Easter In The Highlands, 1965

by D. J. Farrant

For the club’s easter meet in Glen Nevis my guest, Kenneth Coote and I decided to borrow a tent from a scoutmaster friend. We had put tents up before so we felt that practice was not necessary with this one. When we arrived as the advance party on the evening of Maunday Thursday we hunted for a site that was both suitable and available; eventually we found promising ground near Polldubh. It was on the river bank and seemed quite dry but it was rather a small area and it bore evidence of recent inhabitation by a herd of loose-bowelled Highland cattle. Nothing daunted we proceeded to pitch our tent. Having unfolded it eight times we found that our friend had made a mistake and had lent us an area of canvas that could comfortably have accommodated his whole Troop. Various rude suggestions were passed that our marquee might serve as a flysheet beneath which the whole Meet could camp, but it came in very useful as a community centre in the long periods of heavy rain which we had to endure.

Much good mountaineering was done by many Members over the Easter week end and at the conclusion of the Meet on the morning of Easter Monday Richard Gowing, Ken and I moved off to Wester Ross in search of more great mountains and rather better weather; we were to be successful on both counts. Our first stop was at Dundonnell where, after the storms of Nevis, it was a pleasure to wake up in the luxury of a well appointed hotel instead of finding the lilo floating on the groundsheet and one’s left ear full of icy water.

Tuesday dawned clear and we set off for An Teallach with high hopes. The weather improved as the morning continued and we had superb views out over the western lochs and the Summer Isles to the hills of Harris, the far Cuillins and the rampant peaks of Canisp and Suilven. As we climbed easily up to the summit ridge, we made our first acquaintance with the flat slabs of red Torridon sandstone. This firm, delightful rock runs in long strips through the heathery slopes and its formation of interleaved horizontal blocks is quite remarkable.

We reached the ridge at noon and turned back along it, first of all to ascend the northernmost top, Glas Mheall Mor.

We then started the traverse which was to take us over five hours. The sun was now streaming down and it must have been thirty degrees warmer than on Ben Nevis only two days before. We made good progress along to the reigning peak, Bidean a’ Ghlas Thuill (3,483 ft.) and continued up the beauti­fully conical summit of Sgurr Fiona. It was here that an easy ridge walk in good snow changed into a serious winter moun­taineering expedition. The ridge narrowed to a few inches as we carefully ascended the very exposed pinnacle of Lord Berkeley’s Seat (who Lord Berkeley was and why he chose to sit here were mysteries the solutions to which escaped us. I can only assume that he must have had a wonderful head for heights). This led us on to the four jagged pinnacles of Corrag Bhuidhe, where conditions were very tricky, and the knife-edge ridge had to be traversed with extreme care because of the sensational exposure on either side. We had to rope up for the descent from the last pinnacle because most of the ledges were snow covered. This was done in three pitches and took us over an hour. Climbing down was not technically difficult for there were many holds for the feet, but it was often hard to see them because of overhanging ledges directly above them. Exploration with the feet was necessary and usually successful but was not performed with an easy mind owing to the absence of good handholds. Flat ledges provided the only holds and quite a lot of kneeling, careful balance and reverse mantle-shelfing were needed. We reached broader ground ultimately, however, and completed the summit traverse by climbing the Corrag Bhuidhe Buttress and Sail Liath, arriving on the latter at 5.30 p.m.

This summit was a superb vantage point and we had vivid views up to Ben More Assynt, across the Road of Desolation to Loch Glascarnoch, down to the jagged outlines of Torridon and across the sea to the Black Cuillin ridge. We dropped back down to the Cadha Gobhlach col and had a most exhil­arating run down the steep snow slopes—1,250 feet in ten minutes—to the rocky shore of Loch Toll an Lochain. This is said to be one of the greatest corries in Britain, along with Coire na Caime on Liathach and Coire Mhic Fhearchair on Beinn Eighe and the view of its soaring cliffs was breath­taking, especially as the surface of the lochan was so still that the whole of the mighty ridge was perfectly reflected in the dark waters. We eventually left the corrie after many lingering glances and made our way through the heather and sandstone slabs back to Dundonnell. The only thing to mar a perfect day was that Ken caught an ankle in the heather a mere two hundred yards from the road and the resulting severe sprain was to prevent him from taking any further active part in our holiday.

The following day was another sweet and gentle spring morning and Little Loch Broom bore scarcely a ripple. We drove slowly round this incomparable coastline, savouring to the full the delights of the western lochs. We paused in Aultbea to replenish our supplies and also to rout out the whimsical Dr. Hunter who strapped the injured ankle and assured Ken that he would be only too pleased to have him admitted for X-ray at the nearest hospital. As this was in Inverness—a mere 85 miles away—we declined his offer.

We continued our journey to Gairloch and then turned inland to run along the shores of Loch Maree, where we had a superb view through the silver curtain of birches of the noble outlines of Slioch. On our arrival at Kinlochewe Richard set out to climb Slioch with another party of climbers whilst Ken and I went down to install ourselves in the Ling Hut, by courtesy of the S.M.C. This very attractive and well equipped bothy is half a mile from the road in Glen Torridon on the shores of Lochan an Iasgach. The whole area abounds in wild life and in our short stay there we saw many red deer within a few yards of the hut, a heron, several rare species of wild duck and—incomparable sight—an imperious Golden Eagle which swept majestically into the sky from the towering crags of Liathach and soared away up the glen.

To our intense disappointment the Thursday morning was damp and misty with the cloud well down and Richard and I set out for Beinn Eighe with no real enthusiasm. We followed the well defined stalkers’ track round the shoulder of the moun­tain to enter the broodingly impressive Coire Mhic Fhearchair. The silence of this eerie corrie was broken only by the crash­ing of avalanche ice as it peeled off the cliffs and by the sweeping of the grey sheets of the rain as they struck the surface of the lochan. A full view of the three great rounded buttresses was denied us, but occasional breaks in the cloud enabled us to appreciate at least something of the true grandeur of this awesome place.

We decided that a full traverse of the summit ridge was impossible in the conditions so we contented ourselves with climbing Ruadh-stac Mor (3,309 ft.), the Munro of Beinn Eighe. This was a long and arduous ascent of the large loose blocks of Cambrian Quartzite which is the vivid feature of the mountain. The descent might well have proved more tedious than the going o’er, but it was in fact made more tolerable by the fortuitous discovery of a thin snow shoot which, though wet and slushy, gave far better progress than precarious lumps of scree.

The weather was so bad that evening that we virtually decided to abandon our final plans and return a day early. We arranged to get up at 6 a.m. and make a cursory inspection of the wicket before packing up. When I somewhat gingerly sniffed the air at the appointed time on the following morning I found to my surprise and pleasure that conditions were fit for play: the clouds were high and the sun shining strongly; our traverse of Liathach was definitely on.

We left the hut at 8 a.m. and after a brief walk along the road we struck straight up for the skyline. This seemed a very arduous thing to do but the route was always interesting and varied and we always seemed to be getting perceptibly nearer to our objective. We had some interesting pitches on sandstone outcrops, very steep scrambles up heathery ribs and finally an excellent kick up hard crusty snow in a deep gully. We reached the ridge at 11 a.m. and found ourselves virtually on the summit of the most easterly peak, Stuc a’ Choire Dhuibh Bhig. We then started the westwards summit traverse and passed over Bidean Toll a’ Mhuic to the highest peak, Spidean a’ Choire Leith (3,456 ft.). We had had excellent views all the way but as we stopped to eat, just after midday, the cloud blew menacingly over. The sun was still shining feebly and we tried to manufacture Brocken Spectres but met with no success. The conditions now grew rapidly worse as we made our way down to the sensa­tional Fasarinen Pinnacles. These we roped up for as, although the climbing was straightforward, the exposure was incalcula­ble and the rock none too safe. For honour’s sake we climbed all the little pinnacles; some with great trepidation on my part for the smaller ones were so weather worn and precarious that it seemed as if one vigorous pull would send the whole pillar tumbling into the infinite recesses of Coire na Caime.

When we reached the broader section of the ridge again we unroped, but the blizzard mounted in intensity as we struggled up to the last peak, Mullach an Rathain. Here bearings were difficult to take, but a fortunate break in the cloud showed us the impressive gendarmes of the Northern Pinnacles which lead up to this final peak. Happily we were soon able to find our way to a cairned track which led us to the scree shoot running down to the little village of Fasag. This shoot of course was still under snow—of the deepest and wettest variety—but we managed to plunge down it successfully and were rewarded by the joyous sight of our wounded companion waiting for us with the car right at the foot of the mountain, thereby saving us an unwelcome five mile trudge back along the road.

The final evening of our holiday was spent in reflective mood in the snug little hut. These light-hearted hours were spent in minute examination of the rhyming possibilities of the English language—who would have thought it was so difficult to find words to rhyme with Torridon—and in think­ing of possible titles for this article. “From Ross-shire with Love” seemed too macabre; “Easter in Wester Ross” seemed too obvious a pun, although this did lead to the neat maxim, “Easter in Wester Ross is wetter than in Easter Ross”. Ulti­mately the prosaic title was considered the most suitable. This humorous pastime eventually gave way to deeper and calmer reflectio as in which we all firmly resolved to pay a return visit to this wild and enchanting corner of Britain.