Completing the Welsh 3000s did something to my brain. It
made it think ‘Well, if you can do that, you can probably do much harder
challenges!’
Which of course meant a search for the next big challenge.
Joe and I particularly like one day challenges, Joe already
had a long-held ambition to traverse the Cuillin Ridge and I thought the
In-Pinn looked cool. So a plan was naturally born, and one year almost to the
day after we’d done the Welsh 3000s we found ourselves on the way to Skye.
As we’re both working towards our MLs we also wanted to
squeeze as much Scottish mountaineering into a week as possible, so our rough
plan was to drive up to Skye overnight on Friday, climb the ridge Sunday,
recover on Monday and then hit a host of other smaller mountains and ridges on
our gradual return south through Glen Shiel to Glencoe.
The Cuillin ridge, however, had other plans.
The drive up was basically a coffee fuelled ride of utter
insanity. I wanted to drive up overnight from Bristol to Sligachan in one go to
avoid the utter bullshit involved in a daytime journey like caravans, accidents
and traffic jams. Which worked in that sense. I don’t think I’d realised though
just how exhausting that would be. Beyond Glasgow everything was a blur of
espresso and frantic metal blaring out to keep us focussed and alert. And
swerving around deer through Glencoe.
By the time we were cruising through Invergarry the sun was
coming back up, and we spotted otters swimming along the coast as we arrived on
Skye at 6am. The weather was spectacular; the red Cuillins were deep pink in
the morning sun, the loch at the foot of the Sligachan campsite sparkled
silently and birds cut dark streaks across the deep blue sky. Admiring the
three distinctive dark summits of Bruach na Frithe, Am Bastier and Sgurr nan
Gillean was equal parts inspiring and intimidating, knowing that in another day
we could be descending the steep escarpments leading from them after crossing
the innumerable peaks hidden beyond them to the south of us.
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| Camping at Sligachan - Red Cuillins behind |
After a couple of hours sleep, some breakfast that felt like
dinner, and some more sleep we got restless and alternated between coffee
crashes and food highs, napping in the amazingly warm sunshine and pottering
around the silent campsite. I felt a sense of something akin to guilt for being
in such a beautiful place, surrounded by beautiful mountains and climbing, in
some of the finest weather of the year, but sat around doing nothing!
By the early evening we were joined by our friend Oli who’d
been working on Eigg recently and was planning to camp with us for a few days,
and a friendly neighbour on the campsite, Dan, who was able to offer us some
first-hand advice on sections of the ridge.
We packed as light as we thought we could, being mindful of
how much water we’d need if Sunday were to be anywhere near as hot as Saturday
had been, sorting out the bare bones of a rack and splitting the weight between
us. That night I tried my best to get some sleep, but my body felt jet lagged
and sleep was elusive and light.
At 2am my alarm broke through my hazy doze and I was up, out
of the tent and immediately set upon by an apocalyptic cloud of midges. The
entire day and evening had been so breezy and hot the little gits hadn’t made
their presence known and I’d almost forgotten about them! I had no idea where my repellent was and got
bitten to bits in seconds. Joe flapped frantically to the bathrooms and emerged
with arms covered in red bites.
The car offered the only escape and we drove with the
windows open to Glen Brittle, blasting the bugs out with the breeze.
We set off at 3am in the dark, warm, muggy night along the
path beyond the campsite. I was amazed (and almost childlike in my excitement)
at the number of frogs hopping around on the footpath we were following below
the silhouette of the ridge.
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| Joe slogging up Gars-bheinn |
It was a hot night, and long before we began the steep slog
up Gars-bheinn we were sweating profusely and getting through more water than
we intended. Joe somehow managed to swallow a giant bug and was immediately
sick. An inauspicious start.
Gars-bheinn. What to say about Gars-bheinn? When approached
from the south along the footpath and ascended more or less directly via the
grass slopes this mountain is a bit of a nightmare. Steep? Yeah just a bit.
Loose? Yeah, some sort of scree-based horror show. Ticks? By the bucket-load. I
was flicking them off my hands every time I touched the ground. Tiring? You
better believe it. Is this some sort of Cuillin Ridge rite of passage that no
one tells you about? I have my suspicions. Maybe everyone forgets because the
views are so incredible once you reach the col (sorry, bealach). The short
scramble to the summit opened up even more expansive and stunning views of the
ridge, the surrounding coast, the lochs and the incredible sunrise.
We paused for a few minutes to allow ourselves time to catch
our breath and take in the views. It was 4.30am and we were finally at the
start of the Cuillin Ridge.
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| The ridge stretches out ahead |
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| Joe and I looking fresh and optimistic still at the summit of Gars-bheinn |
Having such a clear view was great in terms of planning our
route. I don't imagine many people get the benefit of such clear skies when
they're starting the ridge traverse as we did for forward planning. The
downside was that it made Gillean seem so much closer than it actually was!
Setting off, the first few steps, felt so exciting! All the
anticipation and build-up, the long 2.5hr walk-in and trudge uphilll, all the
preceding training over the past few months. It had all been building up to
this. In those first few steps the tiredness seemed to disappear and was
replaced with excitement. We were finally beginning our Cuillin adventure.
Our first challenge was soon surmounted, our first Munro in
the bag. Sgurr nan Eag was a deceptively easy first obstacle.
To get to Sgurr Dubh Mor we followed the instructions from
the mini guide but decided to scramble up the side of the gully rather than
ascend the scree filled base of it, and quickly found ourselves in some
exciting exposed positions on brilliantly grippy vertical shelves and worked
our way rapidly to the bealach, dumped our bags and found some windy, tricky
scrambling route to the summit. We followed much easier grassy paths back down
and made a mental note to remember that should we have to do it again there was
a much easier way up.
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| The entire ridge at sunrise |
Sgurr Dubh na da Bheinn was quickly dispatched and we were on the lookout for the TD gap which we knew to be our first major obstacle. We felt like we were making really good time at this point, but I was also beginning to feel really tired. I was a bit worried as we had a huge distance still to go, both horizontally and vertically. It was now around 6am and it was getting hotter and hotter with sun out in full force, and not a breath of breeze at all. I was drinking as much water as I dared, but I knew I had a long day ahead of me and was trying to ration it.
Shortly before we found the TD gap was an amazing section of
near vertical scrambling up a wall with great hand and footholds but with a
level of exposure that would get a mountain goat sweating. A drop of at least
200ft below our feet and with heavy packs we swung up this stretch of rock, my
heart pounding out of my chest by the top.
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| Some entertaining scrambling |
A few metres on from this and we were at the TD gap, rigging
a quick abseil and descending into the bliss of the shady crevice.
I was very happy here that Joe took some time over the lead
of the crack (Joe is far quicker, more experienced and better than me at
placing trad gear and rigging top ropes so without ever really discussing it,
it was generally agreed that he would lead the climbs), as it meant I got more
respite from the sun. I was worried that I had already sweated off the sun
cream I had put on at the car, and I'd left the bottle in the glove box. I
could tell Joe was getting tired too from his lead up the route, and when it came to my turn to second the
route I was really surprised at my own struggles with it - I felt so fatigued
and things I could normally haul myself up felt unduly challenging. I was
shaking at the top and found the walk up the bealach between Sgurr Alasdair and
Sgurr Thearlichh incredibly draining. We crossed the scree slopes between the
summits and dropped our bags in a little stone bivi shelter, before slowly
making our way to the summit of Alasdair.
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| Sgurr Alasdair looms ahead |
At the summit we sat baking in the sun, staring off into the
distance at the range of peaks still to come. The gap and its challenges had
taken us far longer than we expected and we no longer felt like we were making
such good time. We were both tired, and neither of us felt like the water we
were drinking was making any difference to us. I have had some experience with
proper dehydration before and could recognise some of the symptoms in myself;
my footwork was less confident, I was feeling much more tired than I should for
the distance we had covered, I was feeling sluggish and incredibly thirsty. I
knew that the reason the water wasn't helping was that it wasn't replacing
essential electrolytes and other salts we had been sweating out, and no matter
how much water we consumed it wouldn't be any use.
We talked openly about how we felt and agreed that to continue
was to invite disaster, a chance of one of us making a mistake, and even just a
stumble on some exposed ground on the ridge could mean injury or worse. I would
never want to push myself too far and have to call for assistance. Joe felt the
same, we knew there was no shame in being honest about our situation and our
condition. Between the drive up, the lack of sleep and the immense heat we knew
we were done.
We escaped down the stone chute towards Glen Brittle, a
punishing escape route down steep, loose, big scree and found ourselves
marching through ever hotter sunshine towards the car. We talked about the
mistakes we thought we had made and how we could remedy them in a couple of
days to try again. All other plans we might have had were immediately put on
hold. The ridge had defeated us that day, but we knew we could do it.
We had carried too much with us - with the forecasts and
conditions carrying a fleece a hat and some gloves was overkill. Whilst I wouldn't
normally consider going into the hills without them we knew it was silly to
bring them again. We decided to pick up a load of rehydration salts so we
wouldn't just be drinking water next time - something I've found really useful
in hot weather before and something I've given to others in the hills when
their energy has been flagging. I've seen the restorative effect they can have first-hand
and am a big believer in them. We reckoned we didn't need as much food either,
and figured we could try to load up on sleep and sustenance the next day, then get an earlier start - setting off at
midnight from the campsite instead to allow ourselves more hours walking in the
dark before it got too hot.
Once back at the car we headed to the Oyster Shed and pick
ourselves up some amazing seafood. The seafood platter proved to be some sort form
of protein joy and made us feel a hell of a lot better. Back at the Sligachan
campsite our friends reassured us about the decision we had made, told us we had done the right thing,
gave us food and let us sleep. Then night we got good and drunk.
The next day we made for Portree to load up on food and
rehydration salts - ultimately the key to our success later on. We also dozed a
lot of the afternoon, and around 7pm I knocked back a couple of sleeping pills
to ensure myself a few easy and uninterrupted hours of deep sleep.
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| Relaxing at Sligachan |
They did their job! When my alarm woke me up at 12am I felt
properly rested. We drove off to Glen Brittle with a sense of deja vu. Only
this time it was much darker and much cooler. Although still just as midgey.
We decided to walk further along below Gars-bheinn to the
east this time in search of a gentler route up that steep and savage mountain.
The extra half hour traversing along was probably just about worth it. We aimed
for the ridge rising from the east and had a marginally easier time of it than
we had a couple of days before, and the slightly lower temperature was
noticeable. It was still a mega-slog, and I still found myself flicking a never
ending army of ticks off my hands. But upon gaining the summit I didn't feel as
beat as I had before, and seeing that although the sky was lightening the sun
was still well below the horizon was encouraging.
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| An awesome Cuillin sunrise |
We took the same route we had before over these early stages,
our confidence buoyed by the early hours, and the knowledge we already had of
the beginning of the route. There was no need for route finding or reference to
the guide book, we knew exactly what to expect and where to go for the first
few hours.
The TD gap was far more easily dispatched this time around,
Joe quickly leading up and placing gear where he already knew it would go. I
seconded it towing up a line for two other guys we'd bumped into along the way
to help speed up their traverse. It was incredible how much better we were
feeling at this early stage.
Atop Sgurr Alasdair we marked the summit with our usual fist
bump but this time with a confidence and knowledge that we weren't in the least
bit tired yet - the route so far had been trying but we were winning. There was
no sign of the exhaustion that had overcome us before.
A short but intense scramble brought us to the top of Sgurr
Thearlaich. From the slabby tops we headed downhill discussing the benefits of
heading up King's Chimney or along Collie's Ledge. In the end the weather
helped make the decision. The slow rise of the sun was dampened by a thick mist
rolling in over the peaks, the summits previously spread before us in a clear
path now obscured and visibility reduced to mere metres.
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| Joe on Collie's Ledge in thick cloud |
As we couldn't see our way up the chimney and we felt we
weren't making great time we opted for Collie's Ledge, a narrow, rubbley
"path" where a large strip of basalt has eroded faster than the
surrounding gabbro, leaving a 6" high indent on the side of the mountain,
a section wide enough to be a considered at path which contours around the
steepest section with an incredibly airy sense of exposure, before petering out
and forcing you to scramble to the ridge before back-tracking to claim the
summit of Sgurr Mhic Choinnich.
Below Sgurr Mhic Choinnich we were still enduring abysmal
cloud cover and thick persistent fog. We chose to eschew An Stac in favour of
the runner’s route to save us some more time and head up the ramp to the
In-Pinn. In such dire conditions and with the visibility we had I'm amazed we
found it. We ended up over shooting our target and ascending the ridge beyond,
contouring the ridge and virtually stumbling upon the hulking block of the
Inn-Pinn's western edge by the usual abseil spot. We scrambled around it until
we reached the route up from the east side and Joe once again led off up it,
placing a single piece of gear before constructing a comfortable belay for me
to join him.
As he set off from this mid-point belay a light breeze
parted the mists that had threatened to thwart our attempt. By the time I reached
the summit of the staggeringly amazingly positioned, and completely legendary
In-Pinn the skies were completely clear and blue with views in all directions
and our path onwards once more revealed to us.
Being at the top of the In-Pinn is a mountaineer’s dream.
Although not technically difficult by the standard route (in fact Joe basically
rope-solo'd it and I'd have been happy doing the same) the position it leaves
you in is totally unique; standing on a 4ft wide shelf of rock with a 70ft
sheer drop on either side of you, with no other way off than an abseil and
knowing you're on a unique Munro top. The feeling is incredible, just like this
peak.
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| Seconding the In-Pinn |
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| Epic In-Pinn selfie |
Abseiling off Sgurr Dearg (In-Pinn; it has a proper name
too) we set off for the Midget Ridge and quickly dispatched the minor summits
trying to bar our progress. At this point with clear skies and a good view of
Gillean we felt unstoppable.
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| Looking back the way we'd come - Sgurr Alasdair stands above everything else |
At the top of Sgurr na Banachdich we took a few minutes to
recover in the sun, drink a load of fluids and eat some food. We'd been making
sure to eat every hour so far, but had been reluctant to allow ourselves a
proper break. Whilst allowing time for our now trembling leg muscles to relax a
pair of guides approached with some clients from near our home turf of Bristol.
They asked us how we were going and what we were up to, and seemed impressed
with our time so far to the point we were at. We felt dead pleased with
ourselves at that. Until they casually mentioned that An Dorus, a bealach
beyond a few more peaks and some tricky ground, was generally considered to be
the halfway point time-wise of the one-day attempt, and we were probably at
least another hour away from that! Well aware that we were 7hrs in already we
were thoroughly daunted at the prospect of a further 8-9 hours of the ridge
still to go!
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| Awesome views abound |
Between us and An Dorus loomed the shapely triangular point
of Sgurr Thormaid which was quickly summited directly via some fun scrambling,
all the more pleasurable because of the ease of route finding and the clear
views of the ground ahead. The “three teeth” we rapidly circumnavigated and we
clambered to the top of Sgurr a’Greadaidh, covering all of the little tops
along the way as we were never sure which one was the summit proper. Some very
narrow sections led us to some extremely steep drops, and I was glad the
visibility continued to be so good for us, in thick cloud without prior
knowledge of the ground this section would have been incredibly tricky and time
consuming.
As we cleared An Dorus and climbed up Sgurr a’Mhaidaih
clouds began to roll up the valley from the east. Dark, thick, heavy low
clouds. Just beyond the summit (which I don’t remember clearly at all for some
reason) and approaching the tricky ground of the “three tops” the heavens
opened and we were drenched in minutes. Our movement slowed as the lines of
basalt rock became treacherously slippery and I could feel my mood turning with
the weather. We had been on the go by now for around 8 or 9 hours from
Gars-bheinn, only stopping briefly for food and water, but never for longer than
15mins at any time. The day had been so hot I was worried I was getting through
my water too quickly and was rationing myself and getting through my bottles of
energy drink quicker than I would have liked as a substitute for my water,
knowing I’d want it later.
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| A brief pause to admire the view |
The ground around the three tops was confusing. We tried to
skirt around the first one to the right but found we were losing a lot of
height, and feeling the way we were we couldn’t face following a line that took
us so low. Instead we went against our guide book and headed up, battling with
the wet ground as the rain continued to fall.
Luckily after half an hour or so the rain stopped, and the
ground quickly started to dry out in the heat of the day, only the basalt dykes
retained their slippery nature for a while.
A few times over the three tops we found ourselves ascending
sketchy, steep ground in lieu of knowing where else to go, Joe often finding
the ways up and me leading the way down, descending the steep gabbro slabs,
finding down climbs or the occasional bit of abseil tat to drop us into deep
cracks between the hills only to re-ascend steeply on the ground beyond.
This was by far the most demoralising part of the day.
Although the rain had stopped it had left a humidity in the air that made us
feel even more tired and thirsty. We were both swinging in energy and
motivation levels, pushing each other through bouts of exhausting and taking
turns to route find, repeating a natural pattern of Joe finding ways up and me
finding ways down. We talked little about anything but where to go next, how
much closer Gillean was looking and how much we wanted a beer!
Bidein Duim nan Ramh was the big objective that stood
between us and the last enchainment of three peaks that stand like sentries
overlooking Sligachan. Psychologically standing on that last stretch of ridge
we knew would be a massive boon to our morale, being able to look down at the
campsite and loch that had become our home. Bidein was the gatekeeper to that
land of hope, with only a little non-Munro in between.
The three summits of Bidein were far harder to get around
than we expected from a distance. More steep slabs were descended, and dropping
down onto the rock bridge (a boulder wedged in a deep scar cut deep into the
mountain) was incredibly intimidating. Danger was becoming harder to quantify,
and I was finding any sense of nervousness was becoming amplified by the amount
of sugar I was consuming to keep me going, causing me the occasional bout of
shakes and I had to breathe deeply to keep calm and focussed. Joe found a way
through the rock barrier beyond the bridge and we quickly scrambled up some
steep, stepped basalt chimneys. These amazing natural features are narrower
than a normal staircase, but are shaped just like stairs only far, far steeper.
They make for an excellent, natural scramble to give a rapid ascent of the face
of the peak.
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| Finding our way around some steep ground |
Beyond the summit we struggled once again to follow the
instructions of the guidebook, and followed our own instincts to get off the
steepest parts of the slabs and rigged a quick abseil down a very step and
intimidating looking “down climb”.
An Caisteal was a much less intimidating prospect after
dealing with Bidein, but we still took the time to do a quick abseil off the
back of it to avoid another steep sharp down climb. Some of the “down climbs”
are incredibly steep, and I think that without prior knowledge of them most
people would find them much safer to abseil. Fortunately there’s a good amount
of abseil tat in-situ, although this last one we did back up with one of our
spare ‘biners as it looked like the rope could snag on the bits that were
already there, and no one needed that at this time of day!
From the summit of An Caisteal I’d spotted a group moving
ahead of us taking a nice looking diagonal line up Bruach na Frithe which from
our angle looked incredibly steep, but it was obvious from the way they were
moving the line they were on was very easy.
A steep easy climb from the gully at the bottom of the
abseil led up to it (here we had an amazing view down what looked like a very
easy escape down to the fairy pools, which was incredibly tempting). Bruach na
Frithe I remember clearly, although my memory for much of this part of the day is
actually quite sketchy. It was a beautiful climb, the sun seemed less harsh and
I was looking forward to the view from the peak I had been staring at from my
tent for three days. And the view was worth it. From the summit looking north
there was no more ridge to see, just steeply sloping ground all the way to
Sligachan. OK, so to the right were more mountains still to climb, but the
change of view ahead was amazing, and to be just two Munro summits from
completing the ridge was a massive boost. We sat at the top and gave ourselves
some time to recover. We had been on the ridge for around 13hrs at this time.
My legs felt OK but my body was tired. I wanted more food than I had on me, and
I was running really low on water.
The Bastier Tooth and Am Bastier looked way, way bigger from our perspective on the
ridge than they had from the campsite, where they had looked like nothing more
than a tiny notch between Bruach na Frithe and Sgurr nan Gillean.
Upon approaching the Tooth I was feeling more and more
intimidated. Up close the Tooth is a vast, imposing, leaning block of solid
cliff. I scooped up some snow still lying in the shade of it, closeted from the
sun, and stuffed it into an empty water bottle, hoping it would melt and see me
through the descent later.
Joe contemplated which route to lead, but in the end he knew
there was only one route he wanted to do up this monolith. The infamous
Naismith’s route. An intimidating, steep crack line which hangs suspended above
a drop of at least 100ft to scree, rocks and death. I wasn’t quite so excited
for it, as I mostly wanted to sit down and sleep, exhaustion at this point
getting the better or me. But since I only had to belay him and then second it,
I really didn’t have anything to complain about, so I attached myself to some
boulders at the beginning of the shelf-like traverse and belayed Joe as he
climbed sideways out over the savage drop. At the end of this narrow shelf of
rock we knew we wouldn’t have enough rope for Joe to get up the route while it
was hooked into the couple of bits of gear he’d placed getting out there. He
set about setting up a hanging belay from a thick spike of rock directly below
the start of the crack and I traversed out to meet him.
Meeting Joe at the end of the ledge (which at the point of
this hanging belay completely disappears) I hooked into the spike with a sling,
we faffed about with the ropes for a bit and Joe backed up the hanging belay
with a nicely placed nut. As more of a boulderer with only a newly found
interest in trad climbing, hanging belays suspended from rock flakes and nuts
was something I found pretty horrendous, particularly having been on the move
for 14hrs, having not slept for a very long time, and being completely
maintained by huge amounts of sugar. I had severe shaky leg syndrome going on
which I’m sure put Joe right at ease.
Fortunately nothing was going to put him off this route, and
I reassured him the shaking was just the sugar, nothing to do with the
appalling sense of exposure and nausea I was enduring. Once a few bits of gear
went in above me I felt a lot better, and somehow Joe smashed through the route
in no time at all. Detaching myself from the flake I took a moment to look down
and around, and actually felt myself enjoying the exposure and complete sense
of adventure. Joe had made some quiet comments from the top regarding the
dubious quality of the belay at the top making me really focus on the way up,
and after the short horizontal section of the crack found myself really
enjoying the climb up the steeper section on great quality rock. At the top of
the Tooth we took a minute to film where we were, both of us looking completely
ruined and tired.
We meandered our way around beyond the Tooth, searching for
the easiest way up to the top of Am Bastier, following some dead-end basal
dykes and losing our way until we eventually struggled up and located the
summit. One more Munro to go.
The descent from Am Bastier was pushing me to my limits. My
feet were tired, my right knee was sore from all the steep downhills, and every
step made Sgurr nana Gillean seem even bigger.
Fortunately Gillean wasn’t as hard to get up as it looked
from a distance. All was going well until we came to a steep chimney. I had hit
my limit. I slumped over a boulder at the foot of the chimney while Joe
scampered up it, followed by a couple of very impressive runners who had just
run the entire ridge. Joe lobbed a chocolate bar down at me from the top,
followed shortly after by a rope so I could climb up with a bit of security.
From the top of the chimney all that was left was to squeeze through a hole in
the rock and before I knew it we were at the top; the summit of Sgurr nan Gillean,
the last summit of the ridge, the most northerly point and the climax to an
insanely long day. It had been 15 and a quarter hours since we had left
Gars-bheinn, 18 hours since leaving the car at Glen Brittle. We sat for a few
minutes, staring down at Sligachan, then looking back along the ridge. The
melted snow water was all either of us had left and for some reason it was
barely thirst quenching. The midges had come out to greet us and were swarming
around us sat at the summit. They encouraged us to move swiftly on.
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| Exhausted but happy on the final summit |
We followed the south east ridge to descend and headed
directly down from the bealach along dried river beds. It was getting towards
dusk by the time we reached flatter ground, and beneath our feet we could hear
faint trickles of water, teasing our parched minds as we finished the last of
the melted snow water. We trudged onwards, cresting a small rise which revealed
again the lost view of Sligachan, still looking miles away from us. All around
were only bogs and still water, offering no help of relief from our mounting
dehydration. We talked about nothing but how much we wanted water, and of plans
to lie beneath the tap at the campsite downing all the water we could.
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| A last view before the sun went down |
After a couple of hours descent we rounded a corner to hear
the roar of fast flowing water in the vicinity. We ran to the source of the
noise and found white water cascading over some rocks, flowing fast and free.
Normally I wouldn’t take water from a river this low knowing anything could be
above it, but we were desperate. The first bottle-full from the waterfall
mostly went over my face rather than in it in my desperation to drink.
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