Another 40 Years of Puerile Ticking

I must have had a misspent youth. In the summer of 1968 I should have been demonstrating against the Vietnam war or taking part in student protests, clad in flower-power gear and under the influence of illicit substances. Instead, I was trudging up Cairngorm, weighed down under a steel-framed canvas rucsac containing camping gear, a primus stove and enough Vesta curries, Ryvita and dried apple flakes to last for a week. It was my first Scottish mountain – my first Munro, although I knew nothing about Munros at the time – and the start of a journey that would last almost 40 years.

A mate from school had persuaded me and two others to join him in an attempt to climb the seven 4000 foot mountains in Scotland (now there are nine - even mountains are affected by inflation), starting with a five-day backpacking trip across the Cairngorms from Aviemore to Blair Atholl. This was a fairly ambitious debut as my mountaineering CV at the time was limited to a walk up Snowdon and a ride on the Aiguille du Midi cable-car, and I was one of the more experienced members of the team. At first everything went according to plan - we camped out on the Cairngorm plateau and descended to Loch Avon to view the Shelter Stone, but then our primitive navigational techniques were hopelessly inadequate at finding the summit of Ben Macdui in thick mist and we floundered around aimlessly for a while before somehow finding our way down to camp in the Lairig Ghru. The next day was a different story. In perfect weather we made the circuit of the Garbh Coire from Cairn Toul to Braeriach, one of the finest high-level walks in the country, and to a youngster on his first visit to the Highlands the wide open spaces and the grandeur of the scenery were hugely impressive. I was hooked.

Later in that trip we walked across Rannoch Moor to Glencoe where we went up Bidean nam Bian and admired the jagged ridge of the Aonach Eagach. Now in those days information was much harder to come by, and for inspiration and guidance we relied on W.A.Poucher’s book ‘The Scottish Peaks’. Poucher’s descriptions tend towards the dramatic - a cliff is always a ‘bristling bastion’ or a ‘mural precipice’ - and there are dire warnings of the consequences if a route like the Aonach Eagach were to be attempted by the ‘ordinary pedestrian’ rather than the ‘experienced mountaineer’. Being young and innocent we believed all this tosh, but the warden of the Glencoe youth hostel encouraged us to give it a go and of course we had no problem, romping along the ridge and thoroughly enjoying the exposed scrambling. That day was a revelation to us, as we realised that Poucher’s grim warnings could be ignored and that all of the Scottish mountains were open to us.

Next year we were back, seeking what Poucher with typical flourish calls ‘the magic and mystery of the incomparable Cuillin’. The Carbost school bus and an outstretched thumb took us to Glen Brittle for a perfect evening with the mountains glowing orange in the setting sun, but the next morning was a bitter disappointment with damp mist enveloping the campsite and the Skye midges out in force. With no car, the only escape was upwards so we walked up Sgurr Dearg, the one and only time that I have climbed a mountain in mist all the way from sea level to summit.

In those days we had no rock climbing ambitions, so we watched some climbers on the Inaccessible Pinnacle and had just started our descent when we were lucky enough to witness the most spectacular transformation that I have ever seen in the mountains. Suddenly the clouds parted, leaving us in a wonderland of bright sunshine above a perfect cloud inversion, the individual peaks of the Cuillin Ridge sticking up like small rocky islands in a white sea. Elated, we strolled along the ridge for a while before reluctantly descending through the cloud to a still gloomy Glen Brittle.

We returned to Skye a couple of years later and duly climbed the In Pin, for by now I had acquired a rope and some vague idea of how to use it. But that was the end of an era, for rock climbing seemed far more exciting than plodding up the hills and I gave up on the Scottish hills for almost a decade, apart from one red letter day doing the Cuillin Ridge traverse with Roy Fisher in 1980.

Abseil from the Inaccessible Pinnacle during the Cuillin Ridge traverse

My revived interest in the Munros can be blamed on a ginger-bearded Scotsman, the splendidly named Dr. Fergus Macbeth. When he joined the Wessex in the early 1980s, Fergus had already climbed over 200 Munros and saw winter meets as a chance to add to his tally. Unsuspecting innocents on their first visit to Scotland were persuaded to forego the pleasures of the Ben or the Buchaille, and dragged on a marathon yomp across miles of bog and heather to climb some undistinguished lump with an unpronounceable name, whose sole merit was the blank space against its name in Dr Macdeath’s copy of Munro’s Tables. Suddenly everyone was aware of the Munros and had worked out their personal tally, and winter meets became very competitive as people vied to climb the most Munros in the week. I once managed 12, but I believe Alan James held the record with 17.

Fergus Macbeth on a perfect winter's day on the Aonach Eagach ridge, 1984

Over the next ten years or so, I was usually making both a summer and winter trip to Scotland every year, and my Munro tally grew steadily. It’s easy to scoff at the trainspotting mentality of Munro bagging (to save you asking, yes, I did collect train numbers as a boy, though it was in the age of steam…) but one advantage is that it forces you to visit some fine and very remote hills that are far enough from the nearest road to require an overnight stay in a tent or bothy. I have fond memories from a winter meet in the early 1990s, when a group of us spent the night in the Bearnais bothy before climbing the very remote Munros of Bideain a’Choire Sheasgaich and Lurg Mhor. It was a superb day with snow clad mountains stretching as far as the eye could see, and we had lingered a while to admire the scenery so that we were behind schedule when we reached the top of Lurg Mhor. Even so, it was impossible to resist a little extra excursion to the even more isolated top of Meall Mhor, an exhilarating scramble along an icy ridge, a miniature Aonach Eagach in the wilderness above Loch Monar.

Alan James on Lurg Mhor before he lost his trousers

Back on Lurg Mhor, time was pressing and the aforementioned Mr James decided to remove his trousers for the sake of speed, a wise move until we got back to Bearnais and discovered that the trousers, together with wallet and car keys, were not in his rucksack but still on the top of Lurg Mhor. Alan went back to retrieve them while the rest of us walked out to Strathcarron, the long miles eased by watching the sun reflecting off hundreds of pools of water before it finally set behind the Cuillin. We got back just before dark, enjoyed a meal in the pub at Lochcarron, and drove back to Kinlochewe with the Northern Lights flashing overhead to complete an unforgettable day.

By the late 1990s I had only around a dozen Munros left to do, none of them difficult, but somehow the challenge was gone and I felt no hurry to finish. The wheel turned full circle as I rediscovered a love for rock climbing, helped by an enthusiastic climbing partner and the discovery that, with modern gear and a bit of training on the QE wall, I could lead routes that had seemed beyond me twenty years earlier. The remaining Munros were picked off sporadically until I decided that it was time to finish, to meet my 40 year target and to avoid being beaten to the finishing line by my good friend Mr. Fisher, who has been with me on over 100 Munros. And so the last two were done this April, first Ben Lomond with Liz on a day of blue skies and superb views, then on Meall Lunndaidh on a more typical day in the wild north-west with Les Nuttall, John Whitfield and Bob Williams.

On my penultimate Munro - Ben Lomond, April 2008

284 Munros are bound to leave you with a host of memories, some bad but mostly good, of the Scottish mountains in all seasons and all weathers. I know that our editor, who has missed his true vocation as a journalist on a red-top tabloid, is keen to hear tales of accidents and disasters, but I have to disappoint him as my Munros have been boringly free of epics – no rescues, no broken bones, not even a descent into the wrong valley.

Les Nuttall lending me his Munroist's tie, Meall Lunndaidh, April 2008

Maybe I have been lucky – I remember a particularly wild winter day, lost and disorientated in a total white-out on Ben Wyvis, when we stopped for a breather, happened to notice a familiar metal plate under our feet and realised that we were standing on top of the summit trig pillar. Navigation was a bit easier after that. In fact, the two most dangerous episodes have both been at low level when, on my own and miles from anywhere, I found myself wading waist-deep across rivers that were flowing much too fast for comfort.

And the best memories? Too many to mention, but perhaps the best of all are Alpine winter days with crisp névé under foot, blue skies overhead, and views that go on for ever. Such days are all to rare, but I can remember great days with perfect winter conditions on the Aonach Eagach, Ben Nevis, Cairngorm and the Blackmount. Then there are the times rock climbing high on the Munros, getting two pleasures for the price of one – a beautiful day with my 14-year old son on Ben Nevis’ Tower Ridge, sensational exposure on the Rannoch Wall of Buchaille Etive Mor, the magnificent Eagle Ridge on Lochnagar or the spectacular rock architecture and supreme isolation of Squareface and Mitre Ridge on Beinn a Bhuird in the Cairngorms.

On Lochnagar after Eagle Ridge, June 2003

For pure enjoyment you cannot beat the west coast on mountains rising straight out of the sea like Blaven, Ben Sgriol, Ladhar Bheinn or Sgurr na Ciche, where you can stroll along airy ridges above dazzling seascapes and feel on top of the world. And my favourite Munro is on the west coast - Sgurr Alasdair on Skye, a tiny rocky pyramid poised in the sky with huge drops all around and a spectacular panorama of mountains and sea - though maybe I am biased because I have been there six times and always been able to enjoy a view that is a fine as anything in the British hills.

Munro bagging obliges you to keep records, so I know of 50 past and present Wessex members who have been with me on at least one Munro. Thank you all for your encouragement and good company.

PS. Lots more Munroing photos can be found in this Picasa web album

PPS. The title is unashamedly pinched from an article in the Climbers Club Journal by Derek Walker, where the ticks are climbs in the book Hard Rock. You can find it at https://www.needlesports.com/needlesports/hardrock/walker2.htm