Doodlecat.com

1997 Pt 3

Century Reached

This was a glorious day to attempt my 100th Munro on. I chose Buachaille Etive Mor as it is a classic Munro proudly sitting on the left of the road as you sweep into Glen Coe from the south. The pull up was tough as it was through scree. In wintertime this area is prone to avalanche and has claimed many lives. One entire family was lost in this region after just a low level stroll ended in tragedy as they were engulfed by snow and their bodies were not found until the thaw began, some months later. Once the scree was completed it was a straightforward walk to the summit, again a ridge walk in the sun was a treat.

I spent about an hour on top chatting with people and admiring the view across the famous Rannoch Moor. Sadly one person told me that somebody died on the mountain a week before on an attempt to negotiate a descent of the hazardous east face.

My descent took me back via the safer scree slopes on which I invented a new sport of scree surfing. This involves standing on a slab like rock and skidding over the surface of the smaller scree below. Though I had more chance of taking off than my newly invented sport.

Buchaille Etive Mor was to be the start of my second visit to Glen Coe of the trip in an attempt to complete all of the Munros in the immediate vicinity. Again I stayed at Glen Coe Youth Hostel and on arrival I presented my pre-booking form for a nine night stint. The warden was quite peculiar about me staying for this length of time.

"I know your sort, if the weather turns nasty you'll want straight out," he said.

"If the weather turns nasty this is the very place that I'd want to be," I replied.

With that he begrudgingly entered my details into a book and said "I can't say I can keep you in the same dorm every night, we get groups in you know. You'll have to come and check every morning to see if I want you to move."

Needless to say I never bothered checking and he never stopped scowling at me.

In the evening I revisited the Clachaig Inn, this time with a German chap called Christian. He was enjoying some time to himself having just finished a tedious stint of national service. Apparently you get drafted then sent to some camp where you either do nothing or totally mundane jobs. One of his friends had got out of it by presenting the medical board with some chest X-Rays that showed some tricky illness. The X-Rays were supplied courtesy of the chaps father who was a hospital doctor. Christian also told me that the chap that had been killed on Buchaille Etive Mor was a police officer and it had been quite a local news story. We chatted for ages, his English was superb and he knew more about English football than I did. He also told me about this guide book that he was reading which described these mountains called 'Munros' and that it is a strange sport amongst some British people to climb them all.

You can go right off some people you know.

I gauged how far I should let him dig himself into this hole before I confessed to being one of this strange breed.

The Aonach Eagach Ridge

May the 31st was clear and calm and very warm. Ideal conditions to take a look at the Aonach Eagach ridge. This is the most exposed mainland ridge in the country and connects the two Munros of Meall Dearg and Sgor nam Fiannaidh. I had read the guidebooks and had been totally put off by their warnings of the danger for the novice climber. Therefore before setting out I had decided to just climb Meall Dearg and miss the ridge and then climb Sgor nam Fiannaidh another day from the other side. Of course this is less than efficient but I reckoned that attempting the Aonach Eagach may well have meant that I would not have another day.

I set off from the unusual starting point of Caolasnacon on the road to Kinlochleven the aim being to avoid as much of the exposed ridge as possible. Unfortunately due to a basic navigational error I took three and a half hours to reach the summit. I could see the Aonach Eagach on my approach and as I reached the summit its full horror lay before me. Jagged knife edge rock for about a mile stood between me and the Munro of Sgor nam Fiannaidh. Any secret thoughts that I still harboured of doing it were quickly expelled and I settled down to my lunch and the prospect of a leisurely walk back to my car. As I settled down a group of five chaps were just starting to tuck into their lunch. They were surprised at my route up.

I said "I did not fancy doing the first bit of the ridge myself, so therefore chose this route to avoid any of the exposed ridge." I asked them if they had done it before, four said "Aye."

"How bad is it?" I enquired. Mistake, mistake, mistake.

"Aye nah as bad as it looks - yee can do it with us if you like."

"Thanks so much but me and that kind of risk don't get on so well," I said.

"You'll be all right, you can walk amongst us and we will talk you through it."

How could I refuse?

The first thing I had to do, on their advice, was tie my trekking poles to my rucksack as they would have been a liability if held in the hand. The ridge is a mixture of chimneys, steep sided faces, traverses and narrow interconnects. The memory is now a blur but I can remember having to raise and lower myself and sideways traverse over exposed sections with 500ft drops if I were to slip. I can remember having to lower myself onto ledges with my feet out of sight desperately seeking purchase. I can remember blowing my nose a lot, something I always do when I am nervous. I can remember the scratch marks on the rock, which I assume were from winter crampons and not finger nails! I can remember sideways traversing and having to be talked through it as I began to panic as I looked down between my legs to see the ground very far away. I can remember being out of water and very thirsty, no stream ever graces a ridge. I can remember an alarming moment of my rucksack shifting on my back. I can remember being very scared.

Once started the point of no return soon comes and you realise just what you have let yourself in for. There were places to rest but this was not a good idea as the longer I rested the more time I had to dwell on what had gone and what was to come. The guys were great, they always talked me through the difficult bits and making sure that I was never at the back.

All of their reassurance went to pot when one of them said, "This is about where the guy fell."

"What guy?" I said with alarm.

Apparently when they had done the ridge the previous September they heard a cry from a party behind them. Somebody had fallen to their death, paying natures forfeit. I thought thanks a bunch for waiting until now to tell me. The incident had happened late in the afternoon and the rescue services were unable to recover the body until the next day.

When completed I was a relieved man. In Muriel Gray's Munro book 'The first fifty' she describes the Aonach Eagach ridge as a 'brown underpants job.' This is an observation that I can now fully understand. I could not have done it without the company, if I had attempted it myself I would have wound myself up so much that I would have either come a cropper, got cragfast or have followed Ms Gray's advice.

The views from the top of Sgor nam Fiannaidh were tremendous, the Ballachulish bridge which spans the mouth of Loch Leven looked a real spectacle from my 3200ft vantage point, the islands of Rhum, Eigg and Skye in the distance were just outstanding against the perfect blue sea and sky. I think that I was on a high!

If you are intending to do the Aonach Eagach for the first time then these are my tips:

• Do it east to west as this is supposedly safer.
• Walk with somebody that is a climber and has done it before.
• Pack away your trekking poles.
• Don't do it in icy, wet or windy conditions.
• Pack a spare pair of undies.

Brutal Sun

June the 1st was another allotted rest day. I parked in a Glen Coe lay by and climbed about 300ft above the road. I spent hours reading and watching the holiday traffic. The weather was, again, perfect and I could virtually join in the thrill that the many motor cyclists were getting from being able to cruise through some of the finest scenery that Britain has to offer. I started to reflect on my trip so far and try to and understand why I was enjoying it so much. Despite having such a solitary day I began to realise that travel is not just the things you see it is also the people you meet. A holiday of a week does not allow one to wind down enough and really get into it. I reflected that walking in the hills gave me time to think, to really analyse things that had happened to me and to suss things out that ordinarily you would not get the space or time to do.

Before my evening visit to the Clachaig Inn with Christian and two other German chaps I took a shower. It was here that I began to notice my interesting sun tan. I was tanned on my arms, save for where my watch sits, but not my T-shirt covered torso. I was tanned on the tops and bottoms of my legs but not where my knee socks protect me during my climbs. I was becoming quite multi-coloured. Even as I write this account, in the following November, I can still see the tide marks on my legs?. We had another good chat in the Clachaig Inn and unanimously agreed that the male warden was a little unfriendly. A few years later I was chatting to a lady that I met whilst ascending Gulvain. She told me that the warden was a nice chap and could not understand the problems that I had had with him. We talked about it some more and concluded that perhaps he did not like the English. In fact he changed the key code regularly on the door and would use dates of battles when the Scots had stuffed the English so perhaps that was it. Either way it spoilt my stay at the Glen Coe Youth Hostel.

June the 2nd saw me tackle Stob Coir an Albannaich and Meall nan Eun. The sun was brutal especially during the first section where I climbed for over two hours on a steeper than a 1 in 2 ascent. The guidebooks say that the navigation between the two summits is difficult in mist because of an awkward dogleg in the route. Fortunately the beautifully clear weather showed me the obvious path and the map and compass was only needed for confirmation. The walk took a shade over seven hours and I did not see another soul all day. The views were tremendous and I was able to pick out many of the mountains that I had walked in previous days. It's a nice feeling to think 'ah I was on that peak just the other day, and that one five years ago.'

In the evening I phoned my friend Willy Newlands to arrange for him to come up for a day so as we could do some walking together. Willy is an inspector with Strathclyde Police. On answering I said, "Hi Willy, it's Steve, how are you?" "Not so good Steve. See one of my Sergeants was killed on Buchaille Etive Mor the other day." So that completed the picture. I had been hearing snippets of information about the death of the police officer, now it had come to light he was a friend of a friend. Willy sounded gutted, he had only just learnt the news as he had been abroad on holiday. He had less than three hours to get ready for the funeral. Despite that Willy said he'd be up for the day on the coming Friday so we could get a Munro in together.

Another Aonach Eagach

June the 3rd took in Stob a' Choire Odhair and Stob Ghabhar. I started from Forest Lodge and enjoyed what was another gorgeous day. The route between the two mountains took in a short stretch of exposed ridge called Aonach Eagach. Thinking back to my experiences on the ridge of its namesake I can only imagine that this is Gaelic for dangerously exposed ridge. On the top of the second peak I got chatting to a 16 year old lad who was doing a two week solo walk across the highlands in preparation for a career in the Royal Marines. I was impressed by his pluck, I could not imagine myself going off alone at that age.

Fortunately my knees had finally got a routine ironed out between them. Like two people having a conversation on adjoining swings they negotiated a truce whereby only one hurts at any one point in time, allowing me the opportunity to hop when things became too much.

The trip back to the Youth Hostel took me past the east face of Buchaille Etive Mor, it stood proud in the sun but a shiver went through me as I thought of its recent victim. June the 4th took in one of the more straightforward Munros with a mere two and a half hours getting me to the summit of Buchaille Etive Beag. In glorious, sweltering, sunshine I soaked in the unbelievable views and reminded myself of the attractions of this pursuit.

The End Of Glen Coe

June the 5th was a rest day so it was on the June the 6th that I met up with Willy to set foot in the hills once again. We met at the Youth Hostel at about 0900, Willy having driven up from Glasgow in his new car, a White VW Golf GTI convertible. He got in the joke about it being a hairdresser's car before I could. When he arrived he needed the loo and had to suffer the glances of the warden as he went inside the hostel to relieve himself. I had warned Willy about how uneasy I felt so he gave him a warm smile and a friendly "hello." On Willy recounting this to me I said, "Do I have a problem with that guy," pause, "Yes I think I do." Willy said I should have got that recorded for a "Video Nation" clip.

We tackled Sgor na h-Ulaidh as it was one of the few left in the Glen Coe region that neither of us had climbed. The weather was more typically Scottish with rain at first, some clearance and a slight view at the top. As ever Willy brought lots of food to share. This reminded me of the days on the Strathclyde Police Command and Control Project when he always brought enough grub for me to share when walking in the hills. We recounted the story of when I first arrived in Scotland to work. I had got on the plane at Heathrow in the blazing heat so turned up in just a shirt with a last minute jumper stuffed in my bag. At the end of the first day Willy walked me to my hotel in the drizzling rain. As we walked along he said "You no bring a coat Steve?" "Ah no," I replied. "It was hot in London this morning." He laughed at my naiveté about the Scottish weather and relentlessly pulled my leg. Next day he brought me a coat to borrow for the rest of the week.

Willy chatted about his friend the police sergeant, Graham Munro. I was trying to judge how much to say. Too much would make me sound like some tabloid reporter whereas too little might sound that I did not care. Sadly he had left a wife and two children. We commented on how most accidents happen in what would appear to be not too dangerous a situation, this is probably to do with the fact that you take more care when there is real danger and get a bit careless when it appears to be safe.

Willy mentioned how much my fitness had improved and how well I was managing the steep bits. We kept pace together even though I knew he could out walk me. I can manage walking with one other person that is faster than me because they will always slow to my pace; with two or more I soon lose them to the ground ahead.

According to Willy I was starting to use the term 'Aye' instead of 'Yes' with quite a Scottish slant on it. We had good conversation and at the end of the day we stopped for a drink in the Clachaig Inn followed by Willy doing a wheel spin out of the Youth Hostel car park as I put my head in my hands as the warden peered through the window.

June the 7th was to be my last walk in the Glen Coe area, as the bagging of Beinn Fhionnlaidh would complete all the Munros in the glen. This Munro can be tackled from more than one approach. I chose the Glen Etive side as the weather forecast, faxed to the Youth Hostel from the Met Office, said that there would be morning rain in the west so I decided to tackle it from the east.

As I walked up the mountain an opening appeared in the cloud which allowed the sun light to pour through, the hole moved around with the wind causing a patch of sun light to move around the hills like a search light. Most of the rest of the walk was in the rain and strong wind. At one point the wind was producing eddy currents beneath my nose to such an extent that I experienced the strange sensation of air being sucked out of my nose. The weather cleared at lunchtime, as per the forecast. On the way back down I looked on the skies as one would a naughty child. 'Don't you dare open up,' I thought. I had dried out and did not want to get wet again.

That night was to be the last at Glen Coe Youth Hostel on this trip. An Aussie guy was in the same dorm as me and was snoring very loudly. I knew he was Aussie even before I first spoke to him because he wore a brown leather cowboy hat and brown leather jacket, unshaven and blond hair. The snoring became so much that my pressing need for sleep gave me the motive for throwing a pillow at him. He came to and looked at me, "You were snoring" I said in explanation. At that precise moment another person, who had previously been quiet, let out a snore. "Wrong target, mate" the Aussie retorted.

I started the following morning feeling highly stressed. Parking in the hostel car park was very tight and there is an unwritten rule that you should not block people in. The previous evening a group of middle-aged people were staying and between them they had two N registered Citroen Xantias and a P registered large BMW. They had already annoyed me by taking my chair in the kitchen. This happened when I popped up to get myself some pepper, a large plate of steaming food being left on the table as a placeholder. I thought to myself that they must be thick or ignorant to take a chair away from a table setting. I guess it was just more convenient for them than walking the five yards required to get a free chair. During my meal I over heard them running the hostel down, looking at their wealth I could not understand why they did not go into a hotel if the hostel bugged them that much. Hostels, as you can imagine, are run on a shoestring budget so cause for complaint about their amenities are very unfair. During the evening they decided that it was their right to park in the car park and brought their three cars in blocking about seventy five percent of the rest of the cars. The following morning, June the 8th, I was itching to get going, not wanting a late start in the hills. While exchanging the sheet sleeping bag for my membership card one of the middle aged party appeared.

I asked, "Are you one of the Xantia, BMW party?"

"I might be," he replied with all the help of a skunk in an air freshener factory.

"I need to get my car out, can you organise some shunting?"

"We are all going this morning," he replied and with that he walked off.

'Oh I'll hire a car then' I thought. The lady warden looked at me and said, "Now that was helpful wasn't it." I could see that the party were far from ready so I went and asked another member, who could see the sense in my suggestion, and got some shunting organised. The lady warden gave me the thumbs up and said "Good for you."

When outside, waiting for them to complete the movements of their cars, two of the party came up to me and started criticising the way other people had parked as to the reason for why they blocked everybody else in. When I did not respond one of them started to say, about his friend, "These BMW drivers eh?"

I could sense that they knew that they were in the wrong by their use of dismissive language and blaming others and trying to triangle with me to overcome their guilt. I found the experience sadly all too believable that these type of people exist, and not only that appear to flourish to a point that treading on people at their place of work allows them to be given such large company cars that they can extend their lording it up over people to outside of their work place. I really felt that they considered me to be an insignificant nuisance when I asked to get my car out.

That was the end of my stay in Glen Coe for the year and as you can imagine I left with some mixed blessings. Two minor things tickled me about a chap named Ian that I shared a dorm with during my stay at the hostel. I did not record the exact day on which they occurred and hence I can not neatly fit this into the text above so will just add them here in the hope that nobody spots my sudden addition of an extra story. Ian was a very pleasant chap, a retired lecturer in his early sixties. He was up doing the Munros and when I asked him how many he had done he said, "Two hundred and forty, but I don't know if I'll finish them." Being able to give the exact number you have done implies counting, to count you have an aim and what else could the aim be than to complete? Ian was very organised and during his stay a friend of his, Dougie, joined him for a few days. One morning Ian was waiting for Dougie to get ready and said to me "never have I met a man more prone to procrastination." It tickled me because they were about the same age and had obviously been friends a great part of their lives but still had not sorted this one out. I thought of my friends Andy and Ady Glover and realised that would be me with them in thirty years time, still waiting for them to get ready, suffering stress whilst they take their own time in their own worlds.

Wanderings

I had arranged to meet my friend Andy Baxter in the Grand Hotel Fort William on the night of June the 8th. My intention was that during the day I would finish off my last Munro in Glen Coe, meet him in the evening and then set off the next day and do some Munros from bothies. However, I finished my last Munro a day ahead of schedule and so decided to take the extra day bagging Stob Coire Sgriodain and Chno Dearg which sit south of the A86 Spean Bridge to Kingussie road. I started from Fersit and crossed the broad open peat land before making the ascent proper of Stob Coire Sgriodain. To my right was Loch Treig with the West Highland railway running along its shores. At one point the loch gave a display of white horses while one of the most beautiful rainbows that I had ever seen arched over it. The walk up was difficult in the strong wind and I experienced a new phenomenon relating to the wind and my nostrils. This time it was all a little unpleasant as the wind caused the mucus to be sucked out of my nose and at one stage I was trying desperately to sever a foot long piece snot that was waiving about my face, one can be thankful that this was a solo walk. I was more pleased then ever when I got to the cairn of Stob Coire Sgriodain after two and a half hours and found myself yelling, above the wind, "Hello Munro 110" and gave the cairn a big hug. It is at times like this that the solitude of the mountains is a big advantage.

The weather deteriorated on the approach to Chno Dearg, I could barely stand up in the wind and literally got blown over twice. I did take some comfort from the fact that the wind was a lot warmer than the bitterly cold blasts that I had experienced at the beginning of May. On approaching the large summit cairn I had the sense that there was in fact two cairns. Looking at the map was very difficult so I pressed on with the compass bearing that I had taken in a previously more sheltered spot. The hood of my jacket would not stay still in the wind and was blowing at such an angle it was pulling on my right eye. After some further ten minutes of worrying about the two summit cairns I realised that it was merely a phenomenon caused by distortion of my right eyeball. On closing my right eye I could see I was heading to a single summit cairn which, on reaching, afforded some shelter where I enjoyed the relief of getting my head out of the firing line. I delayed my departure until seizing joints told me that the present luxury was going to be doubly paid for unless I started to make progress. As soon as I moved the wind whacked into me with as much force as before. On the descent it started to rain hard, I did not bother with my over trousers as awaiting me was a hotel room in the Grand Hotel Fort William and my first hot bath in over five weeks. I felt quite thirsty but did not feel like wrestling with my rucksack in the howling gale to retrieve my water bottle. I pressed on and my mouth began to feel very dry but I really did not want to take my rucksack off, in the end I hit on the idea of sucking the water from the tassel on the hood of my jacket. I managed to extract just enough water to wet the inside of the mouth and satisfy the immediate problems of thirst.

When I got to my room at the Grand Hotel the first thing I did, like a heroin addict being drawn to a needle, was to switch the TV on. Why oh why did I need to do this? Over five weeks without missing the thing one iota and as soon as I see one on it goes. After a long soak in the bath I put on some clean clothes and realised the extent of my weight loss, as my jeans were now very baggy.

I met with my friend Andy Baxter in the evening. I had trouble with the evening meal as I had been suffering from mouth ulcers for some time. This was probably caused by my eating too much chocolate to give me energy up the mountains. I resolved to eat more fruit. My dentist says that some people are more prone to them and that they are also stress related. He then volunteered the information that women are susceptible to them at the time of their periods. He then paused and reviewed what he said and, with a hint of experience, added "I expect that their husbands are prone at that time too."

Bothies Revisited

I had a lazy morning on June the 9th getting ready for my trip into the wilderness. I drove down the B8004 and B8005 and parked where the road ran out in the same place where I had parked with Willy and Mike the previous year before my first taste of bothy life. The road follows the shores of Loch Arkaig and as I drove I passed a stag paddling out in the loch, natural and peaceful with his environment.

I spent quite a while getting my stuff together before the fully laden walk into A'Chuil Bothy. The area where I parked was near Strathan and I remembered from my last visit here a tin shack all locked up. It is strange that I would have never been able to remember it myself but on seeing the shack I instantly recalled it. I later found out that it was the old school house serving the once local community. The walk to A'Chuil took just an hour and twenty minutes but I was pleased to get the pack off of my back. On arrival I felt an overwhelming sense of 'what have I done?' A sense of remorse hung over me. Bothies are great in a group but on your own the drab surroundings can dominate your mind. I think a prolonged period of solitude in one of these places could have you eyeing up the rafters. A tip for bothy life is to fill up your water bottles before arrival, this is because the streams near to the bothy are reported to have a high bacteria content. I'll leave you to work out why.

I thought that there would be a good chance of getting the bothy to myself, it being a week day evening. Although the solitude was depressing I did not fancy sharing space with strangers. During the course of the evening the numbers swelled to nine including a clan of kilted Scotsmen on a sponsored walk through the glens. These were real kilts, not your M&S look alike types. They also boasted a full clan flag which they held proudly as they marched, if you saw them marching in the distance you would truly believe that you were looking back in time. On unpacking their stuff they produced what could only be described as a mobile catering unit. They were really excellent as they got a good fire going, a task that I had failed in all afternoon. The evening passed pleasurably to the sound of their mouth organs. After I ate I decided that I would walk high up the stream to wash my cooking utensils. Here I was attacked by 633 airborne mosquito squadron on a mission to hound off the Sassenach spotted in the vicinity. Another animal that can spoil bothy life is mice. A tip that can be learnt painfully is that it is essential to hang all your gear up to avoid the attention of the resident bothy mouse.

I awoke at 0420, a time that I was well pleased with as it gave me ample time for the day ahead. The clansmen had spent part of the evening discussing who of them snored the loudest so any sleep was a bonus. I had my bothy breakfast of:

• A cup of tea
• A quarter of a cake
• Digestive biscuits

A bothy evening meal consists of a repeat breakfast plus pasta and a reconstituted meal.

I set off at 0550 thinking that I had plenty of time, indeed I did but the walk took me out on a long ridge taking in Sgurr nan Coireachan (which is a must for any Man from UNCLE fan) and Squrr Mor. These two Munros were the ones that I would have done with Mike and Willy the previous year if I had not been so exhausted carrying my rucksack. The ridge, being directly away from the bothy, caused a long day of ten and a half hours. Early on in the day I saw a fox, I had never seen one before in the highlands and soon after I came across a stag. We just stood for ages, not more than twenty feet a part, staring at each other. I started to speak to him saying that I was his friend and that I was not going to shoot him. You probably think that I am nuts but the solitude of the mountains changes you. Some city types might get pleasure out of murdering a defenceless animal in cold blood, I think if they lived in the mountains they would just realise that the cull is a necessity and not something to take direct pleasure from. This area is recognised as one of Europe's last great wildernesses - I hope that it stays that way and my friend, the stag, can live out his days in peace and his antlers will never adorn the walls of some city slickers house.

The ridge walk between the two Munros was great, the approach to the first Munro took in a few false summits so when the ridge finally opened out before me it was a welcome sight. From the first Munro to the second was well over three hours of ridge walk constantly away from the bothy. Willy had warned me of this but I did not quite appreciate it until I got to the second Munro and surveyed the journey back. The normal approach to a ridge walk is to start fairly central and traverse up to one end, walk along then cut back to the starting place. Due to the geography of the area this was not possible and hence the long day.

I tried a bit of a short cut on the way back by trying to miss out a raise in the ridge by traversing around it. This was a mistake as I painted myself into a few corners and had to heavily back track. The return trip allowed me to discover a new use for the trekking poles, this is to steady yourself when going to the toilet!

When, after some three further hours, I got to the bothy there was no company and the place looked depressing again. Later a Dutch chap arrived and proudly announced that he held some sort of internationally recognised record for snoring. We slept in separate rooms and I discovered he was not kidding for through feet thick stonewalls his pneumatic snoring could be heard.

During the evening I had put off and put off going to wash my cooking utensils in the stream. When I gave in and emerged from the bothy to do this chore I thought that I had avoided the midgies. However after just a few minutes word had got about and 633 mosquito squadron had been scrambled and were on a furious attack. Obviously some regrouping had gone on since the previous evenings attack and a detachment of the squadron had been deployed to fly into my ears. Little bastards.

Mr Pean

The following morning, June the 11th, I packed up my kit and set off for Glen Pean bothy. The walk from A'Chuil started on a good track, through trees, dwindling to a mudslide as I advanced up Glen Pean to its bothy. All the way I struggled with the weight of my pack, often just stopping to allow my body to catch up. With a sense of relief I approached the bothy and said hello to a chap hanging out his washing. He seemed very pleasant, little did I know that this guy was going to be quite an experience to talk with. He offered me a cup of tea which I readily accepted. I asked him where he had come from and he told me that he did not belong anywhere as he had dropped out of society in 1985 and had been on the road ever since. Most of his family had shunned him for his change in life style, as it might be a bad influence on their children.

He asked me what I was doing and I told him of my ambition to do the Munros. After listening intently he told me that I was wasting my time. 'I'm going to have fun with this guy' I thought. Still sipping the sweet tea, with my pack dumped, unopened, in the doorway he began to tell me more. Issues from his childhood that gave genuine reason for his adopted life style. One of the things that still angered him the most was that his brothers always gave him their opinions but would not listen to his. This was my first intimation of hypocrisy as he had given me his opinions on my choice of doing the Munros. He was very anti-capitalist and referred to money as a "false economy." I could see his point as I am fairly anti-capitalist myself but as we talked more he told me of his travels around the world - involving flying.

Just how would airlines function, or ever have existed, without money? You can imagine the cockpit PA announcement - "Hello Ladies and Gentlemen. First Officer Johnson here. We are now approaching Sydney airport and I would once again like to ask you to return to your seats, ensure that your seat belt is fastened and your seat back upright. Also that all luggage is either stowed under the seat in front of you or in the overhead lockers. By the way if you could all have your pigs and goats ready, as payment for this flight, then the cabin crew will be pleased to collect them upon landing."

I settled into the bothy and did my own thing for quite sometime. Sorting kit, checking maps. I felt he was a fine balance between my wish for solitude and a wish for company. Later we began to chat again, he told me that he hitchhiked about and he could sense that I felt that it was hypocritical to accept lifts off such a capitalist item as a motorcar. He justified it by saying "Well it is public transport isn't it, you are getting a lift off of a member of the public." I could imagine somebody picking him up in their brand new Rover 620 with optional leather interior and walnut dash then throwing him out within two miles as he slated the use of a tree to make their dashboard and a cow's rump to form the seat covers. However it was an experience to meet him and we sat very late into the evening talking over candlelight. He had strong beliefs in nature and said that he was anti books because you could learn more from a living tree than a dead one.

True but then I did notice he had a newspaper that he was reading.

He also believed that the education system is a conspiracy by the money makers to control people. He thought that forcing children to change classrooms after each lesson and bombarding them with the work ethic was just there so the money makers could use them in their adult life without them knowing they were being exploited. He said that if he had kids he would not teach them to read or write as this was not natural and more bad comes of it than good. This got me thinking that perhaps more bad does come of the ability to read and write than good. You need to let your mind go right back, as to not be able to read and write in today's society would be a serious disadvantage. Apparently the solitude of the last twelve years had given him these views, in 1985 he was just mixed up and knew that he had to get out. As I had previously mentioned he was not adverse to criticising my chosen life style and when I told him that I worked in computers he gleefully told me that he was looking forward to the possibility of meteor storm that would wipe out the world's computers, just how would modern airlines work without computers? I think his selective choosing of bits of the modern world were annoying to me. He said maths was just invented to manipulate. Now he had me going as I thought that he was trying to convince me that he was right about many things but maths is my home ground.

I said that maths could be used to prove most things; it's just a method of understanding nature. He started to slate Einstein's theories of relativity saying that it is just a man made theory and cannot be proven. So I said, "Imagine it was daylight and you were sitting at that window and I was outside looking in. Now imagine that I ran backwards at the speed of light and looked back at you. I would only ever see you as you were when I left you because I am going at the same pace as the light rays." He said, "That is only for you I could still move around, it is all relati..." I think after that he started to respect me much more and not see me as somebody to talk at. We started to talk more deeply well into the night. He made better points such as love is to give somebody your time, not your money. We also started to talk about the ills of modern society. He felt that we had lost the community spirit and that the way we led our lives out of close communities brought about many of our troubles. I basically agreed with this but added that communities of the past would normally reject a new comer, so it was not all roses and mutual support. I also told him about a little theory that I have which is that in centuries to come archaeologists would dig deep and find neighbourhood watch signs which would epitomise the woes of the late 20th century. Neighbourhood watch should be implicit like it used to be not as now where we have to invent it as a concept to patch up where we have gone wrong. During our conversations I wanted to ask him his name but I refrained as I felt that he might say that he did not believe in names as they were capitalist labelling to manipulate and control people - so I privately thought of him as Mr Pean, after the glen.

The following morning I awoke at 0530 to the sound of rain on the bothy roof. I half cursed myself for not having tackled the Munros when I arrived in clear weather on the previous day. I laid in my sleeping bag until 0800 when I could stand no more of the hard floor and got up. It was only when I stuck my head out that I realised that the weather was not so bad, the tin roof had amplified the noise of the rain. I set off at 0840, crossing the River Pean by way of some stepping-stones, into a day that was to be almost constant drizzle.

On starting the ascent I was desperate for a number twos but was aware that Mr Pean was watching me from the Perspex window of the bothy. I began to feel guilty, I felt that in some way he was watching my every move for some environmental slip that he could gleefully correct me on later. I kept looking back and he kept looking at me. I was desperate, the ascent was churning things about. There was no cover for a secluded dump. I looked back again and he was still there - motionless. I was far from motionless and I needed seclusion and five minutes of sheer heaven very quickly. Perhaps I am travelling at the speed of light I thought, and all I am seeing is his image when I left where in fact he is having a ball burning plastic, chopping down trees and spilling chemicals into the Pean. I looked ahead and all I could see was ascent and the refuge of the cloud line in the distance. I pressed on trying to hold it all together. Mr Pean had told me how he hated the type of people who walked into the hills without a plastic trowel with which to bury their faeces. He told me that he always made a point of digging down to the bedrock to reduce the environmental impact of his turds, well something like that - deep anyhow.

A group of hinds (female deer) heading high up into the coires distracted me, it is about this time of year that they give birth so they head for the seclusion of the high ground. It was a welcome diversion and soon after I made the cloud line and stumbled across some rocks that made a natural seat for the required job which gave me seclusion and five minutes of sheer heaven.

In total it took me about three hours to get to the top of the first Munro (Sgurr Thuilm) involving a last minute game of 'hunt the summit cairn in the cloud' to complete the climb. Then I had great difficulty finding the ridge path that would lead me to my second Munro of the day. Initially I headed south with the intention of then turning west to head along the ridge but I failed to find the path. I retraced my steps back to the summit cairn and this time took a bearing directly to the next peak on the ridge. I soon encountered an impassable sharp drop so turned east and still had no luck. I fumbled for ages in poor visibility and seriously began to consider that I should give up when suddenly I saw an iron fence post and remembered that I had once read that there were the remains of an old fence on this ridge. I was very pleased with myself for suddenly recalling, from nowhere, this snippet of information as normally things that I read do not stick. Therefore I was able to follow this and count off the minor summits until three hours later I reached the trig point marking the Munro of Sgurr Coireachan which shares the same name as the peak I had climbed two days previously. The only view that I got was at one point when I looked back along at the peaks and the dips of the ridge and noticed that clouds were hanging like cotton wool blankets in the troughs. I learnt from this days experience that on misty days you should only tackle pointed singletons not flat topped Murnos or ridge walks as navigation is difficult. Despite the weather I was quite elated as this completed the 50th Munro of this trip after forty-one days.

When I returned to the bothy the River Pean had risen to such an extent that the stepping-stones that I had used eight hours previously were now almost submerged. The rain that had hampered me on the high ground had flowed down the river and was now hampering me on the low ground. These stones had been put down some one hundred years before when the original house, now just a ruin, was deserted due to flooding and what is now the bothy was built on the opposite banks of the river. The bothy contained some notes on the history of the place. The last family living there had seven children, three of which were sons and were all lost in the First World War. This apparently broke the heart of the Shepherd father, Ewen Campbell and they left in the 1920's. The last family member died in 1986 and is known to be the last person ever to be born in the glen. Gone forever a way of life that had survived for century upon century.

In the evening, and the following morning, I continued my chat with Mr Pean. He told me that he did not believe that people should be able to live in the city for fifty one weeks a year then come to the country for a week because the city is made of stolen nature. I could see his point but I still fantasised about him being held hostage for five years with Margaret Thatcher in a Beriut dungeon.

It was Friday the 13th that I returned to civilisation. When I say civilisation I really mean one and a half hours of contemplation sat in my car, still parked miles up a minor road built to every contour of the terrain. Minor roads that lead to hydroelectric dams have been smoothed out but the others retain their original construction technique of laying the tarmac wherever the land was. The rear view mirror told no lies as I took stock of five days of facial hair growth and the effects of too much chocolate.

Given the superstitions of the day I decided that a Munro was not in order and instead a tearoom might be much more civilised. I decided to go in search of some lunch and came across a roadside tearoom come restaurant that appeared to be popular with coach parties. All the staff were stressed and the current coach party, mainly retired people spending their grey pound, were wolfing down their food to try and be ready for the off. The off probably being a visit to another tearoom operated by a close relative of the coach driver. Nobody was smiling, the staff were probably all on a minimum wage level. I realised what Mr Pean meant which is the education system encourages people to work so hard that they are bombarded and can not see the wood for the trees. Therefore the bosses do the same to the work force and nobody can see it. He called it a conspiracy. I think that it is just a sad indictment on modern day living.

After my lunch and some killing of time I drove to Loch Lochy Youth Hostel.

Loch Lochy Youth Hostel

Loch Lochy Youth Hostel was very pleasant with friendly staff and lots of homely touches about the place. I got chatting to a chap in my dormitory that had "retired" about ten years previously in his late thirties. He figured that his investments brought in about £100 a week so that was enough to survive on. He looked so relaxed that I could only admire his pluck for saying no to the modern world and doing it his way. Still his life must not be as quite complete as he would like because he was on a singles club trip up from Glasgow. Some of the party were booked into the hostel (not very optimistic in my opinion) others were in tents (kind of optimistic but could take a bit of persuasion) others had played the full optimist card and checked into a hotel.

After my day of rest June the 14th took in Gleouraich and Spidean Mialach. Good views were to be had of the Glen Shiel ridge, which I climbed back in 1992. This is where I took in seven Munros in a day and started my knee troubles in the process. The cloud was high therefore I could also see across to Squr na Ciche which was very pleasant to see from an alternate angle. It was a great ridge walk between the two and it was a delight to meet two chaps by the names of Geoffrey and James. They were frightfully nice chaps and definitely public school. I guess they were in their forties or fifties. Geoffrey was an accountant and James a barrister. They took a real interest in my walking and were very kind to me giving me a cup of tea and food when they brewed up. The amusing bit that sticks in my mind was that on the ridge between the two Munros James was looking back towards the first Munro and said "Looks like a big party up there." I said, "That is a singles club up from Glasgow." With that James came out with the following line, try and say it aloud with your best Terry-Thomas public school accent: "Your kidding. Geoffrey, Geoffrey did you hear what Steve just said there? That group of people up there on that peak, singles club up from Glasgow - what a hoot." That still cracks me up today, they were great guys and definitely some of the kindest people that I met whilst out walking.

June the 15th took in Gairich which was a bit of a haul. I think I was feeling tired and the initial leg was over boggy ground so I did not feel that I was making progress. The weather was fine with high cloud level. June the 16th took in Sgurr a' Mhaoraich. As the weather was so good I took lighter kit and wore my lighter boots so I got a real spurt on early in the walk. Boulders the size of houses had fallen on the ridge around to the summit. I hoped no more would choose to fall as I briskly walked by. I spent over an hour on the top taking in the superb views. Having time on my side meant that I now relaxed much more and enjoyed sitting at the top of mountains, it is all to easy to get to the top and set straight off again. I met two chaps at the top who both work for Strathclyde Police. One of them, Ian Maitland, knew Willy and was also a friend of Graham Munro who was killed on Buchaille Etive Mor.

June the 17th was a rest day. I gave an Aussie girl a ride from Loch Lochy Youth Hostel to Spean Bridge. She had been travelling for two years and had just decided to return to see her parents in the Snowy Mountains in Australia. After that I drove over to Kingussie for a much needed hair cut and then onto the independent hostel in Newtonmore.

Newtonmore

June the 18th saw me back in the mountains for the four in a day trip of Geal-Charn, A'Mharconaich, Beinn Udlamain and Sgairneach Mhor. I started at 0725 and got back to the car at 1550 so about an eight and a half hour round trip. It was wet and misty all day which made the going a bit miserable but the big advantage of this group of Munros is that you start so high up the Dalwhinnie pass that there is not so much climbing to be done. My main source of entertainment on the way up was the large number of grouse that I disturbed. The first summit was difficult to find because I was near the peak but started to look at the wrong part of my map and was therefore confused until I realised my mistake. I made rare use of my GPS to confirm my position, it told me where I was, I walked ten metres and there was the cairn. By pure luck I hit the second Munro on a compass bearing that I had taken. A good old fence between the second and third peaks made navigation much easier. The fourth I found with relative ease so I was quite pleased with my exploits in the mist. The mountains in this area are really grassy slopes with not too many rocky bits so they are the easier Munros. I had to use the compass a lot but the windy conditions combined with the walking poles meant that use of the compass was difficult due to the lack of hands. I dreamt of building a compass into the top of one of the walking poles. In the other I fantasised about being some form of Roger Moore character (as in terms of the actor not the verb) and having a built in microphone and being able to say "Ah Miss Money Penny." Eat your heart out Desmond LLewellyn.

The end of the walk involved a lengthy stretch along the A9. This is a very busy trunk road and I could not help but notice the vast quantities of rubbish. Cans, crisp packets, debris from car accidents and evidence associated with just about every conceivable bodily function apart from conception. I guess even the Japanese have not thought of a gadget to allow that to happen whilst travelling up the A9. The cars and lorries were throwing up masses of spray so it was a miserable return to my car where I then became part of the A9 processions that I had just been slating.

The private hostel in Newtonmore provided excellent facilities. I had the entire place to myself so was in quiet luxury. In the hostel was a Scottish Mountaineering Club (SMC) Journal for 1991. On page 702, under the list of accidents for 1990, it said:

May 7th - wearing Doc Marten boots and glissading from the Carn Mor Dearg Arete, Adrian Glover (23) lost control and cut his scalp on a rock. Lochaber MRT & Raf Wessex. 12 [man hours].

So my first Munro actually has a record against it in the SMC journal. Subsequently I wrote to the SMC and got a copy, sending it to Ady for Christmas. The SMC were generous in their interpretation of Ady's accident, a more appropriate description would have been:

May 7th - Proudly wearing Doc Marten boots and bum sliding from Carn Mor Dearg (which he impressively, yet mistakenly, described as the Arete), Adrian Glover (23) whilst completely out of control cut his scalp on a rock which was rather predictably at the end of the snow field he was bum sliding through. Lochaber MRT & Raf Wessex. 12 [man hours].

June the 19th saw me take in Geal Charn. It rained at first then cleared on top. A really massive cairn marked the summit. I saw a tiny lizard on the way up, I had never seen one in the wild before so it was great to see the little chap (or chapess) looking up at me.

June the 20th was a classic walk as it took in some inland cliffs. I started in the mist and reached Carn Liath, bringing my Munro tally to 125, one of my biggest aims of this trip. Then onto Stob Poite Coire Ardair and then to Creag Meagaidh thus bringing my total Munros to 127. Little did I know that circumstances would dictate that this would be the last Munro of the year. The approach to this third Munro goes past Mad Megs Cairn, a huge moss covered structure, which in poor weather could easily be mistaken for the summit. I saw a grouse on the way up and as ever it tried to lead me away from its young.

At the summit I met a gent and a lady acting as his paid guide. I had never come across this before in the mountains. They told me that the window between the second and third peaks was navigable so I descended to that and cut down the boulder slopes to the cliffs, which were quite spectacular. I had to pick my way carefully as one slip on the boulders would have meant I would have been a welcome victim to gravity. The cliffs over shadow Lochan a' Choire which has a breed of arctic fish still surviving from the ice age.

Back at the car I chatted with a guy who was travelling about in a yellow Bedford Rascal van. He sleeps in it and bought it with the money he got after he divorced his wife eleven years ago. I had met him when I set off and he had then said he would slow me down if we walked together. He got back a good one and a half hours before me having done the same walk. He initially was a bit ridiculing of my speed so I hit him with the asthma story, which shut him up. He was Scots in origin but had spent the last thirty years living in North Wales. His accent was very interesting and at one stage he came out with "Aye, Aye, yes indeed."

This was my last night in the Newtonmore Private Hostel and this time I was not alone as a really nice group of people were up from the YMCA in Edinburgh. We went out to a local pub and they would not let me buy a drink.

The End of 1997 Munroing

I left Newtonmore on the Saturday morning but not before booking three nights in a local hotel starting from the Sunday. I then drove down to Dunoon to see my friend Graham Disselduff who was up staying with his Mother. We had a good time and I was interested to see Dunoon as my Gramp, a submarine ASDEC and wireless operator, was stationed there, and in other Scottish bases, during the Second World War. My Gran tells of a story where one submarine was feared lost, it had been out on patrol and they had lost all contact with it and after a few days the base had resigned themselves to all hands having been lost. Then a friend of my Gran was pushing her child in a pram out on the edge of the water and in the distance a shape came into view and slowly the realisation dawned on her that it was the 'lost' submarine. It had been badly damaged by the enemy but had enough reserves to limp its way home under its own power, but out of wireless contact. I'd never wish peacetime away but there are certain wartime stories of bravery, humanity and gut determination that peacetime can never surpass.

On the Sunday I travelled back to Newtonmore and arrived at the hotel and enjoyed my evening meal in the bar. I eavesdropped on a late thirties couple talking to the barman, they were holidaying in Scotland for the first time having driven up to Fort William the day before and then onto Inverness and down to Newtonmore on this day. They obviously enjoyed the scenery but I sensed they would not be back, at least not for a long while. Scotland is usually cold and damp and like a grumpy old live-in relative the weather deters a visitor calling again. After two hours of driving with the wipers on intermittent the chances of getting out of your nice warm car for a stroll is about the same as a Scotsman supporting England when they play Germany. A tearoom or a trinket shop is about the limit and explains the vast number of them dotted about the Highlands. However if you are walking, in the drizzle, since the start of the day then you get a little wet then dry off you can be quite happy with it. Just the effort of vacating the car is all that it takes.

Later in the evening I phoned Gisella and immediately sensed that something was not quite right. She tried to hide it from me, to not spoil my trip, but soon she started to cry. The day before, whilst out in her car, she had had the misfortune to be in the path of a testosterone filled time bomb. He had lost control of his car and veered onto her side of the road spinning her car though one hundred and eighty degrees and depositing it on the kerb. She was lucky to escape serious physical injury or even death. I headed straight back home on the Monday morning.

So I returned to helping Gisella through a particularly painful time, a 'mountain' of paper work, seven weeks of junk mail, wearing shoes and driving in traffic. One morning I awoke at about 0300 needing the toilet and made a slight navigational error at the foot of our bed and turned left instead of right, Gisella came to to find me desperately looking for the bedroom door on completely the wrong side of the room, 62 new Munros navigated to in all conditions yes, finding the loo in the night no.

I noticed that I had lost quite a bit of weight, over a stone in fact, this must be the only sport where you can eat four mars bars a day and still lose weight. I also spent some time reflecting on my trip and concluded that I had noticed a change in attitude towards the Munros. Previously I found that admitting to doing the Munros was often a taboo subject with people climbing their soapboxes and telling you that peak bagging is a lesser form of enjoying the pleasures of the mountains. It is an attitude that irritated me because what suits one person does not always suit another. However during this trip I noticed it was a lot easier to be open about doing the Munros. This I found relaxing, I hate being amongst people where you cannot be yourself, in fact not being yourself is quite stressful, almost a lie to which you buy into and have to continue, watching out for slip ups in your act, for what? Just to fit in with others who are being themselves, opinionated and awkward. Obviously there are times in life when you have to behave differently, being in the pub or in the office requires contrasting behaviour but you can still be yourself - your pub self or your work self. But as soon as you are faced with a situation where you sense a person's reaction requires you to not be yourself the unease sets in. Perhaps being able to be more open about Munro bagging this year was more down to me than a change in other people. For some reason perhaps I felt what I was doing was less worthy than other walkers but a new confidence in saying "I am doing the Munros" halted a negative reaction from other people. Who knows? But it did mean that I enjoyed the trip that much more for it.

style="text-align: right">Munro Count: 127 out of 277