BEN COLLINS

“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountain is going home; that wildness is necessity; that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life.” – John Muir

Wise words, and more so than ever in this day and age. I had become one of those tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people. A return to the natural environment was the only likely cure to a cabin fever as bad as I’d felt in a long time. So far in 2011, the number of adventures in the great outdoors could be counted on the fingers of one hand (runs along the Thames in central London don’t count). Last year’s hard won experience had faded and the skills picked up during those journeys long since forgotten. It’s hardly been what you’d call a vintage outdoor year.

A return to the North West of Scotland was long overdue. Both Alistair and I had talked about climbing An Teallach ever since our trip to Torridon two years earlier. Flights were booked, maps consulted and kit was packed. After so long it felt almost therapeutic, albeit distressingly unfamiliar. How many layers to take? Sunscreen or thick gloves? Map case – no, misplaced long ago. Mosquito headnet – yes, found two of them, both brand new in their packaging. Windproof top – no, never did find it. As I said, it had been a while.

↓ Day 1: Driving into the wilds. Suddenly, there ahead of us lay the mountains. Always dramatic, it’s the magnitude – the bulk – of these northern hills when seen from the roadside that causes a sharp intake of breath. This first glimpse of the mountains always sends my spirits soaring. The constant need to re-tune the radio, with an ever dwindling number of stations on offer, only served as a reminder that we were leaving civilization behind. Excitement was building with the beckoning promise of the adventures lying in wait. We had five days in Wester Ross and planned to base ourselves initially at Shenavall bothy. It was an ideal location to spend the first few days walking and scrambling in Scotland’s Great Wilderness.

↓ Roughly 6km after leaving the car, we crossed the shoulder of An Teallach and gazed down upon Loch na Sealga and the Great Wilderness. Grinning at the view, we mentally patted ourselves on the back for our luck with the weather. I felt happy, ecstatic, to just be there, in that particular spot, at that particular time. Before us lay a mountainous stronghold, peak after peak thrusting upwards; ancient citadels of the North West Highlands. Steep cliffs, striking ridges and crenellated summits promised much to the adventurous walker.

↓ Shenavall Bothy is a remote and basic cottage in Wester Ross, with a backdrop of corbett siblings Beinn Dearg Mor, 910m on the left, and Beinn Dearg Beag, 820m on the right. It’s a popular spot and justifiably so, occupying a splendid position in the heart of the Great Wilderness, right at the foot of iconic An Teallach (one of, if not the finest mountain on mainland Scotland).

We depoted the camp gear at the bothy, consumed a more than adequate lunch and set off at 2.30pm for An Teallach. Such tardiness wouldn’t normally be advisable but we had the month of June fighting our corner. With guaranteed light until 11pm we took heart and slung packs over our shoulders – off to do what we mountaineers do best, puff and sweat our way uphill. The effort of each step over such terrain begs the question of exactly why we keep subjecting ourselves to such ordeals under the pretext of “fun”. Why do we come back year after year for more of the grind? Of course, we all know why. It’s the treasure trove of beauty, wonderment and adventure that we seek. We have our maps, and we go forth after our bounty.

↓ The photo shows Alistair heading upwards over the interminable boulder fields of Sail Liath, 954m, the first top on the ridge of An Teallach.

↓ The splendid main ridge of An Teallach, from the summit of Sail Liath. The two munros, Sgurr Fiona, 1060m, and Bidein a’ Glas Thuill, 1062m, are the prominent peaks to the left and right of the lowest point of the ridge (centre of the picture). Between us and them lay a scramblers paradise; a rough, serrated ridge of impeccable sandstone.

↓ Tempestuous weather filling in as we look to the west, towards the corbetts of Beinn Dearg Mor, left, and Beinn Dearg Beag, right. Clouds had scudded in the from the south west, ending our hopes of scrambling along the ridge in late afternoon sun. Spectacular beams of light pierced through the dirty quilt above our heads.

↓ The fun begins. Alistair climbing a superb layback crack as we ascend one of the numerous pinnacles along the ridge. The climbing was easy enough – no ropes were deployed – but it was exposed. The sandstone was rough and holds were plentiful, inspiring confidence and allowing sufficient enjoyment to vanquish our jangly nerves. Just.

↓ Further along the ridge, more exposure, more hands on experience. With elevated heart rates, blood pumping around the body, and mind focussed entirely on the metre of rock above and below, we were hardly conscious of the wider surroundings. It was a thrilling mountain ridge – a noble opponent that didn’t yield without a good scrap.

↓ Looking ahead to yet more sandstone outcrops on the ridge, minutes before the cloud descended further and engulfed us. The infamous Scottish murk finally settled in and held us in its grasp for the remainder of the evening.

↓ The summit trig point of Bidein a’ Glas Thuill, 1062m, highest point of An Teallach. We reached the summit at 7.30pm in a respectable ole’ blow and thick, wet cloud.

↓ Suitably unimpressed with the weather, we stopped to layer up before the descent down to camp. It was past 8pm by now and gone 10.30pm by the time we reached our tents (pitched outside the bothy).

↓ Day 2: The next morning, camped outside the bothy. Benign conditions greeted us which boded well. The day was likely to be challenging in its length and number of peaks climbed. We set off with vague designs on the “Fisherfield Six” – the six munros that lie on the east and west sides of the Glenn na Muice valley – but it soon became apparent that we were moving too slowly (read: we weren’t fit enough) and the eastern four were challenge enough.

↓ Crossing the Abhainn Strath na Sealga. The rivers were never more than knee deep and fairly tame, though this is not always the case in this area. Two days before our visit, the bothy book recorded a river in spate and impassible. The riverbed was covered in a multitude of orange, red and grey pebbles. The crocs I borrowed off Alistair; leading up to the trip, I had completely failed to even contemplate a strategy for crossing the rivers. (I managed to keep my boots dry for the first two days at least).

↓ Looking west from near the summit of Beinn a’ Chlaidheimh, 916m, down onto Beinn Dearg Mor. We’d both found it a tough climb direct from the valley floor to the summit ridge. Appreciation of a summit is often a correlation of the effort taken to reach it.

↓ On the summit of Beinn a’ Chlaidheimh, content.

↓ Celebrating with a dram of whisky on the summit of Sgurr Ban, 989m, as Alistair reaches his double century of munro summits.

↓ After all that whisky we needed a quick sit down – with views like these it was a day to savour. Ever mindful of the time and miles remaining we had to balance the need to keep moving – to stay the course – with the desire to just sit and survey the land.

Two further munros, Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair, 1019m, and Beinn Tarsuinn, 937m, were traversed that afternoon. Each step carried us further south, away from our camp. Beinn Tarsuinn, complete with its tepui-esque plateau, was reached late in the afternoon; in our weary state, definitely too late for us to contemplate continuing over the two munros on the western side of the valley. Tired limbs were not complaining.

↓ The late evening walk down the valley was as peaceful as could be wished for. A reasonable path carried us swiftly along the banks of the Abhainn Gleann na Muice river. One was spoilt for scenery. The perfect antidote to the stressful city I had left, frazzled, less than 48 hours earlier.

↓ River, tree and mountain. An Teallach forming the backdrop to a serene landscape.

↓ Day 3: Home, sweet home. A Golite Shangri-La 1 tent and inner, pitched with trekking poles. Inside: a Rab Neutrino 200 sleeping bag, Karrimor roll mat, Platypus 3L water carrier, Golite Pinnacle rucsac, MSR pocket rocket stove, titanium billy and Asolo boots. Lastly of course, and most important of all, a cup of tea.

On the cards today, an ascent of Beinn Dhearg Mor (see the second photo). It would have been rude of us not to climb this dramatic looking Corbett whilst we were camped so close. It had dominated our every view for the past two days and had won us over. Looking every bit the younger sibling of An Teallach, another scramble was chosen, this time a grade 3, 2 star line up the east buttress to the summit. It sounded fantastic; whether we ever actually climbed on this route or not we’ll never know. We struggled to match the guide book descriptions to the topography of the slopes we were on. What followed instead was an adventurous selection of exposed ridge scrambling, heather bashing and disconcertingly loose gullies to ascend.

↓ Scrambler’s eye view:

From the summit of Beinn Dearg Mor, a steep and tiring descent followed by a similarly steep and tiring ascent saw us atop Beinn Dearg Bheag.

↓ Views westwards from the summit to the sea – the most spectacular viewpoint of the trip thus far with expansive views across to the smattering of small islands off Scotland’s coast.

↓ Orchids (I think, correct me if I’m wrong!) were scattered about the slopes of our descent route. Dainty, contrary ingredients of this immense and coarse landscape.

↓ Loch Toll an Lochain with An Teallach’s western spur in the background. It felt unusual to be walking along a beach, half way up a Scottish mountain. But we were not the first – deer prints ran all the way along the beach, though we never saw their creator.

↓ Whisky this way. On we pressed, a quickening of pace as our grumbling stomachs hurried us back to camp. A tricky descent followed. Marooned between the outflow of the loch and another river on a steep heathery slope, we slithered downhill above the confluence of the rivers. Clumps of heather concealed numerous little holes and drop-offs, keeping the senses sharp and the fatigue at bay.

↓ Another crossing of our old friend the Abhainn Strath na Sealga river, with the first munro of yesterday, Beinn a’Chlaidheimh, in the background.

↓ Cooking dinner in Shenavall bothy. Tea and two helpings of pasta, tomato sauce and tuna. Truly a meal fit for kings.

↓ After dinner we struck camp, leaving Shenavall bothy behind as we retraced our route to the car. Three weary hours saw us back, finishing the day’s walking the wrong side of 10.30pm for the third day in a row. We were knackered. Totally. But who could complain after the days we’d had.

↓ Day 4: The misty ramparts of Slioch, the hill of the Spear, 981m. As one of the most photographed mountains in Scotland (albeit from the south side of Loch Maree), I was keen to climb this munro. Alas, the weather had broken overnight and a cold morning (hat and gloves were worn, from the car) greeted us as we departed. Early showers thankfully gave way to dry and increasingly fine weather as the day wore on.

↓ The summit dome remained obstinately in the mist all afternoon though. Alistair approaching the top.

↓ Yours truly on the summit of Slioch. We lingered, hoping the cloud would clear – it thinned and so nearly gave us a view but the cold got the better of our curiosity eventually.

↓ Looking along the summit ridge.

↓ Further on, near the munro top of Sgurr an Tuill Bhain, 934m, the cloud cleared to the east but not the west side of rige. Walking along, floating in and out of this sea of vapours, enjoying the views opening and closing in front of our eyes. Summer walking at its finest.

↓ Loch Maree catching the afternoon sun. Undoubtably, the best weather of the trip. The hat and gloves were now well and truly buried at the bottom of the rucksac as t-shirts and sun-cream were pressed into action.

↓ Reflections in one of the many sidestreams that feed the Kinlochewe River into Loch Maree.

↓ Day 5: Slioch, seen across Loch Maree. A brief parting in the clouds teased us. Blue sky peeped out between the torn, ragged edges of a white duvet. Slioch revealed much to us: flanks stretching all the way from the loch shore to the fore-summit, but still the top itself remained elusive. Moments passed in wonder, gazing at this behemoth, remembering to put the camera to one side to appreciate the view whilst I still could.

Soon after the photo was taken, dark, ominous clouds rushed in and clobbered away the blue sky. The remainder of the day was spent in a monochrome world. A cold wind blew up. Rain slanted sideways. The weather increased in intensity as we wended our way up the corbett of Meall a’ Ghiuthais, 887m. Energy levels were depleted after the long days earlier in the trip. Each step required a conscious mental effort; more a case of the destination being important, not the journey. Determined to “bag” one final hill, we slogged upwards and eventually won out. The summit may have been ours, but the enjoyment belonged mostly to the weather gods.

↓ The final image from the trip was of this lone pine, standing tall above the mountainside, impervious to the weather. Directly across from Slioch, a sentry from yesteryear, caring not for the passage of us walkers, gone in a fleeting moment. Through hail, rain or shine, the lone pine just stands, watching the four seasons play themselves out on Slioch’s stage.

It was with a sad heart that I boarded the 17:10 flight back from Inverness to Heathrow. Hours later, crushed onto the underground train, blackberry flashing emails at me, I promised myself that I wouldn’t leave it so long between trips. Life is too short.