Traversing the Cuillin Ridge 1992
“Downhill I came, Hungry yet not starved” “The Owl” E Thomas
“Scott, I think we’ve gone the wrong way”
“What!! Surely not again?” replied an exasperated Scott.
But
we had gone wrong and yes, it was not for the first time that day. The
path, which had earlier looked so promising, had petered out in what
looked suspiciously like the middle of nowhere leaving us standing below
a dank and gloomy looking crag. It was probably a pleasant place to be
at lunchtime on a warm summer’s day but now, it was starting to get dark
and the pleasant summer’s day was quickly becoming a distant memory.
Oh
how I cursed those who had made the bloody path we’d so haplessly
followed and which had put the final nail in the coffin of our plan for a
quick dash along the Cuillin Ridge followed by dinner and beer in the
Sligachan Hotel.
From
where we disconsolately stood it seemed that climbing straight up was
the best option. Neither of could face retracing our steps and anyway if
we did there was no guarantee we’d find the right path. The one thing
we did know for certain was that somewhere above us was the top of Sgurr
Nan Gillean, the final summit on the traverse. And so out came the rope
again. According to my dreams and my plans this was not what doing the
ridge was supposed to be like.
I
had wanted to do the Cuillin Ridge ever since I first read about it in
Ben Humble’s excellent book “The Cuillin of Skye”, but things had never
quite worked out. It was the old story. When the weather was good
everyone else would be at work or if they weren’t we’d be seduced into
the easier options of going climbing in The Lakes or the Peak District.
Needless to say whenever I actually dared to arrange a trip in advance,
well that was a certain guarantee of rain.
Our
one successful trip actually began not in Skye but in Torridon where
some friends were exploring some new crags near Loch Maree. They invited
us along, and the lure of new routes and getting our names in the
guidebook proved irresistible. At this stage nobody even had the
slightest intention of going to Skye.
We
headed north in good spirits buoyed up by the unusual certainty, at
least for the West Highlands, that the weather would be superb. A huge
blocking anticyclone had settled over Scotland and it looked as if it
would guarantee one gloriously sunny day after another. It was a most
unusual feeling. We set up camp beside a beach near Poolewe, a place
which scored by being idyllic, free and also devoid of the fearsome
Highland midge. However, despite despite this auspicious start, the
climbing didn’t go strictly according to plan.
We
spent the next couple of days putting up new routes and sunbathing.
Unfortunately my English only team only succeeded with the sunbathing
part of the equation whilst two Anglo Scottish teams grabbed all the
routes. All we had to show for two days effort was half a route. When my
favourite rugby shirt was destroyed by a rockfall caused by some
overzealous gardening, fortunately I wasn’t wearing it, the glamour of
new routing lost the last of its appeal.
The
next day Scott and I decided enough was enough and left for Skye where
we knew Mike, an old climbing partner of ours was spending a few days
walking. We caught up with him at the Sligachan camp site and spent the
next few days walking over the hills of the Red Cuillin and doing some
easy rock climbs in Coire Lagan, all in glorious sunshine.
It
was almost at the end of the holiday when Scott and Mike suggested we
have a go at the Cuillin Ridge traverse. As I was just about to suggest a
cruise around the Outer Hebrides it took quite a large amount of beer
before I could even begin to come to terms with this radical
alternative. Eventually it was to take an appeal to my ego, in the form
of a great amount of flattery about my rock climbing ability, wholly
justified I might add, that persuaded me that it really was a good idea
after all.
I
knew that the ridge had been done in about four hours but that was only
by cheating. I mean, fancy running and soling the climbing bits, that
can’t be right can it? We reckoned four hours might just be pushing it a
bit so our aim was to try and get around in something like the fifteen
or so hours of the original crossing by Shadbolt and McLaren in 1911.
Now whilst I knew a great deal of the history of the ridge, my knowledge
of the route was limited to more or less where the rock climbing bits
were and that there were a couple of bits where route finding was
tricky. My companions were unfazed by this with the general view being
that the less knowledge we had the more ethical and in keeping with the
first crossing the attempt would be, although we drew the line at hemp
ropes and tricounis. However, in the light of subsequent events I
doubtif these noble ethics would underpin any future similar adventure.
Despite
our last few days on the hill we had no illusions about our fitness so
the main consideration was the weight of what we would or wouldn’t
carry. This had to be kept to an absolute minimum. With good weather
100% assured, we felt we could keep our clothing down to a sweatshirt,
shorts, trainers and a fleece jacket. For food we took a couple of
sandwiches each and a bag of chocolate raisins, some glucose sweets, 5
litres of water and lucozade (a personal favourite of mine), between the
three of us. Funnily enough I don’t think any of us were the slightest
bit hungry all day, thirst though was another matter! For the climbing
bits we took a short rope, a handful of medium sized rocks, 2 friends
and a few expendable slings for the abseils.
But
before the attempt we decided, with an unusual amount of foresight for
us, that as none of us had been on any of the ridge north of the Inn.
Pinn, it would be a good idea to do a bit of a recce. We reckoned that
the last bit was the part most likely to cause the most problems,
especially if we were tired, so the next day we decided to have a walk
over Bruch na Frithe and Sgurr nan Gillean. Well, that was the plan.
Next
morning we awoke to find a very unexpected sight, a solid blanket of
clouds was covering the hills right down to ground level. Thinking it
was just an early morning thing that would soon clear, we decided to sit
it out and wait for it to do just that. We were still waiting at
lunchtime when we gave it up for a bad job and went off to explore the
north of the island. When we were at Uig and as far from The Cuillin as
it was possible to be, you’ve guessed it, the sun came out.
That
evening we checked the forecast for the next day, it was perfect,
sunshine and 20C of heat. We decided to go and do it. Who needed a recce
and anyway it would be a better style crossing without any beta. As it
turned out it nearly wasn’t a crossing at all!
Sleep
didn’t come easily that night, but then it never does when you share a
tent with someone who snores like Scottie. Apart from debating when I
was going to kill him, I was also thinking of tomorrow and having
serious doubts about our chances of success. Sleep did eventually come
and my last memory before it did was of the shrieks of some campers who
were foolishly trying to do some late night washing up. If I wasn’t in
the best of spirits, at least the midges were having the time of their
lives.
Sometime
much later, I woke up thinking, “I’m too tired, I don’t want to get up
yet” and had the strange impression that rain was falling on the tent.
Relieved by what turned out to be a supreme example of wishful thinking,
I started to drift off again only to be woken up immediately by Mike
reminding me I’d promised to cook breakfast.
Well,
that was a fiasco thanks to the midges. They were so numerous and
vicious that I had to abandon the kitchen at Sligachan and relocate it
to Glenbrittle. Here a sea breeze kept the little bastards at bay and I
was able to create my greasy culinary masterpiece of bacon, sausage,
eggs, and fried bread. We set off at five am. It looked as if the
weather had returned to normal after yesterday’s hiccup. There was some
mist low down but what little cloud there was, was way up above the
summits.
The
protracted Highland dawn was well underway as we walked through the
sleeping campsite. I don’t know about you but I always feel good about
an early start. You feel as if you are getting one up on all those still
in bed.
Although
it was early it was still warm and we could feel the previous day’s
heat still radiating off the ground as we walked along the Coire a
Ghrundda path. After this gentle approach walk, which contours around
the hills just above sea level, came the first test of the day, the
steep two and a half thousand foot slog up onto the ridge. Just the kind
of thing you want after a big greasy meal. However, despite the
breakfast, or who knows, perhaps because of it, we fairly stormed up the
hillside onto the summit of Gars Bheinn and into the sunshine.
We had a short rest whilst watching the higher surrounding hills gradually emerge from the thinning morning mist.
It would have been a breathtaking view if we’d had any breath left
after the race up the hill. Even so it was still very impressive. There
wasn’t another soul anywhere nor any sound or breath of wind to break
the silence. All there was were islands and sea everywhere you looked.
Eigg, Muck, Canna and Soay were wreathed in sunshine but only the very
top few feet of the hills of Rhum were showing above a mantle of white
cloud. Further out you could see the long line of the Outer Hebrides and
over to the east was the mainland with its confused jumble of a
thousand hills, green valleys and shimmering blue lochans. But all of
this paled compared to the view of the Ridge that stretched out before
us. Alasdair, Sgurr Dearg, the Inn. Pinn, Sgur Dubh Mor, Am Bhasteir and
Sgur Nan Gillean, they were all there. It was a marvelous but also a rather intimidating sight. Sgurr Nan Gillean and the finish looked so very far away.
Pushing
on, we were soon on the top of Sgurr Nan Eag, the first of the Munros,
although Mike, arguably the fittest of us was starting to lag behind, a
worrying development so early in the day. He caught up with us by the
time we were ready to ab into the Thearliach-Dubh Gap. The climb out up a
highly polished cleft in the rock had me wishing I was wearing rock
shoes instead of trainers until a good nut and a friend steadied the
nerves. After this, we continued along at a good pace branching off to
the right for Sgurr Dubh na Da Bheinn. A couple of years later this hill
was the scene of a string of remarkable coincidences. I’d been climbing
in Coire an Lochan and at the same instant as I arrived on the top, two
people I hadn’t seen for years came up from the Dubh Ridge side.
Seconds later some other old friends arrived after having walked along
from Sgurr Nan Eag. Then my climbing partner met someone he’d last seen
in Chamonix. Finally two lads already there that we didn’t know from
Adam, introduced themselves just because, as they said, “We just felt
left out of everything”.
From
Sgurr Dubh na Da Bheinn some enjoyable scrambling took us on to Sgurr
Alaisdair, the highest and possibly easiest to pronounce hill on the
ridge. It was here that Mike, who was still having trouble keeping up,
said he was unwell and decided to leave us. Watching him head off down
the scree slope into Coire Lagan and also, no doubt, at some point the
pub, it was very tempting to follow him.
As
we left Sgurr Alaisdair and rejoined the ridge proper, it meant that we
were leaving behind the only part of the ridge we were familiar with.
From now on we’d be relying on the scribbled route description I carried
in my pocket and on our combined total of twenty-five years of
mountaineering experience. I mentioned this to Scottie but for some
reason it seemed to depress him. “What, you didn’t bring the guidebook?”
He didn’t cheer up again until we reached the top of the next Munro.
This
was Sgurr Mhic Choinnich and it kindly offered us a choice of routes to
the summit. There was a diff. grade rock climb; King’s Chimney or a
rather indirect scramble along Collie’s ledge. Purely because we
couldn’t be bothered to get the rope and harnesses out, we opted for
Collie’s Ledge. This turned out to be an enjoyable scramble picking an
unlikely way below the summit enabling you to reach the top without any
climbing although in retrospect I think the chimney would have been the
faster option.
It
was now late morning and very hot with only a very faint breeze. This
breeze was useless for any sort of relief from the heat because to feel
it's benefit you had to step into the blistering sunshine. Perversely
whenever you moved into the shade it was still stifling because you lost
the breeze. We crossed over the rocky lump of An Stac because for some
strange reason we thought it might be the Inaccessible Pinnacle. The
real Inaccessible Pinnacle was our next summit and also a slight
misnomer because it hasn't actually been inaccessible since about 1890.
It is though the only British hill you have to actually rock climb to
reach the top as opposed to walking.
The
Moderate graded climb up the East Ridge of the In. Pinn. turned out to
be a very enjoyable scramble which in retrospect we could have soloed.
It was on the top that we suffered our first setback of the day. Up to
now we had kept more or less on or just a little behind our schedule so
what happened now just seemed like an opportunity to sunbathe for the
best part of an hour and have an early lunch. Ahead of us was a small
army of people waiting to abseil off the western face. I suppose we
could have pushed past them but they were so nervous and so apologetic
that we didn’t have the heart. In any case their leader had managed to
use every possible belay point to safeguard his abseil and when he was
eventually ready he even asked Scott to watch the steel belay cable. As
Scott said afterwards “What on earth did he expect me to do? Grab it if
it snapped and fall off with him?” If only we’d known you could walk
around the south face we could have reversed the East Face climb and
saved ourselves three quarters of an hour!
Anyway,
once they had sorted themselves out we abbed down and even managed a
run along the ridge to Sgurr Na Banachdich the first of the next three
unpronounceable summits. This was a big psychological point because here
the ridge turned north eastwards towards Sligachan and beer. From Sgurr
Thormaid, named after my idol, the mountaineer, Professor Norman
Collie, Scott insisted on following the ridge in as pure a way as
possible which meant going over every little lump and pinnacle he could
find. I couldn’t be bothered with this arrant pedantry and from here to
Sgurr a Ghreadaidh I had to take a bit of “holier than thou” flak from
him. Little did he know I would have the last laugh at the end of the
day!
Unnoticed
by us, some cloud had built up in line with the forecast which
predicted the odd light afternoon shower and sure enough a few spots did
fall. We could have done with much more to relieve the heat, which at
3pm was just about at its most intense. From Sgurr a Mhaidaidh we put on
a spurt, partly for the benefit of our second and final human encounter
of the day. At least we think he was human. He was just the sort of
person you want to meet when you’re dog-tired; a disgustingly fit fell
runner probably doing the ridge from North to South in between lunch and
dinner. “Not far now lads, just the hard bit to go,” he cheerily
announced as he rapidly disappeared into the distance. Still we were
pretty content with our time. With the end in sight we seemed to have
found a renewed source of energy and as we trotted over the Bealach na
Glaic Moire we were even discussing what we would have to eat and drink
that evening at the Sligachan. Mere fantasies as it turned out because,
in the late afternoon, everything began to go horribly wrong.
Afterwards
we discovered that the guidebook says that the next part of the ridge,
the Bidein Druim Nan Ramh, calls for some careful navigation. We
independently confirmed this by losing our way about every twenty yards.
This cost us over an hour in lost time but matters improved on the next
hill, Bruache Na Frithe, the top of which which is reached by some
pleasant, i.e. easy, scrambling. Next came Naismith’s Route, a lovely
little v. diff. climb onto the pinnacle of the Bhasteir Tooth. Despite
feeling quite tired, we really enjoyed what we expected to be the last
of the day’s climbing. So when we were putting away our climbing gear on
the top we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. Yes, morale was
once again definitely sky (e?) high!
Unfortunately
it proved to be just a fleeting moment of happiness because it took us
ages to find the right way from the Tooth to Am Bhasteir, the last but
one summit. And another hour-long section stretched into two. On a
return visit I discovered that we’d ignored the easy way because it
looked too difficult! It must have been tiredness because the second
time around it was no trouble at all. Now, though, there was nothing for
it but to get the rope out again and find a way up. Thanks to all this
messing about, it wasn’t until 6.00pm that we reached the top. Once
again our spirits rose and we celebrated by finishing off the last of
our water. After all there was only one hill left to do and then it was a
simple matter of following the tourist path down to the valley. How
difficult could that be? Reaching the pub before closing was going to
happen after all. Ah well, you live and learn.
We
had to pass some pinnacles on the way up the summit ridge of Sgurr Nan
Gillean; at least that was what I thought. I learned later that I’d read
the instructions for the ascent of Pinnacle Ridge rather than the
ascent of the West ridge. A mistake anyone could make and which will be
news to Scott if he ever reads this, because to this day I’ve never had
the courage to tell him! As a result we ended up following a path that
ended beneath the dark, forbidding looking cliff. (Probably somewhere on
the Bhasteir Face), where you, the reader came in.
I
was soon regretting that decision to climb straight up when after about
fifty feet the climbing seemed to become a whole lot harder. I suppose
the efforts of the day had finally caught up with me. I felt not only
extremely tired but also extremely fed up with the whole business. My
brain was also on the point of shutting down because I was conscious of
making moves without really thinking where they were leading me.
Fortunately the way ahead looked easy and for once looks weren’t
deceptive. With the twilight gathering, I found a ledge just before the
rope ran out and made a belay using a couple of rather rickety looking
flakes I sat down and prepared to bring Scottie up and as I did I was
struck by the absolute quietness of the place. Not a sound disturbed the
the peace of the valleys below and not so much as a breath of wind
disturbed the rocks up above. It was like the situation on Garbh Beinn
at the start of the day, but how the mood had changed. Back then it had
been cheerful and optimistic with just a hint of trepidation at what was
to come, now with darkness gathering it was all rather oppressive and
disheartening.
My
reverie was broken when Scottie shouted up complaining about midges and
asking when, if ever he could start climbing. He soon joined me and for
once didn’t need any convincing to lead straight through. That he did
so when he never, ever leads, probably said an awful lot about how he
felt about the state we were in. I watched him disappear into the
twilight and hoped, oh how I hoped, that he wouldn't run into any
difficulties. The relief was palpable when just a few minutes later he
was up and telling me to climb. When I reached him I saw that by a
complete fluke the climb had taken us straight to the summit of Sgurr
Nan Gillean.
We
were on the top of the last hill; we’d done it. We shook hands and
congratulated each other; all our thoughts of a few minutes ago of
getting off this god forsaken place as quickly as we could had gone. Now
it was just such a great place to be that we were happy just to sit
there and take in the view.
And
what a view it was. It really was a spectacular sight. The setting sun
had turned the entire northern sky a vivid crimson, a hue mirrored just
as dramatically by the sea, on which a flotilla of yachts had anchored
for the night. I didn’t half envy the folk on those boats! In the far
distance the outlines of the Applecross hills were etched black against
the skyline. As we were taking this all in, the glow suddenly
intensified before gradually fading to leave a dull red ember marking
the spot where the sun had slipped below the horizon. The
show was over, night had fallen, but we had our head torches and all we
had to do was follow the tourist path down the south east ridge to the
valley bottom. But as luck, bad luck as it turned out, would have it,
our celebrations were premature, after all this was Skye and whilst we
didn’t expect a path of Ben Nevis proportions, we did expect it to be
fairly obvious. Well, maybe it is and maybe it was the failing light,
maybe it was our tiredness or perish the thought, maybe it was a bit of
incompetence on our part, but despite searching everywhere we could not
find any obvious way down.
As
night stuck on the hill seemed to be beckoning until Scott spotted a
possible way down. There seemed no alternative so we chanced it and
ended up scrambling, by torchlight, down slabs of rock that often had us
reaching for and sometimes using, the rope. Both of us had a terrible
thirst by now, a thirst made all the worse by the sound of a stream that
stayed perversely out of reach all the way down. To hear the sound of
that lovely ice cold water cascading and gurgling over the rocks was the
ultimate of tortures. To add insult to injury we could also see the
lights of the Sligachan Hotel, but it might as well have been on the
Moon so far as we were concerned. Any chance we had of reaching it
before closing time had vanished long ago somewhere between Am Bhasteir
and Sgurr nan Gillean.
Eventually
even bad things come to an end and at long last and sometime around
11.00pm we reached the valley but we were much further from the road
than we should have been. We thought we had about four miles to go so we
thought about having a rest but then we thought about the problems we’d
had trying to stand up after the last one on Sgurr nan Gillean. So,
after drinking a few gallons of water from the stream, there really was
no option but to carry on unless we wanted total paralysis of the legs
to set in. Very tired, we trudged along like a pair of demoralised
zombies until Scott provided some comic relief by falling into a peat
bog. This cheered me up no end but Scottie was even more annoyed when it
turned out it had happened just fifty yards from the road. In a few
more minutes and 19 hours after starting it was all over and we crawled,
exhausted but happy, into our tents. Mike was fast asleep but he had
left us some food that tasted so good I could almost, but not quite,
forgive him his bloody snoring.
The
next day brought an even bigger challenge, the hundred-yard hobble to
the hotel bar. However, unlike the previous day, the result of this was
never in doubt.
Brilliant
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