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2001 Pt 4

Ratagan again

Emerging into Glen Shiel I made a quick dash to Ratagan hostel to book in before they closed for the daytime. This allowed me use of the washing facilities that I was aware that I was in dire need of.

Route planning and kit checking, drying and cleaning absorbed the remainder of the day punctuated with an appalling nights sleep due to a very loud snorer. Nick, the warden, had previously told me a story of how he once had to expel somebody for hitting a snorer in the night. Fair play I'd say, they should have built a statue to the guy and allowed the rest of us to come and worship it as a shrine.

Grumbling to myself, and feeling terrible about running over and killing a bird, I started the ascent of A'Ghlas-bheinn and Beinn Fhada, also known as Ben Attow at a little before 0615. The initial path did not restrict the choice of which to do first, I fancied Beinn Fhada but changed my mind when I realised the route to A'Ghlas-bheinn was easier and from it I'd be able to spy the route up Beinn Fhada.

Some minor scrambly bits showed up along the way, coupled with a rock slipping beneath me causing me to nose dive, broken only by my left hand which punctured on sharp rock and started to bleed. Sitting quietly the pain started to ease and the blood clotted and I was off again, reaching the summit at 0900 where it promptly started to snow, but it was a minor milestone as this, my 63rd Munro of 2001 beating my 1997 record by one. Descending, now in full gortex kit, I picked the route up Beinn Fhada which I reached in just over a further three hours. Now there was glorious sunshine and my rucksack bulged as I shed outer garments.

I hoped that my request to move dorms would give me a better nights sleep. All was going well until 2315 I was thrust into consciousness by the door being flung open, the light turned on and three bullish men determined to talk, noisily sort kit and get on and off the bunks at least six times each.

My mood was not good and at 0100, with their snoring adding to my anger driven insomnia, I removed myself to the common room and camped out on a number of chairs. Grabbing a few hours I woke at 0430 and laid in waiting for the warden to open up at 0700 so I could recover my membership card and make the planned trip to Loch a' Bhraoin and the taking in of the three Munros Meall a' Chrasgaidh, Sgurr nan Clach Geala and Sgurr nan Each.

Starting off in glorious sun my mood improved and my tension was converted into pace. Passing an unusual two storeyed ruin, with a perfectly intact boat house, I made the summit of Meall a' Chrasgaidh in two hours, only being slightly confused by aiming for what I thought was the summit cairn which in fact was a large rock. To my left I could see how easily Sgurr Mor could be claimed but, although tempted, it would have been pointless as its top can be claimed as part of another walk involving other Munros.

Progressing on I claimed the second and third Munros in another hour then thirty nine minutes respectively. I really had the bit between my teeth and decided to extend the walk to claim a total of five Munros, the additional two being Sgurr Breac and A' Chailleach.

The weather, although clouding, held and I took in some marvelous views towards Torridon. On the summit of Sgur Breac I chatted with a chap that was doing what I was doing in reverse but intending to bivi out, he pointed out a ridge spur path which meant I could descend on the way back by a much faster route. Taking in the final Munro at about six and a half hours from the start I back tracked to the ridge spur and took the welcome easy path, given my exhausted state, back to Loch a' Bhraoin where quite a collection of cars had amassed.

Not having any accommodation booked I decided to camp, it looked like a nice night and I was desperate for just my own company. I get this from time to time, the bullish men in the dorm had thrown me out of sorts. Despite shyness I can be sociable but all my life I have had the need for my own peace and space. Going to a school which implicitly condoned bullying (being shy, quiet and not prepared to fight was seen by all and sundry as a great weakness) drove me to periods of just wanting to tuck myself away and be alone. Being confronted by bullish men was not a good reminder and drove me to my tent where I spent a happy and peaceful evening, exhausted yet pleased with the five Munros and being one day ahead of my notional finishing date of July the 14th. How the mountains must have laughed at me.

In the early hours of the morning the rain lashed down hard, buffeting my waterproof tent. A few hours later I was aware of a car starting. On retiring I had noticed that all cars had gone save for a modern Skoda (the sort that starts in the rain) and I can only assume that bivi man, who had directed me to the path off, had been defeated by the weather and made his way back to the preferable sanctuary of his Skoda.

Finally waking some hours later, and sticking my head out of the tent to ensure that indeed it was the Skoda that had gone and not some thief making off with my Toyota, I contemplated the low cloud and the four Munros ahead of me to complete the Munros of the Fannich Forest: Beinn Liath Mhor Fannaich, Sgurr Mor, Meall Gorm and An Coileachan.

A short drive to Loch Glascarnoch and I was walking a little before 0800 via paths along the rivers Abhainn an Torrain and Allt an Loch Sgeirich branching onto the north east slopes of the minor summit of Creag Dhubh Fannaich where rain and ferocious winds immediately altered the priority of the day. Gusts became so strong that often I had to turn my back to the south, the direction of the wind, and lean backwards and dig my trekking poles in front of me just to remain on my feet. Between the hardest of the gusts I made slow progress, often being blown sideways, just managing to regain my footing before the next onslaught of wind and rain. I started to look for quick exit routes, twice sheltering below rock piles and using my trekking poles, held aloft, to test the continued ferocity of the weather. I quickly resigned myself to not completing the four Munros but I had a resolve to gain the first, Beinn Liath Mhor Fannaich, in attempt to have made something of the day, even if the need to revisit the ridge made its gathering almost academic.

Forcing myself through the boulders I quickly realised that the best way to ensure progress was to jam my feet between rocks as each step was taken. In this way I was anchored, standing on any big slab just tossed me sideways. Pushing on I made the summit in three and a half hours from the start and took sanctuary in the north side of the cairn. Feeding myself was a slow process, it took me ages to remove and undo my pack, peeling wrappers required concentration and lifting the food to my mouth was with effort.

My gaiters had been troubling me for this entire trip; the toe covers kept peeling back and required brute force from thumb and fingers to hook them back over the toe of the boot. I could not manage it, my energy was sapped. Re-sealing my map case, a very simple operation, required a slow methodical approach. My mental capacity and coordination were slowing. A voice from within slowly fought through until I heard its chant. At first it tried to gently wake me with a whisper, 'hypothermia'. I heard but it did not register, it tried again, 'you are becoming hypothermic', and again 'remember the posters you've seen in every Youth Hostel describing the symptoms'. The voice repeated until I lifted my head from my knees. I forced myself to think, fleece and thick gloves. I extracted them from my pack, removed my gortex jacket and then the hailstorm struck. Stinging my exposed neck I forced myself into the fleece, fumbled back into my jacket and put on the gloves. I wanted off this mountain very quickly, and the wind was only too willing to help me. The mountains shoulder no responsibility.

Forcing down more food I figured an emergency route north would drop my height and I hoped for a path back. Each step was painful as it had been too cold to add Deep Heat to my knees but as I dropped my condition improved and the weather abated. In the distance I could see two walkers emerge on to the ridge. I headed for them, firstly to explain the situation above and secondly because it implied they had ascended on a path. Approaching them I asked,

"What route are you taking?"
"Doing the four," replied the middle aged chap of whom I could only make out a moustache.
"Err, it is very windy up there - I've turned back. Could not even stand up."
His female companion replied, "We've been out in all sorts this is okay."
"It is some of the worst conditions I've experienced," I added.

They continued on probably resolving to defy me beyond the point that they would have normally turned back on.

I made my way back to my car, three hours and very wet, bedraggled and unhappy that the mountains had, so quickly, reclaimed the bonus day they had handed my the day before. I rued having not fallen to the temptation of Sgurr Mor the day before, if I had claimed that single Munro the remaining two, lost today, could have been claimed in a much shorter walk.

Strath Faraway

The Strath Farrar hills had been bothering me for sometime. Mainly because the ridge of four Munros requires access from the glen road which, on a good day, is only open for nine hours.

Taking a lateral thinking view, and casting my eye northwards I noticed a route in from Strath Conon, twice as long but no time restrictions. So I headed for Strath Conon with a view to a second nights camping which coincided with the second night of heaviest rain so far this summer. Sat in my car for three hours in the driving rain, erecting as much of the tent as I could within its confines, I suddenly through caution to the wind (and rain) and put the damned thing up and got soaked. Impossible to cook I munched my way through a fruitcake as I laid in my sleeping bag.

At around 0500 I became aware of a break in the weather, I think the silence woke me. Cooking breakfast, last nights pot noodle, I surveyed the scene, dark heavy clouds looking on. I just managed to take the tent down and sit in the car before the rains came again. A long drawn out decision set me off for the Strath Farrar hills, having driven the sixteen miles up the single track glen road the night before forced me to have a go.

I made steady progress, passing through Inverchoran, waking every dog up, and branching onto the hill tracks. The tortuous route was beautiful, streams, Scots Pines and the lovely river that flows from Am Fiar loch. But where was the bridge? It was clearly marked on the map and when I exited the forest it should have been waiting for me on my right. My heart sank. So would I if I had tried to cross the river, wide and deep. A chance look to my left and like some old friend yelling "Cooey" there it was, within feet. Either the Ordnance Survey got it wrong or the forest has grown. I doubt they moved the bridge.

Once safely across I took the path alongside the Allt Coire Mhuillidh, picking my way along its eroded bank until the stream forked and I took an easterly route to try and gain Carn nan Gobhar, the first Munro of the day. Finding it quite easily, after four hours from the start, I questioned whether I was indeed at the summit. Heavy cloud, rain and wind thwarted any attempt to place it by a view. Taking the bearing for Sgurr na Ruaidhe the terrain did not make sense, a brief view did not help either. Back tracking to the summit I decided to continue south and confirm if I had indeed reached the top of Carn nan Gobhar, or not. Finding myself descending, and not tallying with the map, I began to consider if perhaps I was lost. Given that the definition of lost is that you don't know where you are then yes perhaps I was lost.

Another cloud break and I could make out clearly what was Sgurr a' Choire Ghlais. My plan was to bag Carn nan Gobhar, go east and get Sgurr na Ruaidhe, back track and retake Carn nan Gobhar then walk west and take in Sgurr a' Choire Ghlais and Sgurr Fhuar-thuil. A tortuous route but the path up from Strath Conon hit mid ridge, forcing back tracking. Seeing Sgurr a' Choire Ghlais I could work out that indeed I had just bagged Carn nan Gobhar so back tracking I worked my way to Sgurr na Ruaidhe, but now the wind and rain hit hard, arriving at Sgurr na Ruaidhe some two hours after making the ridge I knew that the third and fourth Munros were for another day. Any confirmation needed was supplied when I turned to face them and the hail that had been beating the back of my head now attacked my face.

The weather was not quite as bad as the previous day, but then the third and fourth Munros were much higher and I could see the cloud whizzing around them. Fully realising that the odds do apply to me I opted to turn back, taking a further three and a half hours with tired and very wet feet. Looking back towards the mountains I could see the ridge had cleared, but I made the right decision at the time.

When I was sat in my car at the start of the walk I could not face the soggy leather boots, despite the gaiters, of the previous day and instead used nice clean socks and my nice dry gortex boots. I rued this decision as they let water, had less grip on wet rock, and the lack of gaiters meant water flowed over the tops. Now sat in my car at the end of the day my socks dripped and, to try and dry them off, I closed them in my car window and used the air from the drive to attempt to dry them. I got some strange looks.

Demoralised, exhausted I drove from Strath Conon to Cannich with the view to attempting the final two Munros of the ridge the next day in the nine hour window that Strath Farrar is open.

Arriving at the locked gate at 0845, fifteen minutes before it was due to open, the gatekeeper appeared and let me through after I had sprayed the underside of my car with disinfectant.

After a thirteen mile drive up the glen I was walking before 0945 and was determined to make good progress through the cloud and rain to avoid any problems with the nine hour time slot. After a little over two hours, of following a good path, I was on the ridge and navigated myself through Sgurr Fhuar-thuill, the minor top of Creag Ghorm a' Bhealaich and over to the second Munro of the day, Sgurr a' Choire Ghlais where a double summit cairn and a trig point left me in no doubt of my location.

Returning the same route, over the minor top I met a late middle-aged couple who, though clearly experienced walkers, were a little uncertain of their location.

"Where do you think we are?" they asked.
I pointed to the map "just west of Creag Ghorm a' Bhealaich."

Then followed a few moments of them trying to convince me that I was still west of the first Munro. I was a little cautious in being forthright about my location; of course I could have been wrong myself.

"Well it took me an hour between the two Munros on my way east, and I have only been walking forty two minutes back."
"You've probably covered more ground than you think," added the lady whilst the guy nodded sagely and added.
"We are going east aren't we, we've left the compass in the car?"

As I continued west I re-encountered Sgurr Fhuar-thuill, thus proving me correct about my whereabouts, descended further west, after a bit of confusion as to the route through the socked in cloud and reached the original entry point of the ridge. For the hell of it I continued east and took in the minor top of Sgurr na Fearstaig. Tops are always optional when Munro bagging, just outlying rises of the same mountain (Munro) and I do them if they are close by and there is time; they are not part of being a 'Munroist.'

Heading back east, to the ridge entry point, I had a thought. Without a compass that couple may have made a mistake when coming off Sgurr Fhuar-thuill as I had required mine to keep me on track. Re-ascending I encountered the couple, clearly having navigated it successfully. I could see that they were split between a certain level of gratitude for my concern and a certain level of embarrassment for their original mistake of their whereabouts. As soon as I met them I turned and descended, they hung back.

Back at my car in a total of six hours I was pleased to be well within time but reflected that the entire ridge and the drive in and out would have been a bit tight for nine hours.

A one night stay at Loch Lochy Youth hostel was followed by a day of preparation for the arrival of my old work colleague and friend, John, on the overnight Caledonian Sleeper from London Euston to Fort William. Preparations mainly centred around bagging food for an intended seven days in the wilds of The Fisherfields and Knoydart.

I also made a decision in that my last Munro would be on July the 21st. Originally I had been aiming for the 14th but I was starting to realise that people needed to know an exact date to enable them to make plans to come and join me.

At 0943 on Saturday June 23rd the sleeper arrived bang on time at Fort William, a drive north, with a stop for lunch, brought us to Dundonnell and a good hour of distributing kit between our two packs in the blazing heat.

I had been worried about John's arrival, having completed all the Munros and three of the seven highest continental mountains in the world, I was concerned that he might take over a bit. But all was fine as all kit and plans were amicably spread around.

The three hour walk into Shenavall bothy was long, hot and very arduous. John informed me that he had been training by carrying his pack, full of National Geographic, around the streets near his house. "You bastard" I whispered as he left me standing. A good track became a path and I struggled with the ascents in the heat and was pleased when the bothy finally came into view, set back nestled into the mountains with a loch some mile or so before it. I was glad to shed the pack as my left hernia was very uncomfortable and I feared that I had perhaps made it worse.

I surveyed the bothy and noticed the traditional stinging nettles near to it. Stinging nettles and bothys are synonymous, urine has a high degree of nettles favourite nutrient, nitrate. But I assume some equilibrium is achieved when the nettles grow too high as those that bring the nettles on would not want to risk the product of their actions.

John wanted to camp and as it was a nice night I fancied that it would be preferable to the bothy, given John offered to put the tent up and confirmed that he did not snore I readily accepted.

I had my mind in neutral when John called, "I'll just show you how to assemble and light the stove." My heart sank. I'd managed to get away with erecting the tent and was hoping that a lit stove would duly follow. Twenty minutes later, after much joint fiddling, I finally managed to assemble it digging deep in the recesses of my memory of how Barbara's stove, a similar model, went together. John then showed me how to use his digital video camera, which was interesting and I was able to put the newfound skill to use when he went off for a number twos. Zooming in from a distance I gave a running commentary as I recorded him going from rock to rock looking for a suitable pitch, only stopping the camera when decency required.

Enjoying the late evening we watched walkers emerge from the mountains as late as 2130, heading for tents or bothy. John and I reflected on how long through the day this was and whether it was sensible. Twenty five and a half hours later two wet and very tired figures would emerge from the gloom and the rain making their way back to their own tent.

The morning started with a breakfast, a couple of comments about my choice of food, and a departure shortly before 0730. A river crossing took us to the foot of Beinn a' Chlaidheimh and a three hour slog up a very steep hillside in blistering heat. John commented on my use of walking poles, evidently he hated them with vengeance. My style of taking steps was also reserved no mercy.

A further two hours of a broad ridge took us to Sgurr Ban and the views just got better and better. The trekking poles continued to take a hammering to a point where I fancied rapping them around John's neck. At the summit a third walker joined us with poles.

"Poles useful?" I enquired.
"Ah yes" and the holder gave out a long list of their pluses, much the same list as I had spent the last five hours repeating to John, but from a new mouth some silence was bought.

It only took another hour to gain Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair and then a change of direction to the west took in Beinn Tarsuinn after a further one and a half hours. By this time my speed had improved and I noticed that John was beginning to tire, a return to the tent was possible but we both agreed to go on and take in the final two Munros of the Fisherfield's horseshoe: A' Mhaighdean and Rudh Stac Mor. By this time I was flying and I left John, and his constantly exploding bottom, behind me making the summit just before 1830 and the final summit, after some navigation, that I would not have cared for in the mist, at about 1930.

Here we picked the fastest descent route we could but, with John now faster again, it still took us a further three and a half hours of route marching to regain the tent, not after being rained on for the last hour. Too wet to cook outside we made use of the bothy to make our supper.

A long lie in, drying and packing of kit in the sun started us off at 1100 for a two hour walk to the highest point in the path that we took on the walk in on the Saturday. With full kit it was a struggle and I was glad to shed half the pack into my plastic bivi bag, dump it by a small loch and set forth for Sgurr Fiona, the first Munro of the greater mountain known as An Teallach.

The weather was good to us, John tried to humiliate my trekking poles but was starting to get the hint that he was needling me when I suggested,

"John I have an excellent idea for a cure for your rotten backside."
"What is that?"
"Well I have two ideas, one I plug it with a trekking pole, or two we claim a government grant to connect it up as a renewable energy resource."

Sgurr Fiona yielded at 1600 and then a walk traversing the magnificent pinnacles which loop around Loch Toll an Lochain with its magnificent chutes, sandstone and quartz buttresses and repeating triangular effects. As John broke for another video stop, breaking wind at the same time, I walked on and met a woman. We got chatting and enthused about the beauty of the mountain and I could not help but notice how beautiful she was. I said that I had now been walking for seven weeks and she had some nice words about my project. In awe of the mountain we fell silent. When John reappeared she made to leave.

"Nice to meet you," I said.
"You too," she quietly replied.

As she departed John raised his eyebrows and between the farting and the criticism he revealed his sensitive side,

"Would you have given her one then?"
"Don't," I replied.

Carrying on the ascent we made Bidein a' Ghlas Thuil and then a sharp descent to Loch Toll an Lochain, disturbing a herd of wild mountain goats as we did so, a return to our kit and the walk back to the car.

Knoydart

A meal in a hotel in Dundonnell was not followed by a stay for bed and breakfast at £60 each per night. Instead followed a drive to the Aultguish Inn, arriving at 2230, where bed and breakfast came to a bargain at just £16 each.

John, being quite white in colour, had been viciously attacked by biting insects and consequently spent ages in the bathroom removing ticks. Being dark skinned I tend to be spared their quest for blood. Finally exiting from the en-suite he announced,

"Think I've got them all, can you just check I got them all out of my arse?"
"Oh no," I replied.
"Won't take a second." And indeed when he dropped his pyjama trousers my glance was so brief that it did not take a second.
"None there," I announced.
"One of the bastards got the end of my penis."
"No way John, no way."

After a night where John's ability to fart found new levels, we drove to Kinloch Hourn and the four hour slog of a walk to Barrisdale, a remote, road free, hamlet of a few houses on the Knoydart peninsula and the best bothy I have ever visited - it had a flushing toilet.

Starting a little after 0715 we followed the path then the north east ridge to the summit of Ladhar Bheinn in just over four hours. I found the going tough, the ground appeared to glue my feet and John testing me with many questions to which I did not know the answer, dented my morale. I can only assume that the pile of National Geographic that he carried in his rucksack back at home, for training, were very well thumbed copies.

Having already completed the Munros this was a repeat for John.

"I am not sure what path me and Peter took last time," he said.
"All we have to do is look for the bits of paper with 'help me I am stuck in a quiz show' written on them," I replied.
"Oh, I thought you were enjoying it," he replied.

I could see that he was hurt and I regretted my remark. Although John, over the week, made many critical comments (on my walking style, how I blew my nose, my driving style, the height of my car head restraints, my use of trekking poles, how I buckled my rucksack, my diet, how I put food into my mouth) he is a very kind, interesting, knowledgeable and considerate man with infinite patience. We got over it and I was let off any further questions.

At the summit of Ladhar Bheinn we rested and John's prediction of a thunderstorm materialised and combined summit and my 36th birthday celebrations had to be quickly curtailed as we withdrew on the upward path.

The following day, June 28th, was a miserable and wet affair. Again starting at a little after 0715 we ascended the stalkers path to Mam Barrisdale and followed the ridge, in wind and rain, to Luinne Bheinn then the intricate ridge around to Meall Buidhe arriving some five and a half hours after the start. Not being able to see we descended further south to the safety of a long path back to Mam Barrisdale and then the bothy. The entire walk took eleven hours and we appreciated a drying wind in the evening but not the downpour on the walk back to the car the following day.

The extended dangers of Munro bagging became apparent on the drive out along the narrow roads. It all nearly came to a sharp end when the Post Bus hurled itself at us at high speed. Pulling my car to a halt John and I had a few moments of terror as the bus skidded across the road and parked itself nose first in the ditch. Getting out it became obvious that we were not going to be able to help push it out, it also became obvious that my left hernia was not prepared to allow extracting vehicles from ditches to be part of this trip and I was made to pay for it for a few hours with a deep ache in my lower abdomen.

Homing In

Having dropped John at Fort William station on the Friday evening I made my way to Glen Nevis Youth Hostel for a three night stay to take in the Grey Corries and Aonach Beag, leaving its neighbour, Aonach Mor, for July the 21st as my final Munro. I had chosen Aonach Mor as my final Munro because of its gondola cable car, that runs to a half way restaurant, would reduce the climb for anybody wanting to accompany me. I, of course, would have to start from the bottom.

My activities of the evening included trying to persuade a sixteen year old lad, who had just climbed Ben Nevis, that lager was not the best way to re-hydrate (whilst making excursions to refill his water bottle and purchase a mars bar to up his sugar levels) and miserably trying to explain to a Polish mathematician why we have separate hot and cold taps in the UK and not a simple mixer like the rest of the world, and that really there was no problem choosing between the one marked first degree burns and the other marked hypothermia.

Sat in my car on the last day of June at the head of Glen Nevis I surveyed the scene. Just after 0800 and a huge downpour, rain hammering on the roof and little enthusiasm for getting wet. With just fifteen Munros to go and twenty two days to do them in I did not feel the need to get out and get going. This was my second turn at being under motivated this morning, at breakfast I had been happy to be engaged in conversation with my Polish friend until "please, can you just explain this Armitage Shanks business one more time again?" got me heading for the hills.

Shortly before 0930 I made a start in a gap in the weather with the aim of doing Aonach Beag and the two Munros, of the four, on the west of the Grey Corries. Quickly I reviewed my plans and decided to take the four Grey Corries instead, the original plan was to do the most easterly two via a long walk in from the north, but I suddenly had it in me to bag them all in one go.

I started slowly, reaching Sgurr Choinnich Mor in just over three and a half hours with a body not in full agreement with my mental plans. Through the mist the only thing of interest was a flattened patch of grass where I assumed a deer had slept the previous night.

A further hour saw Stob Coire an Laoigh where I fed myself, took some paracetamol for my throat, Ibuprofen for my knees and clearing weather saw me flying across the longest section of the ridge. At one stage I found myself running, barely able to take note of the quartz lines in the rock, forming a badminton court kind of effect. With the weather clear, views all around I took my eyes off the map and made what I thought was the summit in exactly an hour. But then I became concerned, in the last few minutes the mist had come down and I was now unsure if I was truly at the summit or some earlier top. I tried the GPS, with low batteries it gave me an inconclusive reference. I carried on along the ridge and, by referring to the map, it became clear that I had reached the summit of Stob Choire Claurigh. Back tracking I descended the southerly route and the sharp rise to Stob Ban at a little after 1700 where it dawned on me how far I was from the car. Increasing my pace I dropped into the glen and started to power walk it back to my car in three and a half hours. Power walking? What on earth is that? Well I did not know myself until this evening but essentially it means you use the brain to move the legs far faster than the subconscious, and the body, would deem sensible.

This higher use of my brain set my chatterbox off, something that had been going from time to time on this last one hundred Munros stint. The chatterbox is a kind of affectionate term for that bit of the brain that mulls things over and has all those pretend arguments with people. The arguments that you originally lost outright but when nobody is around you win. The case was put across coherently and the other party just sat there and nodded and agreed with every point and conceded that in fact you had been completely right all along.

This time chatterbox was off about work, specifically politics and work. Throughout my career (if you can call refusing to climb the greasy ladder by back biting, manipulation and pure deviousness a career) I have been hampered by spending too much time knuckling down to make a project work whilst certain contemporaries would do very little and hey presto when the thing looks like working they have the ball off you quicker than Michael Owen and line themselves up for the glory.

This was a large reason why I went freelance eight years ago because I wanted to stay technical but it still rankles. Wanting to work on large projects for the emergency services means contracts that take three to four years where you cannot avoid the politics. Things came to a bit of a head for me over the previous year when I was told that I "lacked ambition" because I did not want to climb the corporate ladder and manage lots of people. "Well excuse me" I said (well not quite but chatterbox edited that in) "is not wanting to make this project work and make it a first class system for the UK police forces not an ambition?" It drew a blank at the time but today I had the bosses on their knees and me on some world stage as a visionary.

The wind clipped my face and I returned to the reality of the world I had decided to spend my summer in. Pushing myself on up the lonely glen, past the ruin of Steall, the water falls, I got back to the car a damp, bedraggled figure but knowing that at least I am true to myself - and happy.

The following day I took in Aonach Beag, being worried about accidentally bagging Aonach Mor, planned for my final Munro, I hit the ridge south east and ascended the two minor tops before approaching Aonach Beag. Still concerned, of wandering too far and ruining my final Munro plans, I used the GPS again in the mist and rain. After many minutes it asked me a question on its on screen display 'Select Country.' Well pardon me, this little beast cost me the best part of £200 as a device to tell me where I am and it wants to know which country I am in! I selected UK, Scotland (I was in a helpful mood) and, with a bit more ascent to the ridge, it finally conceded my location, safely saying Aonach Beag was just in front of me.

From the top I descended back towards the ruin of Steall, at the head of Glen Nevis, neglecting Deep Heat and Ibuprofen for my knees. I was soon made to pay for it with pain and stiffening forcing a stop for some medication.

Everything Abandoned

Monday July the 2nd brought another rest day and a move in location to the Aultguish Inn to tackle the remainder of the Fannichs and Ullapool hills and with it the revelation that I am always destined to be a loser where the weather is concerned. Blue skies and warm weather tempted my Beach Boys CD from its cover for the sticky three hour drive with every mountain showing off its summit, the only second perfect day for a month and both of them on enforced logistical rest days.

Although I did have a moment of fright on the drive as I witnessed the seemingly traditional sight of a Post Bus mounting the pavement whilst trying to enter a petrol station. A second glance revealed that the driver was the self same chap that had nearly taken John and I out the previous Friday. I made a mental note never to use a Post Bus and to buy a car with air bags before I head anywhere north of Fort William again.

On Tuesday July the 3rd I had another go at Seana Bhraigh, a remote Munro with approach terrain providing navigational difficulty due to lack of features and constant ascents and descents through peat bogs. In 1997 Ady Glover and I had failed to make the summit in a sixteen-hour epic adventure.

In my log I had put 'Sunny day only' against Seana Bhraigh as I realised that my best chance of the summit was to be able to see it. Letting myself out of the hotel at a little after 0600 I was walking at about 0645 and was pleased with the high cloud. All was going well as I ascended via Inverlael Forest then the long gentle slopes until the path petered out just beyond the Coire an Lochain Sgeirich whereupon I was in thick mist.

Taking an easterly bearing I paced myself until I hit the stream joining Loch a' Chadha Dheirg. From here things got very boggy with constant back tracking to find a route that did not require sinking to my knees. Actually sinking to my knees was high on my agenda, I felt that only having ten Munros left had turned me through a psychological barrier and I was all for slowing my pace.

In this boggy area I disturbed numerous frogs, like the deer it is an animal that I take great pleasure from seeing. With each footstep, carefully placed, frogs would leap in all directions - big ones, small ones and medium sized ones. I made a point of apologising to each one for my intrusion, even if I was likely to be the only person on the hill that day. Like the male deer the male frog has a curious mating habit which you kind of wonder about. After selecting a partner he jumps on her and hangs on for all his is worth, sometimes for days. Now, not wishing to downplay his passion to reproduce, there have been recorded instances of the female expiring and the male still hanging onto her decaying corpse. Personally I would have noticed myself.

On reaching the loch I continued east, following a feeder stream from a higher loch where I took a compass bearing direct for Seana Bhraigh. After what felt like an age I began to consider the possibility that I did not know where I was. The GPS proved inconclusive (it had me over the edge of one of the cliffs that protect Seana Bhraigh, and I simply could not recall making a fatal fall).

Munching some lunch I pondered the situation and decided that I would head south east as the ground looked as if it rose that way. And indeed it did and I reached a cairn at 1200. I was not convinced, with visibility down to just a few feet I reckoned that this was the 906m spot height on that map and not the 927m (3041 feet) of Seana Bhraigh. A closer study showed that if I went east and there was a cliff it would be the Munro, otherwise the 906m top. I soon was descending over easy ground so I turned back and regained the cairn knowing it now to be the 906m. Knowing my exact location allowed a bearing to be taken directly for Seana Bhraigh.

After about twenty minutes I was nowhere again, the ground began to drop in front of me and to my left. I guessed that I must have hit its south west flank so went north east and found the ground rising and with relief made the summit at a little after 1230.

A slog of a walk back to the car took over four hours, but I was glad that Seana Bhraigh was now bagged, it had been playing on my mind for awhile. I know that a bad workman blames his tools but I wondered if there was some inaccuracy in the Ordnance Survey map. I do make navigational errors but to mess this mountain up in 1997 to the point of being on the wrong summit and then to have so many troubles today left me wondering. An alternative piece of equipment to blame, other than myself, was my compass but that was unlikely as I had three with me, although I suppose I could have checked them all to see if one was right, one was wrong and whether the third would have told me which was which.

I woke at 0430 on July the 4th to a throbbing right toe, a long term ingrowing nail problem had re-materialised and it was swollen and puffy. With enough space to spare in my boots I was walking just after 0615 to take in the three Munros left in the Fannichs that I had previously abandoned due to the severe wind. The shortest route would have been from the Loch Glascarnoch side but I fancied the good stalkers path from the Loch a' Bhraoin side.

In thick cloud I made slow progress along the track, branching at a stream to ascend to the low point between the previously two bagged Munros of Meall a' Chrasgaidh and Sgurr nan Clach Geala. I was hoping to navigate to the small lochain there and then take in the minor top of Carn na Criche before the final ascent to the days first Munro, Sgurr Mor.

Navigating to high lochains is always difficult due to not being able to see them until you are above, anything else would defy the laws of physics. I made a mess of things and after some back and forth I suddenly found myself ascending eastwards, a stroke of luck as a check with the map indicated that this could only be in the direction of Carn na Criche. Thankful for my navigational error actually helping me I took in this top then Sgurr Mor at just under four hours from the start.

Descending I made another navigational error and found myself drifting towards the east ridge, soon correcting I dropped down the south ridge and navigated the final two Munros, Meall Gorm and An Coileachan in a total of just over six hours.

The route back was identical to the route in and I saved half an hour, this is often the case that descents are only slightly less than ascents.

Tired and weary I opened the car up and slumped in. Except for a brief few moments there was total mist all day, my left hernia was killing me, my big toe nail was mercilessly macheting its way down to the bone and to add insult muscular discomfort in my right shoulder was also having a grumbling day. However this walk did complete all the Munros that I had ever abandoned and all the remaining were new territory only.

The Last Few

Another bad nights sleep had me awake at 0430 but this time I needed to move from the Aultguish Inn around to Incheril (near Kinlochewe) for the ascent of Slioch.

I could not get my body motivated, aching all over I laid in the bath for an hour, read for a bit and was first down for breakfast at 0800. Feeling better for hot food I drove across and was walking before 0930, initially losing my way through the marshy ground that approaches Loch Maree. Once back on course I was fast, taking the paths I crossed the Abhainn Fhasaigh then the north followed by the north west ascent, in total mist. The path helped my navigation which had become a little rusty over the last few days. But I could not explain my pace, why this much faster? Then I thought about all the other times that I had been fast and realised a pattern, all after drives of at least an hour which probably means a combination of a good breakfast, a delay and therefore a late start. The 0600 kind of starts probably don't suit me but then I wake early and am normally keen to hit the hills to compensate for my general slowness.

It took me just over four hours to reach the trig point summit of Slioch, the guidebook said that the north top afforded a better view. Crossing to it I was disappointed as the same level of mist shrouded it as the trig point. Heading east I took in the minor top of Sgurr an Tuill Bhain before the southerly descent and the laborious walk back to the car, completing in just under eight hours.

Now with just the four most northerly Munros to do, before Anoach Mor near Fort William, I surveyed the map and realised that I might as well return to the Aultguish Inn. Finding a signal on my mobile I called and they stalled about room availability. "What about room 32?" I asked. "I suppose we could, but it is not serviced yet." "Well I checked out of it this morning, just pop a new towel in and I'll be over in an hour."

A rest day followed with a drive to Inchnadamph for an attempt on Ben More Asynt and Conival on Saturday the 7th. In time honoured tradition of my rest days the sky was blue and I slowly cooked in my car.

A night of camping put me ill at ease when a tree, in the wooded enclosure next to my pitch, fell. Never being that comfortable with rough camping, in case somebody decided to make my life difficult, it made me jump beyond belief. Tucked in my tent all sorts of thoughts went through my mind, a gang of bandits? A berserk axe murderer? Finally plucking up courage I went for an explore, and witnessed the beauty of the late evening light. The midges had kept me tent bound for a number of hours and the axe murderer did me a favour in getting me out of the tent.

Waking at 0530, still intact, I rued my luck for now it was pouring with rain. Lying in for a couple of hours, until the rain stopped was followed by a rapid tent packing as I was attacked by a multitude of midges.

I finally started walking, from Inchnadamph at a little after 0915, soon hitting thick cloud and the indeterminate approach to Conival. Again I was unhappy with my navigation, only sure to within half a mile of where I was. Trying to navigate on a bearing off such an indeterminate point is problematic and I wasted a good hour backtracking as long descents were off course. Seeing a couple of middle aged walkers approach me I thought I'd see if they knew the exact location. "Do you know where we are?" asked the chap. They were as lost as I was, his World War II compass swung about a bit but after a while we fathomed it out between us and I made the summit of Conival in four and a half hours with my new found companions Jim and Sarah. A further hour saw Ben More Asynt added to the list of climbed Munros and here we departed as I fancied going to look for a the wreckage of a World War II Wellington bomber that I had the grid reference for.

Whilst re-ascending Conival, the most convenient path back, I pulled myself onto a square boulder the size of a washing machine. Under my weight it tipped towards me and I had to leap in the air and forwards to prevent it crushing me. Fortunately it only did the one roll, I would not have wished to have been responsible for setting that down the mountain. Unfortunately it jarred my body and set my left hernia into serious grumble mode and made the muscular discomfort in my right shoulder scream out under the weight of my pack.

Demoralised I took a grid bearing to the Wellington Bomber. After a long march I hit water, any one of a number of lochs marked on the map but as the mist was so thick I could not make out its shape to determine which it was. For safety sake I took a west bearing to drop back towards Inchnadamph, completing the round trip in ten hours. I never did find the Wellington Bomber, I probably got as lost as its crew did all those years ago.

With only three left to do I had a bit of a lie in at the Inchnadamph Field Studies centre where I bedded for the night before the drive round to take in Ben Klibreck. What was supposed to be a straightforward Munro turned into another navigational nightmare which I could blame on another day of thick mist, but more in truth somewhere along the way I have taken my eye off the ball and ended up making a series of blunders.

The ascent went well, navigating to Loch na Glas-choille, then following the line of the fence rising to Loch nan Uan before the long pull to the summit, depicted by a standing trig point and the remains of a toppled derelict one. Trig points often get vandalised for keepsakes and I noticed one of the bits of metal from the fallen trig point was free. I picked it up and contemplated, and decided it belonged to the mountain so quietly hid it from view in its rightful place.

After food, Ibuprofen and Deep Heat I was ready for the off but was delayed by a sudden congregation, five people and a dog, in two separate parties, ascended on me and we had a good chat for about twenty minutes before I set off.

I think the navigation all went wrong on a piece of ridge half way down the steepest slope. Going too far south I dropped west onto wet peat covered ground where I promptly slipped and slid on my bum for about twenty feet. Picking myself up, very wet and dirty, I continued but unsure as to my location. Only after much marching west did I hit water which, by its shape, I determined was Loch na Glas-choille (Loch nan Uan was never found again) and kept west until I reached my car.

Penultimate Munro

For many years I always fancied Ben Hope as my final Munro, mainly because it is the most northerly and I like the name, hope is part of the meaning of life.

Hope was something I almost gave up on when the day started with a hiccup, waking early I laid in, breakfasted and was ready for the standard Youth Hostel 'getting your membership card back' time of 0700. Unfortunately I had failed to read a notice saying that the reception at Tongue Youth Hostel did not open until 0800 which differed from my handbook and every other Scottish Youth Hostel I have ever stayed in. I would not have been so bothered if I did not have plans to do Ben Hope and then the long drive across to John O'Groats. Also the night before the warden had pointed out the sign advertising their own 'Soup and Roll' whilst failing to point out the one that says he likes a lie in.

The walk up Ben Hope went well, starting alone the weather was good for the climb along a stream and then the long pull up the main slopes to the summit cairn and trig point where I was promptly deposited in cloud and cheated of a view. Not since June 25th had I really had a view from a Munro.

I was soon joined by a young couple who I lunched with and we jointly rued the lack of anything to look at but each other and cloud. They were impressed that I only had one Munro left and were happy to take a photograph of me. Before leaving they asked:

"Was that your car parked at the bottom?"
"The battered old Toyota?" I replied.
"Yes, we have parked next to it at Ben More Asynt, Ben Klibreck and now Ben Hope."
"I suppose these most northerly ones have a certain order" I replied. "But I guess you were surprised to see it at Ben Klibreck?"
"Why?" replied the girl. "Because it actually goes."

On the descent I soon noticed the weather clear, if only that damned warden could have slept in until 0900 I would have had a view. Bumping into a chap that I had seen the day before, at the summit of Ben Klibreck, I was greeted with "Just one left now?" which I confirmed. Then I came across three other guys that I had also seen the day before and received the same greeting. The 'news' appeared to have got up and down the hill as as I descended I bumped into a number of people that I had never met before who asked "Are you the guy with just one to go?" It was quite touching that I had generated an interest.

The drive along the North Coast of Scotland was nice, single track 'A' roads and beautiful coves. Noticing I was low on fuel I stopped at a roadside pump, like something I had dim memories of from childhood. Just pulling off the road and a guy would come and fill your car. I kept this guy talking allowing him to convince me that some garages charge extortionate prices, far greater than his 91.9p per litre, already 14p per litre higher than the prices in Fort William. Still this was not Fort William and I needed to keep him distracted from the hole in my filler pipe that was depositing petrol on that bit of tarmac at the side of the road that he optimistically referred to as his forecourt. Quickly paying by cash, something I had started to do to make quick getaways, I was off leaving him to survey the puddle.

Arriving in John O'Groats I booked a coach tour for the Orkneys for the next day then went in search of accommodation. First looking for John O'Groats Youth Hostel, I was just about on terms with them again, proved fruitless until I discovered it was three miles away at a place called Canisbay. Now call me Mr Picky but if you are advertising a Youth Hostel in the most north easterly part of mainland Britain then would it not be a good idea to actually put it there and not some few miles inland?

Parking, at the edge of the road, opposite the hostel I crossed and entered.

"Was that you that just parked opposite?" The middle aged female warden was trying her charm.
"Yes," I replied.
"Well there is parking around the back."
"I'm sure but I wanted to check you had a bed free tonight first."
"Yes I do, but please move your car right away."

Wandering out I realised that I was already on a wrong footing, I find this with certain people. I don't know if I go around with a big sign above my head saying 'please take out all your pathetic frustrations on me' but it certainly feels like it at times. Knowing I was not going to enjoy the stay I moved my car, back to John O'Groats.

Trying one B&B that advertised 'from £14.50' which normally refers to one family room where the baby is charged at £14.50 I was informed that there was no single but if I paid a surcharge I could have a double for £25. Not an extortionate price but with the foot and mouth disease Scotland was fairly empty and if I'd been the proprietor I'd have filled the rooms any old way and forgot about fining people for remaining single. I dislike the constant reminders that you get for being single, super market packaging 'for two,' awkward silences when you get invited on something and say "it will just be me coming." Whilst purchasing a bed side lamp earlier in the year, from a department store in Reading, I was greeted at the till with "Just the one lamp sir, do you want me to find the pair?" in that smug 'I'm in a relationship so I therefore assume everybody else is' kind of way.

Crossing the road I was greeted with a nice smile and a triple room for £20 and no supplement where I spent the remainder of the day double checking that I had indeed climbed 283 Munros, and noticing that the B&B opposite had its 'Vacancies' board up all evening. Okay, my mind does mumble and grumble on at times.

So followed some twelve days of pleasing myself, a genuine tourist in Scotland for once perhaps, taking a day trip to Orkney, a two day canoeing course and visiting various sites pending July the 21st.

It soon became apparent that, via Gisella's father Mike Storm, the press were taking some interest in my Munroing. I was copied articles from the Newbury Weekly News and an inaccurate article from the Wiltshire Gazette and Herald claiming I had severe adult asthma and overplayed my need for medical attention. However the short fame was fun.

Holidaying with ones parents at the age of thirty six could be seen as uncool, not since the age of sixteen had a family holiday been had so it was interesting when my Mum and Dad visited and we spent the two days together before the 21st. We had fun, walking to a bothy to make lunch, visiting Glen Roy and taking the train across Rannoch Mor. I found it strange having so much company, after two and a half months largely on my own having lengthy conversations was odd.

Walking On Air

Waking on the 21st, in the Spean Bridge Hotel, felt strange. I'd had weird dreams all night - my mind racing ahead for a conclusion of my twelve year adventure.

At the foot of Aonach Mor I met with Willy Newlands who had set off from Glasgow in the small hours; Alison Ashton and Adrian Ogden, both of who I met on the Cuillin Ridge course and their friend Kate Wilson who, as a threesome, humbled me by having driven up from Rotherham overnight. At a little after 0815 Gisella, who had driven up from Exeter the day before, waved us off.

We made good progress and it initially felt like any other walk, my mind not adjusting to what this was all about. At the top of the Gondola we rendezvoused with Gisella's parents and her Aunty who had come to wish me well and my Mum and Dad who were determined to walk the remaining 2000 feet with me. I had raised the subject of hernias with the others and how I'd be so grateful if they did not get mentioned. My Mum would not have been too happy to discover I had just walked ninety nine Munros with a double rupture. The others were okay and said they would not ask any embarrassing questions.

We made steady progress, my parents, unused to hill walking, needed a slower pace but I was pleased, and touched, that they wanted to do this with me even though it was clearly a struggle for them at times. The last major walk I would have done with them would have been as a youngster when they were a lot stronger than me. Now having spent the best part of three months walking and age has made a difference. But they were determined and made a consistent pace.

Willy went on ahead and took in Aonach Beag and returned across Aonach Mor just as we were arriving. I could see the cairn through the thick cloud and I started to feel very strange and slightly emotional. Every time I stopped the others stopped behind me and, after a few further moments, I went forward and to the bemused looks of a chap sat quietly, eating his sandwiches, I touched the cairn, became a Munroist, turned to the others and celebrated with hugs, champagne and photographs.

On the descent I was confused if the fact that Willy had gone ahead again meant that he had decided to go on back, having an appointment in Glasgow that evening. I ran after him and caught him at the Gondola Restaurant where we waited for the others and chatted to Gisella's family who had stayed for us.

On the final leg from the Gondola Restaurant to the car park I again walked with Willy. My parents now safely behind he asked,

"So how did you get the hernia Steve?"
"I did the splits on ice at Christmas, as simple as that. I did not know until the next day when I had a dull ache and a lump."
"What kind of lump?"
"You can see it through my track suit trousers." And with that I tilted back and pointed to the lump on my lower abdomen at the precise moment we passed under a gondola car with my Mum banging on the glass and waving.
"How are you going to explain that one Steve?"
"I have no idea Willy, no idea."

The final leg, and as we broke through the trees I could see Gisella waiting for me in the car park. Coming towards me I handed Willy my trekking poles and he understood the need to keep walking. She held me very tight and told me how proud she was of me as her voice cracked and we shared an emotional moment.

We all drifted back together and stood chatting until one by one people drifted off to go and get ready for the evening celebrations. With just me, Mum and Dad left a guy approached us.

"I'm having a problem with the sliding door of my camper van."
"Oh," I replied in a 'please ask somebody else' kind of way.
"It won't take a moment just needs to be held whilst I guide it back into the runner."

If alone I would have explained that a hernia and lifting are not always a good combination but with my Mum there I had no choice but to suffer ten minutes of discomfort. Perhaps I should have said, but I know that my Mum always worries a great deal over health issues and I did not wish to spoil the day by giving her something to worry about.

The Spean Bridge Hotel did us proud for an evening meal, with a separate room, we were all mellow and it was a lovely gentle occasion. I did not want to over celebrate and enjoyed the peaceful company.

Gisella asked me to make a speech and I simply read a piece of Hamish Brown's introduction to 'The Munros':

"Completing the Munros is apt to be a humbling experience, a poignant time with a layer of sadness below the icing on the celebratory cake. It has meant so much for so long. Only a succession of hills, but so much of life lies suddenly behind. Golden memories of brassy expectations, but it was worth every mile and every smile of the way."

And that was exactly how I felt.

Munro Count: 284 out of 284