grass and greasy boulders. I hadn't checked my torch batteries and the light was somewhat feeble in the misty darkness. Going up was okay, if a little slow, but coming down demanded attention to the feet and the map and compass, making for a frustratingly painstaking descent of Eilidh nan Clach Geala. The trail shoes were not up the job and I found myself slipping repeatedly despite the slow pace. I knew that this section would be demanding in the dark and it didn't disappoint. On the map the slope up to Ceann Garbh looks innocuous enough, but in reality it is a complex juxtaposition of small crags, boulders and tussocky grass. I held a constant line by my compass and slip-slided my way up the slope and then over the boulders to Meall nan Ceapraichean. It was now 3am, a time when I had anticipated a reasonable light this far North West, but there was little sign of dawn. In the mirky darkness I bumbled down the boulders to the slightly confusing terrain beneath Beinn Dearg. I must have missed the stalkers path that should have cut across my path and ended up in an unfamiliar place, having to reset my course until after some while I made the wall that leads up to Beinn Dearg. The light was still very poor and the rocks slippy, so I rather tentatively picked my way down to the bottom of the slope that leads up to Cona Mheall, but from there on things got better. Half way down Beinn Dearg, I emerged from the mist to reveal a glorious sunrise over the Fannaichs, glowing pink above a blanket of cloud beneath. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNPNV5N7pQ3soqVjPSbQMVA_LnXfI1Th3mZ5Qoy5R34PJ2gzPR5lr7nWfNSRNDcSRZLDeDZeeTHGY_38zvgGObmJObwwKssVOLb-453p6ESeultshK29T2YDl2BgUwYgbxe9BXcA/s1600/20120607-lochaber_thu-111.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNPNV5N7pQ3soqVjPSbQMVA_LnXfI1Th3mZ5Qoy5R34PJ2gzPR5lr7nWfNSRNDcSRZLDeDZeeTHGY_38zvgGObmJObwwKssVOLb-453p6ESeultshK29T2YDl2BgUwYgbxe9BXcA/s400/20120607-lochaber_thu-111.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fine day beckons over the Fannaichs (Photo - Ian Charters) </td></tr>
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There was no hiccup this time as I reached Ian's car at the roadside, ready for my breakfast, a change of top and a brief reprieve. In the cool of the early morning I made steady progress up Beinn Liath Mhor Fannaich, just managing to keep out of the clouds which stretched away to the East like an extended wooly blanket.The rocks over Sgurr Mor were still somewhat treacherous, so my pace was somewhat gentle but the morning was fine. It soon became clear, however, that my legs hadn't recovered from the battering over the past 10 days and my progress remained rather laboured. On the descent of Sgurr nan Each I inevitably slithered into the bog as a result of my trail shoes being wholly unable to cope with the wet tussocky grass. I was taking an age and was not enjoying the experience. I couldn't see much possibility of completing within 24 hours and concluded that if I continued like this I would have to retire at the next support point. I had simply done too much over the past 10 days, was grossly overtired and no amount of desire would overcome that. I plodded a little dejectedly up Sgurr Bhreac, but by the summit I had recovered a little poise and as the ground dried and the mists cleared further, the tide began to turn in my favour. Instead of getting slower and slower, I was actually improving. By the time I reached Ian at the col before Groban, my spirits had risen considerably and after refuelling and changing into shorts and tee shirt, commenced the grassy roller-coaster to the ridge leading up to Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair. This is a fine crest replete with pinnacles and views that extend to Torridon, An Teallach and the rest of Fisherfield. Without stopping I continued down the white rocks from the summit and on to the towers of Beinn Tarsuinn, before slithering down the screes to the pass below A Mhaighdean. The bog was beautifully dry with cracked peaty hollows and crackling grass, but I had long since run out of water and none was to be found. On the summit of the Maiden I met my first (and only) people of the day who must have thought I was nuts to run up in shorts and tee shirt and then set off immediately after recording the lap time. In a rising wind they were huddled in gloves, coats and hats, quote rightly admiring what is one of the best views in Britain - the Western seaboard seen over a myriad of lochans, crags and rough wilderness that makes A Mhaighdean one of the most remote peaks in Britain.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7j-CbhiadDUpb0s21dAVY1eXSHryVINJRqmegaIfCLz2wr2WRY-4oNeVokQkV-uCfG_aXGHFiqM9lNykbc2ehVzqLvnD5rk_B0tgBoVmo8KtWjPV4T2Rr5rx0OygqaGetyxvCCg/s1600/20120607-lochaber_thu-181.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7j-CbhiadDUpb0s21dAVY1eXSHryVINJRqmegaIfCLz2wr2WRY-4oNeVokQkV-uCfG_aXGHFiqM9lNykbc2ehVzqLvnD5rk_B0tgBoVmo8KtWjPV4T2Rr5rx0OygqaGetyxvCCg/s400/20120607-lochaber_thu-181.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Approaching Shenavall (Photo - Ian Charters)</td></tr>
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It is a long way down from the next peak, Ruadh Stac Mor, but I was now becoming increasingly confident that I could make it within 24 hours and I pushed on as best I could in the strong Easterly breeze. The bog was as dry as I have known it at Larachantivore but its still a bit of a slog over the moor and a thrash across the rivers until you reach the haven of the bothy at Shenavall. By now, my feet were sore, my shoes were falling apart and my shoulders were aching from carrying a rucksack, but with just one major hill to climb, the end was in sight and after a feed and change of clothing I set off for the monumental climb directly up Sail Mor. For those not acquainted with this route, it rises 850m in just over a mile of pathless, heather strewn and bouldery mountain wall. The first time it is very intimidating, but having done it a few times, I knew what was in store and just set about pulling my aching limbs upward. Not that this makes it physically easier, but the mental battle has been won. 72 minutes later I lurched over the summit in a gale, and somewhat apprehensively skittered down the scree to the col where the wind was rushing up from the corrie wall, threatening to knock me off the mountain. The mist hung over the towers above rather ominously and my favourite mountain took on a rather more malevolent nature. I changed my mind more than once before going for the pinnacles and in the event, by timing my jumps between wind gusts and hanging on tightly, managed perfectly easily over the Corrag Buidhe pinnacles and the great leaning tower of Lord Berkeley's Seat. Today there was no view of the yawning chasm beneath and in any case, I didn't investigate too closely in the gale. After Sgurr Fiona I just wanted to get back. The dryness of the ground made for an easy trot down the Glas Alt Mor and with 10 minutes to spare I ran up the familiar red van in to which I was quickly hustled to escape the voracious appetites of the midges. <br />
<a href="https://www.3dinvesting.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/fisherfield-round-2012.pdf" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/1wz7qqridbs2rli/fisherfield%20article.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Schedule</a><br />
<a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/Fisherfield-Challenge-2012" target="_blank">Ian and Pauline's Photos</a><br />
<br />John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-53059808163863845212012-06-02T13:24:00.001-07:002020-11-15T04:30:41.578-08:00Charnley Way, 2 June 2012<i>A route linking 3 hostels in the Lakes, 39 miles, 11,800 feet, 11 hours, 10 mins</i><br />
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The Charnley Way was devised in memory of Gerry Charnley who died tragically on Helvellyn. The route is centred on the 'Charnley Cairn' a rather insignificant bump 500m South of Esk Pike. The route takes in Thunacar Knott, Longthwaite Youth Hostel in Borrowdale, Glaramara, Scafell Pike, Scafell, Slight Side, Eskdale Youth Hostel, The Charnley Cairn, Crinkle Crages, Pike O Blisco and Lingmoor before returning to High Close Youth Hostel. Billy Bland is the record holder in just over 7 and a half hours, but mere mortals like me take rather longer - a bit over 11 hours in my case.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Lake-District-mountains/Eskdale-Camping-July-2011/i-qnVz2Tf/0/L/eskdale-camping-034-L.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Lake-District-mountains/Eskdale-Camping-July-2011/i-qnVz2Tf/0/L/eskdale-camping-034-L.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lingcove Bridge - heaven before the long climb up to Charnley Cairn</td></tr>
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It makes a good day out without being overly long and takes in both valleys and ridges. I started and finished near Elterwater and after a very steady start, accelerated up to Scafell and then struggled up Eskdale in to a headwind with very heavy, stiff legs - probably a result of the previous weekend on my epic straight line expedition. The help of a rope for someone's BG made for a swift crossing to Scafell, but from Eskdale its a long hard grind up to the Charnley Cairn. Its not my favourite sort of terrain around Langdale which probably explains why I can't see myself repeating it, but it made a decent day out nevertheless.<br />
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You can read more including Ben Abdelnoor's account <a href="http://www.gofar.org.uk/Gerry%20Charnley%20Way.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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<a href="hhttps://www.dropbox.com/s/b56v4tk8gpgeu0g/charnley%20way%20schedule.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Schedule</a>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-37628235108190798432012-05-30T23:22:00.003-07:002020-11-26T11:59:14.369-08:00102 West May 2012<i>A simple concept - follow a course due West across the Lakes, 41 miles, 19,500 feet, 20 hours 45 mins</i><br />
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The concept might have been simple, but the execution was not. Despite very poor running form, I decided to set a different sort of challenge that would involve exploration of some previously unvisited corners. A perusal of the map revealed a possible line due West from Shap Wells to near Cleator Moor crossing over 50 grid squares in the process. Only one line was possible without having to swim across lakes or dally with danger on vegetated cliffs, and that predicated a start from near Shap Wells. I allowed myself the luxury of a 200m deviance either side of Northing 102 and made plans for a bivvy before returning to Langdale for my lift home.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-ZpKqGBW/0/L/102-west-003-L.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-ZpKqGBW/0/L/102-west-003-L.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunrise over Wet Sleddale</td></tr>
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I departed at about 4:15 am, shortly after first light. I soon left the track for hours of pathless wandering, starting with the tussocks of the Shap fells. With a day and a half of food and spare clothing and bag for the bivvy I never really established much of a run, but it was pleasant enough ambling along in the soft light of early morning, the sun rising over Wet Sleddale reservoir. Before long I was in home country, slanting up past Mosedale cottage to Artle Crag then the first steep descent of the day to near Haweswater. The shoulder of Harter Fell provided the first awkward ground of the expedition - an upward traverse of scree, grassy shelves and crags that makes a better winter goal than a summer outing. I stuck as close as I could to Northing 102 and descended to Small Water where campers were lapping up the early morning sun. The tarn glistened under the dazzling sun as I slanted up towards Mardale Ill Bell and thence Thornythwaite Beacon. A keen wind blew across the plateau but coming as it was from the east I would have it behind me the whole day and in any case it was welcome relief under the unrelenting sun. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-CNWGNJt/0/L/102-west-016-L.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-CNWGNJt/0/L/102-west-016-L.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another steep slope</td></tr>
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By the Kirkstone road, the sun's power began to take its full effect. A steep descent from Caudale Moor was immediately followed by a stiff pull up beside the wall and thence to Little Hart Crag. I crossed the Fairfield ridge just below Dove Crag and to the surprise of two walkers disappeared straight over the crest for the valley floor. they must have thought my route-finding was terrible. The ascent of Great Rigg beyond looked intimidating but it wasn't quite as bad as it appeared, although the unrelenting steep slopes were beginning to take a toll on my legs. I tried to take as close a line as I could across the Grasmere road, but after 3 difficult walll crossings came to the conclusion that it wasn't very responsible and headed back down the road before heading up the track below Helm Crag. Here I had my first break by the stream, greedily tucking into two wraps and throwing as much liquid down my gullet as I could manage. The sun was starting to get to me now. I had rarely experienced such an intense sun. There was nothing to stop it - not a cloud in the sky and no haze to relieve the burning rays. With no ridges to follow, I laboured under the burden of my sack and the lack of a a decent track - indeed any track - to follow. The route was so illogical that there were no trods and the traverse beneath Blea Rigg was somewhat tortuous with unstable scree and rocks unavoidably littering the slopes. I met a group of fellrunners heading up towards High Raise who looked as though they were attempting a Joss Naylor traverse, but I was soon left to make my way toward Low White Stones and from there to make the steep descent to Langstrath. I somewhat envied the daytrippers lounging by the river. They stared at me amusedly as I ploughed through the river, splashed myself , doffed my cap in the water and headed upwards, water dripping from the peak. Unfortunately I knew all too well what lay beyond - a particularly unrelenting ascent of Glaramara, or to be precise, the top West of the summit. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-LbKv3WH/0/L/102-west-017-L.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-LbKv3WH/0/L/102-west-017-L.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toiling up Glaramara</td></tr>
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I had come this way on my Lakes 2500s round and it wasn't any easier this time as I frazzled in the afternoon rays. A solo unsupported expedition is really tough when its like this - there's just no relief - and hydration is a major issue. After what seemed like an age I eventually reached the top, but the descent was scarcely any easier. Its a brutal descent beside Hinds Gill and my legs had gone, turned to jelly by the continuous effort and wilting in the sun. To make matters worse, it was obvious that my feet were going to be a real problem too. Having become wet and without a change of socks, the heat was creating pressure sores and blisters, such that every footfall was painful. From then on, I knew that I had a long day ahead - running was a distant memory.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-4269zjW/0/L/102-west-020-L.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-4269zjW/0/L/102-west-020-L.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great Hell Gate</td></tr>
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Still the day was fine, if hot, and despite an equally brutal ascent of Seathwaite Fell, I recovered a little joie de vive. The diagonal ascent of Gable aded a bit of interest. I started traversing too low and ended up in the crags before Great Hell Gate, a well named sweep of skittering scree that splits the Napes. A singularly uninviting upward traverse of immensely unstable scree and rocks to the top of the Napes ensued, made all the more awkward by my burning feet that screamed out at every step. Still, it made for a properly demanding challenge and the views from the top of the Napes make up for any hardship, with the sweep of the screes accentuating the cliffs that bound them. <br />
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I elected to take to the screes that fall to the South of Beck Head, not fancying the White Napes, but the difference is marginal. All the scree in these parts is loose, run out and with my feet, highly unpleasant. But it seemed like nothing compared to what was to come. The traverse of the fellside 200m below the summit of Kirkfell was truly horrendous in my decrepit state. Each step was an effort to avoid slipping on the stones that now and then rattled down towards Wasdale Head. The route wove in and out of gullies across wide fans of unavoidable scree. Every now and then I would slip, jabbing my poor toes against a rock. Other times, a rock would end up on my foot and my legs felt as if they were being tortured with the tensing of muscles trying to stay upright. Once the ridge leading down to Wasdale Head was crossed, the terrain did ease, but by then my legs and feet had really had it. Without poles, I was reduced to a somewhat painful stagger down the steep slopes to Mosedale. <br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-MXhqbg3/0/L/102-west-024-L.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-MXhqbg3/0/L/102-west-024-L.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Gully on Red Pike</td></tr>
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As soon as I reached the shade I lay down and dangled my feet in the air. Relief! After a couple more wraps, energy drink and a sit down, life was tolerable once more. But the final steep ascent lay above - a wall of rock and grass to the summit of Red Pike. This resembles Cwm Glas in North Wales, albeit on a smaller scale and I'd not been here before, so despite the continued effort, I thoroughly enjoyed the exploration of this new corner of a familiar land. It was clear from the map that the summit headwall would have to be breached by a steep gully. It wasn't clear that this would 'go' until I was almost upon it, but once below the gully itself, I could see a route past the chockstone and I was soon on the ridge and taking in the evening air on the foresummit of Red Pike. <br />
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With the major difficulties over, I even managed a shuffle downwards past Scoat Tarn and in to the shady hollow beneath. A quick skirt around the crags beneath Haycock revealed the Scafells in the dark red hue of sunset, with Seatallan similarly bathed in late evening light. It had long been clear that I would not finish before nightfall, such had been my excruciatingly slow pace from Glaramara, and never having considered that I might take such an age to complete the outward journey, I had packed just a reading light of a small Tikka torch with poor batteries. I therefore pressed on as best I could to make the most of the remaining light. Another steep descent and ascent led to Caw Fell and then it was dark. The Tikka was quite pathetic. After a few minutes I switched it off with no discernible disadvantage. In my tired state and poor light I then went too far right on the broad shoulder of the hill and ended up 1 km upstream of where I should have been. In the dark and without a usable light I elected to follow the path, along which I slowly stumbled, aware that the journey was drawing out ever longer. After a day of bone dry hillside, the only path was wet and I found myself sloshing through squelching bog every so often. Without being able to see properly I just had to plough through it all. On and on it went, until finally the track improved and I could make better progress. At 1am I reached the road that marked the end of my journey, prised off my shoes and inspected my poor feet. Blisters bulged alarmingly, but for now I could forget about them. I had a celebratory swig of juice, crawled into my bivvy bag and immediately fell asleep. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-5Swwgts/0/L/102-west-034-L.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/West-on-102/i-5Swwgts/0/L/102-west-034-L.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning light on Ennerdale Water</td></tr>
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Unfortunately the cold soon woke me up, as did a couple of cars whizzing by after a night on the town. At 2:45 I'd had enough and breakfasted on my remaining wrap, before sauntering down the road toward Ennerdale bridge. Some time earlier I'd realised an oversight in my planning - I'd forgotten to take a map for the return journey and I was now off the map. No matter - I'd follow the road to Ennerdale and from there it was obvious back over Windy Gap and Esk Hause. It would be a slow 25 miles of walking.<br />
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In actual fact, the walk proved to be moderately enjoyable, at least for the most part. The early morning light on Ennerdale Water was exquisite, which is more than could be said for the slog up to Windy Gap in the heat of the morning. But by 1:30 I was sitting outside the ODG tucking into a well deserved lunch. It had been a gruelling weekend.<br />
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<a href="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Long-Days-Out/West-on-102/" target="_blank">Pictures</a>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-85860989200856016962012-01-08T00:08:00.000-08:002012-01-08T00:56:34.249-08:00Mid-winter Lakes 3000s Jan 2012<i>A windy day on the Lakes 3000s, 45 miles, 11,000 feet, 13 hours 30 mins</i><br />
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The forecast was not terribly inspiring but I was looking for a full day out, so plumped for the Lakes 3000s on the basis that there isn't a lot of high level ridge traversing and I could therefore manage the wind.<i> </i>I'd seen two forecasts - one predicting winds gusting to 60mph and the other to 100mph. For the most part, the former was correct, but on Scafell it was closer to the latter.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie12PkqlVgtQtL4SbioKmZApkRnQfJGUsV2AB5OeG5w0vqC3AmtKpDqXib19lTQyJZcRSXZ9cAEbZGFKOUN7RK-nUfo7XSsbt6n9LRFPEn3KPok5UfdapYRUsNUoQRYi8osK6VTw/s1600/P1012316_edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie12PkqlVgtQtL4SbioKmZApkRnQfJGUsV2AB5OeG5w0vqC3AmtKpDqXib19lTQyJZcRSXZ9cAEbZGFKOUN7RK-nUfo7XSsbt6n9LRFPEn3KPok5UfdapYRUsNUoQRYi8osK6VTw/s400/P1012316_edited.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The top of Deep Gill on a rather better day</td></tr>
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I set off from Keswick just before 7am on a dark breezy morning. It didn't take long for the first rain to arrive and it stayed like that, off and on, for the whole day. I don't like road running but in the dark, it seemed the easiest thing to do, so I jogged along the 8 or 9 miles of road to Seathwaite. By England's wettest settlement the wind was gusting to the extent thatI struggled to run at all when facing in to it. If it was like this here, what was it going to be like on the top? I was soon to find out. After taking the Corridor route up to Lingmell col I picked up the trod under Pikes crag to Hollowstones and thence Lords Rake. The chasm was looking particularly dank but mercifully free of snow as I'd no brought my spikes. Encouraged by this I took the West Wall traverse in to Deep Gill. Therer were a few patches of hard snow on the way but nothing that a bit of judicous kicking couldn't circumvent. I could see the mist rushing into Deep Gill and could now feel the full force of the wind funnelling up the gill. On top of that there was no avoiding the hard snow in the gill which I ascended by jamming afoot in the crack between the rock and the snow and kicking a step with the other foot. More alarming was thew wind which threatened to prise me off the mountain. I held on very firmly! All in all it was quite exhilirating as the wind rushed up, blowing my coat toward my chest and exposing me to the icy particles which were similarly being blown up the gully. It was nothing however, compared to the wind at the col between Scafell Pinnacle and Scafell. Here I was pinned to the ground for a while unable to move anywhere - at least voluntarily. I crawled forward and eventually managed to stagger to the summit.<br />
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From there on things got better. Although it was gusty and the gully was more of a stream, I was in the shelter down by Foxes Tarn. I missed the best line traversing to Mickledore and end up on some fairly precarious ground. Glad to be off this, I slogged up to the Pike which was surprisingly calm by comparison. Here I met my first person and we had a chat as we rested in the lee of the cairn. There was a bit of fresh snow on the Pike but nothing much in reality. I ran off in the murk to Esk Hause where a band of walkers were struggling into the wind and rain. Fortunately (or actually as I'd planned), the wind was with me and I made good progress to Stake Pass and round the back of High Raise on the Old County Tops route. The Bog was predictably oozing water as I sloshed with cold feet down to Wythburn.<br />
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I had my sandwiches in the shelter of the woods, feeling pretty soggy but warm enough to make the ascent of Helvellyn. I elected to take the track as I was starting to feel a bit weary. At the top I had to face into the wind for the first time and such was its strength that I couldn't run even downhill. My cagoule was pressed hard against my throat and my balaclava obscured my eyes somewhat, so I was glad to drop off Brown Cove Crags. I filled up with water at a stream, having only had less than a litre and then jogged in to the wind all the way along the road into Keswick. There was quite a lot of traffic and the 7 miles were quite unpleasant, but with ensuing dark and my fatigue I really didn't want to add in High Rigg. <br />
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At the car I had some juice and a bite to eat, then set off up Skiddaw. By Jenkin Hill I'd entered the mist and discovered that my torch batteries needed charging. Too late now. I fumbled along in the dark and rising wind. It was a hard gruelling ascent at this time of day, having to face in to the wind and exert more energy. Somehow I managed to miss the gate before the traverse beneath Low Man, but quickly realised what was happening and dropped off back to the track. Fearful of the wind, on the ridge, I skirted beneath the South top of Skiddaw, but soon discovered that the wind wasn't that bad after all. With my rather puny light it was difficult to see however, and it was a very slow walk over to the main top. <br />
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On the descent, I once more lost the huge path and was headed toward Low Man. Someone must have wanted me to go there! Again I dropped down to the main track and ambled down with wooden legs. It was good to drop out of the mist and see lights on Latrigg. In the woods I passed two parties heading off for BG attempts. Their impressive torch beams put my own to shame but I didn't envy them their night out. At 8:30 I arrived back at the car and all that remained was a visit to the chippie in Keswick.John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-10243826196778806562011-08-29T03:48:00.000-07:002016-08-02T11:40:40.740-07:00Munro Completion<i>Completion of the 283 Munros with 10 year old Ben, 29 August 2011</i><br />
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Probably my proudest achievement has been to celebrate the success of my son, Ben in climbing all 283 Munros at the age of 10. This is quite some achievement for a ten year old as it involves over 1400 miles and 500,000 feet of ascent in total, with a lot of rough and challenging terrain. We finished on a poor day on Ben More, Mull, marking the occasion by taking a stone from the ocean and swapping it with a stone from the summit cairn which we returned to the sea. Its been a great journey together over a 4 and a half year period. I've catalogued our Munro bagging h<a href="http://bensmunroblog.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">ere</a>.<br />
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<a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Scottish-Mountains/ScottishIslands/Ben-More-Mull-August-2011/18825499_pjrsN8" target="_blank">Photos</a><br />
<a href="http://bensmunroblog.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Ben's Munro Blog</a><br />
<a href="https://www.3dinvesting.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/munro-round-stats.pdf" target="_blank">Statistics </a><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-BsZJMXi9Wk&feature=g-upl&context=G20f32a7AUAAAAAAAAAA" target="_blank">Slideshow of Ben</a><br />
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<br />John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-83327373567499642882011-07-25T21:02:00.000-07:002013-11-08T09:44:40.048-08:00Fisherfield Round 24-25 July 2011<i>Another go at my round of June, 70 miles, 28,000 feet, 31 hours</i><br />
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Having been disappointed to have had such dreich weather on my previous round and having seen what a good circuit it made, I wanted to repeat the experience in better conditions and hopefully in a time much closer to 24 hours. So just over a month later, I set off from Loch a Bhraoin Bothy at the early hour of 4:30 am. with the promise of fine weather and being suitably psyched for the adventure. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loch a Bhraoin - start and end point</td></tr>
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The rationale for the change of starting point was simple - I wanted to get the tricky ground done first when fresh and the bothy also made a decent place to stop over since the bunkhouse was full. To begin with my plan seemed good. I made good time despite the depressingly familiar sight of low mist over the tops. I was no longer afflicted by knee pain and had cut back on food and clothing so the sack was as light as I could make it. This time I saw no-one on the Fisherfield peaks, but did see a golden eagle soaring next to the cliffs on Beinn Tarsuinn. I was much quicker to the bothy at Shenavall but this time didn't stop inside. The slog up Sail Liath was soon dispatched despite upsetting a huge boulder which crashed down the slopes. Fortunately no-one in the right mind would be climbing this slope - just me - and the sheep seemed to keep out of the way. An Teallach flew by and again, I moved much more efficiently than I had previously, seeing no-one but a herd of wild goats. By lunchtime I was down at Dundonell and like last time I emerged into the sun from the grey pall that obscured the peaks. This time I found a way of avoiding the gorse and ditches and was soon at Inverlael. I managed to sort of run up the track alongside a lady who was out for a very sedate jog. I could see how slow I was going by her gait, but eventually I overtook her and made good progress up Eilidh na Clach Geala where once again I re-entered the mist and rain.<br />
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<i>Video 2 days later</i> </div>
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By Cona Mheall the rain had really set in and on Beinn Dearg the wind rose to about 40mph making me cold, wet and a bit miserable. The prospect of a night in this was not appealing. However, food and a change of clothing awaited at Loch Droma, which I anticipated would take me through the night. By now I'd be on the go for over 18 and a half hours, but I reckoned I was on target for a 26-27 hour completion.<br />
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Unfortunately things didn't work out that way despite a good start up Beinn Liath Mhor Fannaich. I soon entered the mist and dark and could see very little. the rocks were hideously slippy, I was having to watch the compass all the time and all I wanted to do was go to sleep. The previous night I had slept very little in the bothy and it was finally catching up with me. With no support, there's little you can do. I tried everything - soldiering on, stopping for a quick nap, eating, drinking, slapping my face - nothing seemed to work. All I wanted to do was to lie down and go to sleep. So in the wind, rain and dark I did just that. I slumped to the cold ground, made a cocoon and for a precious time allowed myslef to enter the land of nod. I must have been tired as I actually fell asleep three times on that windy, damp plateau, buffeted by the wind. In between I was reduced to a slow walk over the glassy rocks, peering into the gloom.Zombie-like I plodded on, seeing nothing, just feeling the wind and dampness.<br />
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The dawn brought no real relief. I was still exhausted and could only plod slowly on in my little dream-world. The peaks seemed to take an age, the slopes got longer and longer. Nothing was short. Nothing was easy. But eventually the tops<i> were</i> bagged and the day brightened. By A Chailleach the sun had come out and it was a nice day. The irony was not lost on me, as I dozed on the summit. And then it was over. Not the trip I had really wanted, but I am in no doubt that this is a classic round, worthy of a third visit? I think that the route could be improved and probably shortened a little. Let's see.<br />
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<a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Scottish-Mountains/NW-Highlands/Fannaichs-Fisherfield-An/18303599_KcgRth" target="_blank">Photos (from the following few days)</a><br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eWGtplB7IU0" target="_blank"><br /></a>
<br />John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-55368763758914320372011-06-20T05:37:00.000-07:002016-08-02T11:44:16.754-07:00Fisherfield Round, 19-20 June 2011<i>Round of Fannaichs, Fisherfield and Beinn Dearg Munros, 70 miles, 28,000 feet, 37 hours</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An Teallach - fulcrum of the round</td></tr>
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This round is a magnificent tour of four rugged groups of mountains in what is probably my favourite bit of the Highlands. The day started well as I rose above the valley mist and I eagerly anticipated a sunny day in the hills as I ascended Beinn Liath Mhor Fannaich.<br />
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However it was not to be. Before the summit I entered the mist and from there on every summit was in the cloud and I saw very little indeed. After losing the way slightly on the descent of Beinn Liath Mhor Fannaich I was careful in my route finding and had no more alarms. The Fannaichs are predominantly grassy hills, but with some magnificent cliffs and some bouldery ground. there's a bit of this on the long ridge to An Coilleachean, but for the most part its eminently runnable, especially without the rucksack which I'd dumped near Sgurr Mhor. A quick sandwich and on over the highest peak of the Fannaichs. I maintained a good pace but was having to work hard and felt a bit sick. This didn't change until I was forced to slow down once off the Fannaichs, but there's a satisfaction in moving efficiently in wild scenery and I saw no-one. The descent from the last peak of the Fannaichs is a bit of a green wall where confidence is needed to trot down in the cloying mist. At the bottom its a tedious tussocky morass, but after 21 miles I reckoned a stop was in order. I'd done the first section at a fair rate but at a cost. I was already feeling a bit weary and had now picked up a painful knee. <br />
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Still, I was determined to carry on and the slog up the next hill was relieved by the some of the most amazing slabs in the British Isles. These drop down for about one kilometre in a smooth drop at an angle of about 30 degrees and extend for about a mile across the hillside. Above is a chaotic pile of boulders that litter the hillside. Its truly one of the wonders of Scotland that I had not anticipated - one of the joys of an unreccied route. However the weather was not playing ball. The drizzle settled in and from then on the day was a soggy affair with no views whatsoever. Having looked forward to a day in the sun, this was an immense disappointment and coupled with my painful knee, put something of a dampener on proceedings. I could no longer run downhill and in any case, the wet quartz didn't lend itself to fast progress. Still, in the wilderness 10 miles from the nearest road there is little to do but press on, and my guesstimate of timings was proving woefully inadequate for the prevailing conditions and my creaking joints. By the time I emerged from the mists and sloshed through the bog and river to Shenavall Bothy it was 10pm and I was not in the mood for a dark night in the rain on An Teallach. I therefore readied myself for a cold, fairly unpleasant night in the bothy, given that I was out of food and drink and had no warm clothing.<br />
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Yet unbeknown to me an angel in the form of a lad with a full bottle of whisky, spare food, stove and duvet jacket was waiting for me. A night of abject misery was transformed to a sociable dram or two before settling down for a decent rest. At 4am I'd had enough, had some breakfast courtesy of my new found friend and the leftover food in the bothy, and set off for one of the steepest ascents anywhere - 850m up in a mile. Unsurprisingly its an unrelenting slog up heather, boulders and scree to the summit of Sail Liath, the Eastern end of the An Teallach ridge. This is my favourite mountain in Scotland, with its out-of-this-world sandstone pinnacles, huge cliffs and pointed summits. I took in all the pinnacles and even in the continuing dreich conditions, counted myself lucky to be there. <br />
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At 9am I picked up my food dump, which served as a good second breakfast rather than the evening meal I had intended it to be and set forth along the hill path to Inverlael. This is the relatively low level part of the route and I had envisaged a fairly dreary interlude between the major hill groups. How wrong I was. the path affords wonderful views of the wall of An Teallach which was now revealed, at least in part. As you proceed, you pass waterfalls and idyllic lochans and traverse above the sea loch, with Beinn Dearg beckoning beyond. In the dark I'd have seen none of this so I was a happy man again. That is until the path shown on the map disappeared into the undergrowth and necessitated weaving in and out of the gorse bushes, reeds and drainage ditches. Still, I could sniff lunch at the next food dump and duly fortified, strode up the forestry track up Glen Squaib. It was warm in the glen, but it didn't last long as I re-entered the mist and stayed there until the last descent. These hills are wild, rock strewn and cleaved by great cliffs. In my minds eye I could see Penguin Gully that I'd climbed in a previous winter, but the scene was rather more of a grey affair on this occasion. On reaching Beinn Dearg, I took a direct line for the car at Loch Droma and finally followed the stalkers path to end what had been a truly magnificent outing.<br />
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PS. The videos were taken subsequently!<br />
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<a href="https://www.3dinvesting.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/fisherfield-round-actual-schedule-clockwise.pdf" target="_blank">Schedule</a><br />
<br />John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-59256571160126131452010-12-15T02:38:00.001-08:002020-11-15T04:34:29.466-08:00Rigby Round, 13-15 December 2010<i>74 miles, 18,000 feet challenge. 54 hours, solo unsupported</i><br />
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<a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/Rigby-Cairngorm-Round-Dec-2010/P1015557edited/1129609533_p6DHi-XL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/Rigby-Cairngorm-Round-Dec-2010/P1015557edited/1129609533_p6DHi-XL.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The first winter completion of the classic Cairngorms round which visits the tops of the 18 Northern Cairngorm Munros in a circuit from Loch Morlich. I saw no sign of civilisation or people until the ski slopes at the end and had no tracks to follow for the most part, so it was a true solo experience. After a brilliant first day of sun on frozen snow, the night degenerated to freezing rain driven by a 40 mile per hour wind. I was then soaked, cold and enveloped in a white out for the next 40 hours. It was a most testing experience, especially during the second night when I became hopelessly lost and spent 9 hours trudging through the snow without knowing where I was. Having tested my compass subsequently, I think the large bubble in my compass caused it to read incorrectly. In any event, what promised to be a 36 hour challenge turned into a 54 hour epic.<br />
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<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/ltg4h3pwxrpl76m/Losing%20Myself%20with%20pictures.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Account</a><br />
<a href="http://johnfleetwood.smugmug.com/Fell-Running/Long-Distance/Rigby-Cairngorm-Round-Dec-2010/15110480_2CDwMj" target="_blank">Photos </a><br />
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<br />John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-77183133459138704002009-05-17T02:43:00.001-07:002020-11-15T04:35:22.713-08:00Lakes 24<i>An attempt to repeat Chris Upson's 24 Marilyn Challenge, 75 miles, 28,000 feet, 25 hours</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helvellyn - one of the 24 tops</td></tr>
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Chris Upson set this challenge in 2003, since when it hasn't been repeated. I decided to change the route and to add a further top to extend the challenge if I had time. The weather was really poor to begin with, but I ran well through the wind and rain, solo to begin with and then with support from High Street onwards. However, the wind began to take it out of me, and I struggled in to the face of a head wind up St. Sunday Crag and Fairfield. The wind didn't let up in the night and the mist came down, which made for a slow traverse of Grasmoor, whilst the thrash up and down Swinside in the dark was as I expected - pretty awful. By Newlands I had lost a lot of time and more importantly energy. The break of day didn't bring about renewed vigour and it began to slip away. Food at Honister did revive me a bit, and for ten minutes I thought I might still make it, but it was not to be. My body said 'no' and I experienced a severe bout of painful hiccups all the way up Gable. By the top it was causing me considerable pain and I'd had enough, since I didn't think I could make it in time to Pillar. So my attempt ended on Gable with just two summit to go.<br />
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<a href="http://chris-upson.com/lakes24.htm" target="_blank">Chris Upson's Challenge</a><br />
<a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/95sfxyebzz9gx28/24%20marilyn%20schedule.pdf?dl=0" target="_blank">Schedule</a>John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14604452.post-23527273655476687462009-04-21T12:57:00.000-07:002012-01-06T12:58:35.182-08:00Lakes 3000s, April 2007<i>45 miles, 13,000 feet, 11 hours 55 mins</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scafell from the Pike on another day</td></tr>
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The Lakes 3000s is a classic circuit done every year as a challenge walk in June. I'd never done it so looking for a decent day out in April, I drove up to Keswick and ran up and down Skiddaw with a bum bag before retireving food and sack from the car and setting off once more. Its a pleasant run along tracks in Borrowdale, and I do like the highway up to Scafell Pike and over to Scafell. I returned via Lords Rake and despite the mist made good time over to Rosset Pass and thence Wythburn. Its a long way back from Helvellyn, but the prospect of chips in Keswick spurred me on and before I knew it I was back at the car. A good day out.<i> </i><br />
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<br />John Fleetwoodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09884086059241906286noreply@blogger.com0