Doodlecat.com

2001

100 to Go

The alert reader may wonder if I had deliberately got my Munro count down to 100 left. Who would I be to disappoint? For a couple of years I had been considering rounding the Munro count down to a final 100 then contacting the National Asthma Campaign to see if they would like me to try and use the completion of the Munros in one season as a vehicle to raise money.

In the autumn of 2000 I was faced with the reality of the position I had striven to get myself into. The flirtation with the dream was now over and that mindset could be relegated and the new one, dealing with the reality, brought into play. Immediately I was debating whether this charity idea was a good idea or not. I had many fears about exploring such an avenue. I analysed them hard and concluded my biggest fear was pushing myself out there and putting myself on display and vulnerable. I started to pull back, fear of possible publicity, what if I failed? How embarrassing. I gathered courage and contacted the National Asthma Campaign. And so ensued a period of sending begging letters to the rich and famous, to companies, a radio interview with BBC Wiltshire Sound, setting up a WEB site, providing information for newsletters etc. I was delighted when I received sponsorships off the former prime minister John Major, David Hempleman-Adams and Sir Jimmy Savile. The cheque from John Major, president of The National Asthma Campaign, was the first to arrive and, on opening the envelope, I could not believe that somebody in his position would be able to find the time to sponsor me. It was a real boost and I wandered from room to room in my house rereading the letter, looking at the cheque from him and Norma, whilst uttering "blimey."

As other sponsorship arrived I began to feel the pressure, I have to do it now. The only thing that could stop me was some form of physical injury, or so I thought. Drifting off to the Radio 4 midnight news one evening in February I barely took notice of the report on the outbreak of foot and mouth disease. Even the swift closure of all the footpaths in and around Great Bedwyn did not alert me to the possibility of my walk being in serious jeopardy.

Preparations

Slowly the reality dawned that my ambitions could be curtailed. In a sense it came as a relief, the pressure was off and I would not be away from my home and friends for three months. The effects of falling over on snow and ice at Christmas would not be the cause of my failing. I had done the splits whilst crossing the railway line near my house, I thought nothing of it until the dull ache the following morning, the mysterious lump on my lower abdomen, the visit to the doctor, the embarrassment of removing clothing just managing to keep my underpants above my bits and the lady doctor telling me that I had indeed ruptured myself.

At the beginning of April I went to see a surgeon, this time modesty was given no mercy. I was on my back, the trick of underpants slightly down was overlooked as the next thing I knew they were by my knees as the entire area was inspected. I was hoping for better news as by this time Scotland was starting to open up. "We will have to get that stitched up this year," said the surgeon. "I'm going on a walk for three months." I was waiting for his notice of cancellation but "that is okay I could not fit you in before the end of August anyhow, we will get that one stitched up then and the one the other side you can come and see me about next year."

My heart was low as I left Savernake Hospital, Scotland still quite closed off but not to an extent that I could abandon the walk without at least starting, two dodgy knees, asthma and now a double hernia. The odds were against me and I had not even yet set foot in the Highlands.

April became frantic, living alone there was so much to prepare, ensuring all bills were covered and that anything that would need my attention, whilst away, had been dealt with. Things to buy, and the revelation that maybe I should purchase the most dreaded of items a mobile phone. My friend, Anne Snow, had mentioned a number of times that she was concerned about me disappearing and that perhaps a mobile phone would be useful. Also I fancied buying a small hand held computer to keep notes on as I went along and to also be able to email from. A visit to Carphone Warehouse, in Newbury, propelled me into the 21st century yet vowing to bury the mobile phone under the summit cairn of my final Munro.

Normally when going to Scotland I choose which Munros to do before setting off. My original intention was that this year would be different as there was no need to plan as I intended to finish them. I'd just start from the South and work up with the diversion of a booked course for the notorious Cuillin Ridge. However the foot and mouth disease spoilt my intention not to plan and after scouring the Internet I discovered the handful of the remaining hundred that were currently open ensuring a more dog legged approach to the trip. This threw in to touch my mad scheme of possibly not taking my car and instead mountain bike between the mountains. This would have been a single continuous journey where the scope for varying the walks would be slim. With a car the mountains to be climbed can be varied daily based on factors such as weather, physical condition, state of mind and, of course, whether foot and mouth disease prevented access.

The Off

Setting off on May the 1st was difficult, I had received a large number of good luck messages and felt homesick before I left. My next door neighbour, Kaye, and her six year old daughter, Katherine, banged on their window and waved as I set off at just before 0700. Previously they had given me Munro the sheep, a hand sized mascot for the walk. The drive went well including a revelation on the M40. It suddenly hit me how much I was enjoying living in Great Bedwyn and that perhaps, previously, the Munros, were escapism.

Making good progress, despite a number of foot and mouth disinfectant mats to drive over (mainly dry beds of straw with guys in a Portakabin watching the telly), I arrived in Glen Coe and decided that the impersonal nature of the local Youth Hostel did not suit and instead I'd try camping in Glen Etive. Driving through Glen Etive I passed two cyclists, one of which I felt looked familiar. Little did I know that this chap was to come to my aid the next day and may even have saved my life.

On finding a suitable pitch I got out of my car to the chill air, promptly got in again and drove to Glen Coe Youth Hostel where I had a lonely evening not knowing what lay ahead of me in the following months. Would I be home within a week or so? Or would I actually do it? My barriers were many, access restrictions, health and the natural deadline of the "Glorious 12th" of August (not so glorious for the wildlife) where getting shot is a good reason not to venture into the wilds.

Troubled Start

Therefore May the 2nd was to be the start of my 'Last 100 Munros Challenge' where I aimed to take in Stob Coire Sgreamhach and Stob Coire Raineach. I set off at about 0830 making reasonable progress given that I had elected to take the option of getting fit on the expedition which is another term for doing absolutely no training whatsoever. Passing some waterfalls I became aware of the forgotten dangers as the drops were severe and I had to tread carefully to keep safe whilst pulling myself up into the hidden valley.

I was distracted by a new piece of equipment strapped to my rucksack, an ice axe. Previously I had always managed to avoid serious incident on snow but this trip something nagged at me, coupled with an email from a friend warning of snow on the high ground I invested £60 in an ice axe. At about the 2600 feet point I was thankful as I encountered a snow field stretching into the oblivion of the mist. I swapped my trekking poles for the axe and embarked into a new experience breaking my long standing rule of never stepping onto snow unless I could see the other side.

Initially all went well, the gradient was forgiving and the snow soft. Gripping the axe across my chest I made progress but slowly the gradient sharpened and the snow got colder. I saw a small stone sunk about eighteen inches, its own heat unmasking it. I was now digging in, away to my left I could hear the clatter of snow breaking away. I stopped dead, could this thing avalanche? I started to panic and looked down between my legs and realised just how steep the ground was. Two other walkers were ice axing there way up. I was now climbing on all fours with the axe connecting both hands. The other two slowly reached me and the first chap asked, "Do you want me to lead for a bit?" It then struck me that they were following my footsteps, using my cutting in. They went around me and I was glad to follow but slowly I started to lose them in the distance and suddenly I was stuck. With every movement I started to slip back down the abyss of my ascent. Shakes replaced composure and I started to panic as the fall would have been very long and the snow slope ended with a good drop. I cursed myself for having broken my own rule of never stepping onto snow unless I could see the other side. I rejected the last remnants of male pride and called ahead "I'm struggling." "Dig your toes in much further and sink the shaft of your axe to the hilt before each movement" came the reply. I did and slowly I made progress just averting the panic. The pulling on my body tugged at my right hernia and the pain made me feel even more miserable. A small corridor led me to the ridge to a rendezvous with Keith and Ken. Keith and I looked at each other and remembered that we had met at Loch Ossian Youth Hostel the previous year, also these two chaps were the cyclists that I had seen in Glen Etive the previous day. We continued east along the ridge and made Stob Coire Sgreamach at 1240. I had to push myself as Ken and Keith were very quick and I was frightened of losing them as I had by then realised that my safe descent depended on their good will. Any hope of Stob Coire Raineach was out and Ken and Keith said that the safest route back was via Bidean nam Bian - a repeat Munro for me.

Before setting off I considered taking the traditional summit photograph but decided that it was too cold to extract the camera - no longer did I need to log every summit with a photograph. Ken asked me if I were a student, I thanked him for the compliment and informed him that I was 35.

The walk to Bidean nam Bian was tough, trying to keep pace with my guides ached my body. Fitting new gaiters the night before had detached the flesh from the edges of my finger nails and now each digit smarted with the cold. Keith dropped to my pace and realised that I was out of my depth and said he had had similar experiences on 4000m peaks in the Alps.

One stretch took us over a narrow snow covered ridge with sharp drops either side. I held my composure and just followed Ken's footprints, focusing my eyes on no more than each boot print. On the summit of Bidean I considered another photograph but realised that this would merely have been to impress people with the snow covered mountain top in a place I had no right to be. Following Ken and Keith I thought I was now home and dry but slowly the descent ridge narrowed until we were on a spur, with Ken well ahead Keith took care of my every step. I was panicking, not only was the ridge narrow, pointing downwards it also cambered to my left to a sharp drop. To my right was an even sharper drop with snow cornices teasing me as I sunk my axe into snow sitting on thin air. With nervous jitters I pulled the axe closer to my body where I could sink it through snow sat on terra firma.

I started to panic, with every slight movement I felt I'd slip to my death. Terrified I sat down, the worst thing I could have done as raising myself was a dangerous act as the sudden shift in my centre of gravity could have been the end. "Reverse down and remember to sink your axe to the hilt and don't move your foot until both are well dug in." I followed the advice and slowly got to Ken who had by this time rendezvoused with another walker, a young chap by the name of Ben. He had home made crampons, two pieces of wood strapped to his feet with roofing bolts sunk through as grips. "Do you want my second axe?" he enquired. A wonderfully kind gesture as I could now sink both axes, something I realised that was essential as I saw Ken in the distance lower himself vertically off the ridge and descended with an axe in each hand. "We've got to do that?" I exclaimed. "You'll be okay," replied Keith. First off the ridge was Keith and I followed, backwards, nearly vertical sinking each axe. I was terrified and all I could think of was my friend Anne's last words to me "Steve, please don't take any unnecessary risks." This was by far an unnecessary risk.

Keith and Ben talked me through it until we hit easier slopes where I could go front ways. Ben kept my spirits up by talking of the kit he made for the mountains, his crampons were just one of a number of hand fabricated items. As the gradient dropped my spirits rose and I even managed to respond to Ben's comment that "his gloves were so thick it made the handling of small delicate objects difficult" with a rather predictable "so you never go for a wee in the mountains then?"

At the end of the snow slope my bottle went again, each piece of exposed ground freaked me and I was glad to reach my car at around 1700, soaked from the rain that had poured on the lower slopes and aching from a couple of tumbles that I had taken. Keith told me that this was one of the record years for snow in Scotland. Referring to it as a "bumper year" I understood the difference in our emphasis. Snow covered tops could hit my Munro attempts hard, I sat in my car sad, demoralised and missing home.

May the 3rd was an improvement taking in one of the most accessible Munros of the remaining hundred, Stob Coire Raineach. I was too tired to make good time reaching its summit in just under three hours after a reasonably uneventful ascent. The weather was excellent and the only snowfield took no more than a few minutes to cross. From the summit I could see what I had taken in the day before, from a great distance it looked hazardous and the memories were of the same conclusion.

I tried my mobile phone for a signal, full strength so I called my Mum and gave her a shock when I said I was on top of a mountain. I also collected a voice message that was left by my commuter friends that morning on the 0705 from Great Bedwyn. It was lovely to hear from them and, the instigator of this act, Mandy Thomas' mobile phone had been passed around and an array of people had wished me well.

On the descent my knee problems returned with vengeance, this was not good and I spent many a moment pondering how this was going to curtail my trip.

Snow Still With Me

I woke early on May the 4th and decided to have a crack at the four remaining Munros in the Mamores grouping, these being Sgurr Eilde Mor, Binnein Beag, Binnein Mor and Na Gruagaichean. I let myself out of the hostel really early and drove round to Kinlochleven and was walking through steep wooded ground as the sun poked its head over the horizon. My initial progress was good, driven on by slowness of the previous two days and an extra dose of asthma drugs.

I knew that to do all four would be a major challenge and set myself a target that I needed to be on Sgurr Eilde Mor by noon and Binnein Beag by 1400. In the event my timings were 1114 and 1346 respectively but by then I realised that the third and fourth Munros were not to be. The amount of snow on them and my physical state relegated them to another day and me to a long walk out along lower ground. I was not unduly disappointed by this as I had managed to claim Binnein Beag which is quite a remote Munro, seven hours into the walk.

The decision about the snow being too great on Binnein Mor and Na Gruagaichean was fuelled by the amount of snow on Sgurr Eilde Mor. I had a few worried moments ice axing my way across snow that was quite frozen, even with the ice axe tied to my wrist, fabricated from a rucksack strap. Passing the lochain below its slopes should have warned me because there was still sheet ice on it.

The blessing for the day was the weather, just a few snow, hail and rain moments but mainly there were clear skies and a good cool breeze. The downside were knees and hunger. Descending, the trekking poles became crutches and the lack of energy had me, at times, feeling miserable. I had tried to build my weight up over the last few months but I had failed and whatever I stuck in my mouth my body refused to seek sufficient sustenance from.

Going Wild

Saturday May the 5th was a day of relative luxury, the lack of privacy in Glen Coe hostel drove me to a single room, with en-suite, in the Grand Hotel Fort William where a card in the room proudly announced that Maggie and Marion had serviced it for me.

Taking a day off from walking meant that my timetable was more conducive to hotel than hostel life but did not mean that the time was idly spent. I knew by now that doing the last 100 was in serious doubt but I was determined that I would give it the best crack that I could and decided on planning a walk into Culra Bothy to pick off the nine Munros in the vicinity. I plumped for this option as the area was one of the few places now open following the foot and mouth scare and the mountains could largely be approached from a southerly angle with the hope that this would reduce the amount of snow that I had to cross.

In all I spent about twelve hours in preparation, plotting the route, buying food, checking and packing kit. Rationing is an important part of planning a wilderness trip as it is all too easy to eat all your food within the first few days with a disregard for the amount of food required for the rest of the stay. Therefore I broke each meal down into a separate sandwich bag to be opened at the relevant time. At this point I would like to apologise to Maggie and Marion for all the bits of macaroni that missed their intended target.

With a full pack deposited in the back of my car the post breakfast job was to drive around to Dalwhinnie and walk into Culra Bothy. The walk took four and a half hours on a well made up track through the Alder Estate. The sun was out and the smell of the pine trees played a flirtation with my senses. My eyes were treated to a gorgeous day, Ben Alder in the distance, the sun glinting on Loch Ericht and a number of well kept estate residences with turreted corners making them look like haunted castles from a Scooby Doo set, on saying 'Ah Scooby' to myself for the third time I let the matter drop.

I struggled with the weight of the pack, often stopping to catch my breath. Not being able to justify the extra weight of water I carried my bottle empty, only filling it to drink from immediately. With my left hernia giving me fair notice of its mood I was glad when the bothy came into view.

Culra Bothy was set amongst a city of tents, presumably finding confidence in the vicinity of the bothy whilst maintaining privacy and enjoying the extra day of the bank holiday weekend.

The evening whiled away in typical bothy fashion with a group of inhabitants swapping stories and trying to impress the only girl amongst them. Three bald men protested that their follicle challenged status was due to excessive testosterone, leaving the obvious hanging that they would be a good lay. Feeling that they had not convinced her that her future, well at least one evening, lay with any of them they embarked in a points scoring conversation on high speed driving.

"Penrith to York in under an hour."
"Never, not in under an hour."
"Under an hour," nodded the claimant.
"Still would not have done that before March, still had six points on my license. Never drive above eighty with six points on the license."
"It would be rude not to break the speed limit on the M74."
"Never drive above eighty with six points on the license."
"It would be rude not to break the speed limit on the M74."
"I once did York to Walton-On-Thames in two hours forty five."
"I once did York to Walton-On-Thames in two hours forty five."
"I once did York to Walton-On-Thames in two hours forty five."
"I don't know where Walton-On-Thames is."

I slipped off to sleep to their tales of heroism on the roads of the British Isles figuring that it must be due to excessive testosterone whilst missing the company of my female friends but not in the sense that they viewed female company.

I woke in the early hours, the fire was out and only one person remained - fast asleep. I was freezing, I had neglected to bring my bivi bag and was now paying the price and was rapidly reassessing my last thought before sleep. A clear sky, although welcome for walking the next day, had left the way open for a sharp drop in temperature. I got little additional sleep and was up and walking at about a quarter to six. On emerging from the bothy I could see that most of the tents were iced up and the wood and chain bridge across the Allt a Chaoil-reidhe stream was very slippy and I had to take great care to avoid an early dunking.

My first target was Beinn Bheoil which I reached at 0825 after failing to locate the obvious path up. The light was beautiful and I rued the decision not to bring a camera, I was desperately trying to reduce the weight of the pack on the walk in. Looking across to the mighty Ben Alder, my next challenge, I heard the rumble of avalanching and was pleased that I was opting to walk well beyond Beinn Bheoil to be able to tackle Ben Alder from the south. The going was slow through manageable snow with fantastic views of a winding cornice, I wish I had brought the camera. I convinced myself that Ben Alder must have been designed by committee as it has every attribute that a mountain could have: sheer faces, a side with a gentle run off, multiple buttresses, a high plateau and a trig point. The summit was gained in a little under three hours from leaving Beinn Bheoil where I rested for around an hour, admiring the decrepit trig point and seeing if my mobile phone had a signal. Indeed it did and I composed an email to a group of people, saying hello from 3800 foot. Half way through I was joined by a young chap and we had the standard conversation of "How long are you up for?" "What route are you taking?" He had taken an interesting entrance by canoeing up Loch Ericht from Dalwhinnie. I continued with the emailing and he bid me farewell, as I watched him depart I noticed he was wearing ski boots and I wondered how difficult they would have been to climb in. As my mobile then refused to give me a signal, and I gave up the idea of an email going as far as friends in France, Chile, USA, Canada and Australia, I looked to where the ski booted chap would be walking only to see him skiing off into the distance. I think that put any ideas of my cool attempt at an email into touch.

I descended into the Bealach Dubh via easy snowfields, taking excessive care then going flying as soon as I stood on grass. This was due to the tread on my boots being full of snow, I soon learnt the technique of tapping the ice and snow off my boots each time I walked onto grass. This reminded me of my last attempt at go-karting. On the second bend I dived up the inside of a work colleague, he shut the door and I was on the grass involving a route through a deep puddle. Back on the track I was last and hammered it into the next corner, turned and braked on the apex - nothing happened and I ploughed straight into the tyre wall. I had failed to dry the slick tyres or the brakes and had to sit, arms folded, waiting for the humiliation of the marshal to rescue me.

On the descent I noticed lots of dead beetles amongst the snow and soon realised that they were always in the vicinity of revealed grass and I concluded that the poor creatures must hatch, make there way into the big world on the snow, blink twice, and then promptly die.

I considered taking in the ridge to the north of the Bealach Dubh with its fours Munros. But I was glad that I did not because on the way out both of my knees locked up and I had about fifteen minutes of trying to get them moving again. In addition I sensed a sore throat was coming on, something that I have periodically suffered from over the last three years.

I reached the bothy at 1520 to find the tent city having dwindled to one and the bothy deserted.

Snow On The Hill

Determined to make use of the beautiful weather I made another early start on May the 8th tackling the steep slopes from the bothy to Carn Dearg. From here I aimed to descend into the Diollaid a Chairn and then take the narrow ridge to Geal-Charn then walk on over to Aonach Beag and Beinn Eibhinn. The plan started to dwindle as I noticed the amount of snow on the obvious ridge up, the next best alternative ascended via a very narrow face that even the experienced writers of guide books saw fit to mention.

Demoralised I reviewed the options and decided that my best hope to complete this ridge was to descend all the way into the path from the bothy to Bealach Dubh (the very path I exited Ben Alder from the previous day) and climb Beinn Eibhinn from its southerly flanks and then pick off the two central Munros of the ridge from that angle. Therefore descending from Carn Dearg was a weary job as I knew a long day was about to become a very long day. Plotting my route, disturbing a fox as I did so, I reached the path then the long haul up via Bealach Dubh until the high point and the views ahead to Loch Ossian and to my right, Beinn Eibhinn. Looking to the ground around me I discovered the ancient, mangled, remains of an aircraft. It must have come down with quite a bump as the remaining pieces were scattered widely and very badly torn. I surmised that it was probably a relic of the Second World War. Many such wrecks lie throughout The Highlands as testimony to that era.

I found the climb to Beinn Eibhinn very slow, with many false summits teasing me into relaxation only to throw another hurdle at me moments before I thought I had it bagged. After some four and a half hours, from leaving Carn Dearg, I reached the summit ridge, tired and finding each step was requiring thought to prevent myself twisting over with tiredness. I became conscious of my under-nourishment - I could not get rid of the hunger; my day's ration already munched, I eyed my emergency supply.

The ridge had easy snow on a gradient that would not involve a fatal slip so I was comfortable following the imprints of previous walkers as I made the gentle rise to the summit cairn. A good set of prints were to my right and I started to drift towards them and at the last moment my mind alerted me to the uniformity of the gash in the snow and the fact that there was nothing that resembled a boot print. Instead it was a crack forming between the snow cornice and the solid ground. Had I stepped onto the crack it would have been a 400 foot sheer drop. This was a wake up call and talked me into a good rest at the summit where I almost slept with my head buried into my arms. The temptation was to sit with the heat of the sun and enjoy the wonderful views and the peace and tranquillity of the day. But I knew that I had to get going again as I was at the furthest point in the journey so I left my eyrie. Descending towards the low point before the pull up to Aonach Beag I could see the steep narrow ridge was snow covered but I figured that I would descend into the saddle and review it. I did not even get that far as I soon discovered that the ridge downwards had a sharp point, snow covered. Anne's words came back to me. For some reason they were haunting me "Steve, please don't take any unnecessary risks." My Mum always said "you go careful" and many friends punctuated a goodbye with "take care."

Finding myself still wobbly with tiredness I knew I was beat and descended a stream towards the path back to the bothy. It took me a long time to cross it as my mind could no longer focus on picking my way through the torrent of melt water and I ended up in the glen where the gentler slope made a crossing possible. Sat by the meetings of the waters I pigged into my emergency rations and basked in the sun, exhausted. I sipped on my bottle of water and thought that I must not slug it all back as I needed to conserve it for the walk back. This was another wake up call, indicating exhaustion, as I was sat next to the meeting of two streams where water was aplenty. I forced myself back to my feet and ascended back towards the site of the crashed plane ruing the missed opportunity of Aonach Beag and Geal-Charn towering above me. Approaching the high point in the path I felt I could spy an alternative route up, not for today but perhaps later in the week. I had said that I would walk out on the Saturday and given I needed to take the following day off to rest I figured the final two days, Thursday and Friday, could be used to complete the one remaining planned walk and a return to Aonach Beag and Geal-Charn. My mental capacity was returning and I realised the jeopardy my last one hundred Munros was now in. Having so far done five days of bagging, abandonment had already created an extra three days of walking and if I failed to complete the two missed today then I would have to add an extra two days for the long walk in and out again plus the day to do them.

Descending the path back towards the bothy I came across a chap resting, I spoke with him for awhile and as I set off my right knee locked up again so the final hour to the bothy was a painful affair. My dreams of flinging open the door, and preparing to collapse onto my sleeping mat, were thwarted by a pungent smell of old socks.

The following day was a day of rest spent enjoying the sun around the bothy and trying to shoo off the horses that roam wild in the glen and visit the bothy for scraps of food.

More Mobile

Thursday May the 10th I got back on course. Starting before 0600 I took in the three Munros to the north west of the bothy: Beinn a Chlachair, Creag Pitridh and Geal Charn in all taking eleven and a half hours. As I left the bothy I said my goodbyes to a chap called Alec, who was moving on that day, and a "see you later" to another chap called Mark who had a lovely kind and gentle manner about him. Well he had made me a drink in bed the previous day so he got my vote as a nice chap. Alec was also a joy to meet, a train driver for EWS Railways, he was up for a few days fitting in with his shift pattern. Incredibly fit he had managed the previous day what would take me three separate days to complete. The previous evening whilst Mark, Alec and I had been discussing life the universe and everything Alec had said "I know this is going to sound very boring but marrying my wife was the best thing I ever did, we have never looked back." The conversation paused and I think both Mark and I felt that in some way Alec was feeling he was not living up to some modern image of people that play the field. In almost unison Mark and I replied, "That's so refreshing to hear."

Just as I was closing the solid wooden door of the bothy the last words of Captain Oates came to mind so my departing words were "I'm just going outside and may be some time."

At the summit of Beinn a Chlachair my mobile phone got a signal and I was able to send my email out, delayed from Ben Alder, and by the summit of Creag Pitridh I was starting to get replies from people sitting at their desks and not at all amused at my enthusiastic account of being able to see mountains for miles and miles with not a cloud in the sky. The mobile signal was probably due to being in the vicinity of the A86 and I made full use of it by calling my Mum.

"Hello Mum, it's Steve."
"Where are you, we've been worried?"
"I can't pronounce the gaelic name, but if you look at a map I'm not too far from Dalwhinnie on the A9. I have been staying in a bothy."
"We thought about calling your mobile or sending you an email."
"Hello, hello."
"I have not had a signal since Sunday. That's why I have not been in touch."
"We've been worried."
"I can see for miles and miles."
"Are you walking on your own?"
"Yes. I can see right over to the Cairngorms."
"Hello, hello."
"Are there other people at the bothy?"
"One or two, it changes daily. I can see right over to Ben Nevis, it is absolutely fantastic."
"Hello, hello."
"I can see right over to Ben Nevis, it is absolutely fantastic."
"You go careful."
"Oh yeah, it's a glorious day."

Back at the bothy Mark had another go at explaining the pros of being a Jehovah Witness whilst I enjoyed the glory of the sun and blue skies and tranquillity of the glen thinking that whoever made this little lot did a jolly good job and I was better off sitting on the fence.

The Friday, May the 11th, was my last chance to have a crack at Geal-Charn and Anoach Beag using the route that I had spied on the Tuesday. Making my earliest start yet and waking Mark and by this time a chap called Ken I was away at about a quarter to six. Pulling myself up through the Bealach Dubh onto the high point of the pass through to Loch Ossian I discovered further parts of the crashed plane. It felt even more unreal, all these bits of metal over a large area. I tried to make sense of it but in some strange way could not comprehend this obviously fatal crash. It was so unconnected to my experiences that I half expected a handle barred moustached figure to appear in full flying gear announcing, "whatho Ginger, went and put the kite down in a bit of a daft place."

At the crash site I climbed north east, spying deer right on the horizon. Their ears aloft, set against the blue sky almost made them look comical. The sense of smell is an important part of the deer's life cycle and they obviously picked up the pong of an unwashed walker and monitored my progress until it was time for the leader to canter off with all the others in tow.

After a final sharp climb I was on a high level plateau and, after crossing a surreal feeling snowfield to Geal-Charn, I knew that these final two Munros of the nine surrounding Culra Bothy were now on. Again the sky was faultlessly blue and no mountain was shying behind the mist but an icy cold wind was blowing across the tops so I made a hasty bag of Aonach Beag before retracing my steps arriving back at the bothy about 1300, relieved that I had managed to capture the nine Munros and realising that the last one hundred was still a possibility. With renewed enthusiasm I packed up my things and in the blistering heat walked the four hours back to Dalwhinnie where I discovered that I had got heat stroke and was very dehydrated due to not being able to carry water as well as the weight of my full pack. Sat in a bar in Newtonmore I poured orange juice and lemonade after orange juice and lemonade down my throat in an attempt to re-hydrate

Double Century

Saturday became an enforced rest day which I used to take a slow drive to Ratagan Youth Hostel with a stop for lunch in Fort William where by all coincidences I bumped into my old friend Willy Newlands. It was good to catch up with him, having only occasionally spoken on the phone since our last meeting in 1997.

On arrival at Ratagan I spoke with the warden about the Cuillin Ridge on Skye, the most dangerous ridge in the British Isles but once complete eleven Munros are surrendered.

"How dangerous is it?" I asked.
"It's okay if you have a good head for heights."
"Are there lots of places where if you slip you die?"
"Oh plenty."

This is what I knew anyhow, so I had no idea why I was asking. Perhaps in hope that he would have said "no, it's a cinch, don't know what all the fuss is about."

"Many deaths on it?"
"One or two a year."
"I'm doing it next week but I have booked a guide."
"Never been a death with a guide."

Now this was more like it. The kind of reassuring comment that I was looking for.

"Who have you booked with?"
"Martin Moran."
"He's a hard man."
"How do you mean hard?" I was panicking again. Would this mean such situations as "come on Smith, it's only a 3000 foot drop, you want to be roped. You big wimp."
"Well, I don't know him that well but if he did solo the ridge he would not rope himself."

But I figured that he would not want a death on his hands, bad for business. And the booking literature did say it would be roped. I was reassured.

"Still," continued Nick Lancaster, the warden, straightening himself after some task that required floor level attention, "he did break his leg the other year. Fell off the roof of his house whilst adjusting the television aerial."

That must have been a bit tricky, imagine having your leg in plaster for months on end with no telly to watch.

The Sunday took in the Five Sisters of Kintail ridge, something that I abandoned back in 1991 so it was good to have another crack at it ten years on. I started about 0800 and had a long slow pull to the first Munro, Sgurr na Cise Duibhe taking nearly two and a half hours. The skies were clear again and it was getting very hot. A narrow, yet manageable ridge, took in the newly promoted Squrr na Carnach then Sgurr Fhuaran where I was congratulated by two young chaps, doing the ridge in the opposite direction, for having completed my 200th Munro. Psychologically this was a huge boost, my knees behaved so on the way back I was able to take in Saileag to reduce the length of the following days walk. Before reaching Saileag I had to cross the lesser top of Coirein nan Spainteach. It looked rugged and sharp. I rested then dropped down and traversed the southerly face to avoid the sharp ridge, here I experienced a minor shower but nothing worthy of gortex.

Shortly before the final ascent of Saileag I caught up with one of the chaps that I had shared my double century with.

"Where is your mate?" I enquired.
"Oh he has not done Saileag or the next Munro along before, so he has left his kit with me and is running them. Here he is back now."

That put my spurt of energy into perspective, especially as he arrived back without a bead of sweat.

Passage Blocked

With the coming of Monday so did a runny nose and worsening throat. Sensing it was still in its early phases I dosed myself with paracetamol and vitamin C, pored over maps and lists of Munros open without the foot and mouth restrictions, put an entry in the route book in the hostel and set off.

A vague foot and mouth notice at the start of the walk was my deterrent as it did not tie in with the information available at the hostel so instead I drove further east and walked Carn Ghlusaid, Sgurr nan Conbhairean and Sail Chaorainn. A slight navigational error, at the start, put me on steep ground until the top of the first Munro where I could pick up a better route through the mist and cloud, emerging into the beauty of a temperature inversion. I debated in my mind whether it was cloud, fog or mist that I had been in and concluded that it was cloud for fog invades our space and I was invading it.

On top of the third Munro I happened across a group of train spotters up from Gloucestershire. It appeared that their incessant need to tick thinks off was not limited to the rolling stock of the franchised railways of the South of England but more ingenious lists of items needed to be scored off. Fortunately they had a detailed map with them, hand drawn, that showed a route back that did not require the re-ascent of the two peaks already claimed. Armed with this information I made my descent, in one place via a path on a very steep slope, returning to my car in just over eight hours. I was pleased with this timing as it was just over the maximum book time and meant that my fitness had improved.

A worsening throat and cold laid me up for the next two days, fortunately Ratagan Hostel is a relaxed place with an excellent day room which overlooks the bay formed by the head of the loch. Still there is a limit to the amount of hostel conversation one can tolerate whilst munching through paracetamol and using up paper tissues. A particularly odd couple frequented the day room, kitchen area, drying room. In fact wherever I was their peculiar tones would appear. The younger chap, one would suppose late forties, evidently thought that it was his role in life to give a running commentary to his older companion, white-haired, past the retirement age and called Peter. Not that I spoke with him to ascertain his name but because the younger chap felt that every sentence needed a verbal full stop by the way of the word "Peter."

"What shall we do tomorrow then, Peter?"
"I'm not sure, we could walk the Five Sisters."
"Yes, we could, Peter."
"Fancy a cup of tea, Peter?"
"Oh yes."

And with that he would leap up and attend to it, returning with, "I just made it a little strong so I have diluted it down a bit. I'll just give it a stir, Peter."

A couple of lads from Crawley - Pete and Ken, in the same dorm as me, had picked up on this also and concluded that the old boy was a genius. Letting drop that there was some consideration in his will he now had a servant for life and being perfectly able to do things for himself was no longer relevant to his survival. Ken shared with me the tale of his midnight trip to the toilet where he was confronted by the commentator in full flannelette pyjamas done up to the collar.

On Thursday May the 17th I felt a little better and tackled Ciste Dhubh, Aonach Meadhoin and Sgurr a' Bhealaich Dheirg but not escaping being under the weather as the majority of the walk made use of my map and compass skills as visibility was down to a few yards and the constant drizzle made it a cold and damp experience. Narrow ridges added an extra ingredient as, on occasion, my boots slipped on the wet rock but at no point where I felt unduly in danger. I enjoyed the practise of handling some exposed points as I was aware of the approaching Cuillin Ridge course that I had booked onto.

On the approach to the third Munro the path branched at a tricky point which I sensed would be difficult to locate on the descent. Using a small pile of rocks I marked the route and on the return promptly marched straight past them. Only on a patch of snow, where I could see no ascending footprints matching my own, did I sense my error. Back tracking I found my pile of rocks and reverted to the correct course and promptly bumped into, Pete and Ken, the Crawley lads.

"We've parked just beyond you and slashed your tyres as we walked past."

I assumed, being from Crawley, that this is little more than a mere force of habit.

On the final descent I took a wrong path and found myself walking south east, checking my map, and hearing the sound of traffic on the A87, I figured this to be a better route and followed it navigating by the noise of the traffic rising through the cloud. At one stage I was worried that my exit point, on to the A87 would be through a foot and mouth restricted area. Knowing that there are £5000 fines for coming off in the wrong place I coaxed my way along the hillside to navigate directly to my car. My knees started to grumble on the steep descent and the day was cold. I popped in an Ibuprofen and, what with reversing down in places to take the weight off. I finally reached my car shortly under ten hours of walking. Looking south I could make out the shrouded mountains of the South Kintail Ridge which I walked in 1992, this marked the start of my knee troubles and it dawned on me I had been carrying this problem now for nine years and the majority of my Munros.

I spent a quiet evening catching up with phone calls and planning further Munros for the next day. The warden wanted me to move rooms and I sensed that this was because they needed a complete dorm on the Friday evening and it was far easier to get the occupants of rooms to shift during the Thursday evening than the Friday morning. Being the last to move out of the room it suddenly dawned on me that if I stayed put for the one night I would have the room to myself. Quietly shutting the door my plan appeared to work. A slight nervous sense of guilt accompanied me between the sheets. What if they truly needed this room tonight? I checked my watch 2215, surely no party would be arriving this late? But what if that car pulling up was in fact a mini bus? I counted the footsteps, not many. Say they are switching this dorm to a female only one and that is why they wanted me to move. And a party of women are due to arrive any minute? As I drifted off to sleep I fancied that any chance of that being a reality would, knowing my luck, be accompanied by a coach load of butch German Frau's on a body building weekend.

I woke at 0400 after having a dream that some former East European female shot putter was sand papering my throat. Fortunately still being the only person in the dorm I was able to switch the light on and administer all kinds of potions, too soothe my cold, before getting a further few hours, waking to what I knew would have to be a further rest day.

I took the day really easily and in the evening got talking to Pete and Ken, the Crawley men, again. Having moved dorms by now it was apparent that I was now stationed with the commentator and his older companion, Peter. Ken latched onto this and I shared the fact that I had noticed the pressed pyjamas laid neatly on a bunk. I then spent many minutes trying to persuade Ken that although his idea of chopping one of the pyjama legs off stood some merit that perhaps I was not the best person to carry it out.

After a disturbed nights sleep, ghosted by stripy pyjama clad figures going about their business, I was slightly sad to leave the hostel, one of the best that I had ever stayed in, comfortable and relaxed. Having a number of hours to kill, before I could arrive at Martin Moran's house, I decided to head into the Kyle of Lochalsh in search of a thermal top. This being the only piece of equipment that I was short of on Martin Moran's list of kit required for the Cuillin Ridge. All sorts of thoughts were going through my head, one piece of equipment missing 'right you are off the course, the heavily congested cold, the two crippled knees, asthma and the double hernia are not a problem but you forgot your thermal top.'

Driving into the Kyle I remembered what an absolute dump it was, descending a hillside amongst shabby industrial units and drab streets I parked and looked for the optimistically named 'town centre' only to realise that the collection of shops, many with the odd boarded window, that confronted me was in fact it. After some minutes of wandering I found what looked like a clothes shop, only the contents of the window gave the game away as the proprietor had neglected to advertise what the shop was. Spying through the window I sensed I could see a gents section beyond the frilly underwear and bras. Gingerly setting forth I made my way towards the rear and was duly pounced upon by the assistant who promptly tried to sell me the entire contents of the shop but I managed to just hold out for a thermal top which luckily they had. One size too big, but what the heck I was back on the course. Departing I noticed that the lower pane of glass in the door had a brick sized hole in it, undoubtedly caused by the local youths with nothing better to do in this pit of despair. Still keeps them out of trouble I guess.

On the amble back to my car, with a brief deviation to a chemist for further vitamin C and paracetamol, I noticed signs pronouncing 'Charles Kennedy' and suddenly realised that the country was in the grip of election fever. I had missed the announcement of the election and only in a telephone conversation with Gisella had I found out. Since the death of Screaming Lord Sutch, elections hold very little for me. No longer are we treated to such joys as Margaret Thatcher making her constituency victory speech with a placard above her head announcing 'Monster Raving Loony.' It is a shame he took his own life. Perhaps it was after a visit to the Kyle of Lochalsh.

The rest of the day was spent trying to make myself feel better before meeting with Martin Moran in Lochcarron. Arriving far too early I hung about the place for a few hours and started to feel more and more ill. Doing a countdown before I could swallow a couple of Nurofen, the paracetamol did not appear to be working, I realised that my throat was killing me and I really needed to try and soothe it. The strepsils were having little impact, in fact they rarely work for me anyhow, possibly because I crunch them to death long before any soothing action can take place. I think I am still hooked on them because of the useful little tin they once came in. I suddenly hit on the idea of TCP. Not having used this since I was eighteen I was unsure if my memory served me correctly that it did sore throats but it was worth a try. Tracking down a bottle to the local Spar shop confirmed that it was ideal for sore throats, well it said 'For sore throats' and I was confused if that meant it gave a sore throat or soothed one. I chanced it and bought a bottle. Back in the car I unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. Memories flooded back of acne days at Brighton Polytechnic. My Mum swore by the stuff, so did I but my language was a little more colourful, and she would always bundle a bottle with a food parcel so I could dab it on my facial eruptions which were optimistically called teenage spots. Then on a visit home Mum would enquire if I had a girlfriend yet. Not a chance as I always stunk of TCP, I think the fact that I was so keen to go and study in Brighton was playing on her mind a bit.

Stuck with a neat bottle of TCP I had to invent some method of a gargle whilst watering it down by a ratio of five to one. Digging around my car I found a half consumed bottle of Vittel natural mineral water, using part of it to knock down a couple of Nurofen, it was almost time, I then poured in what I guessed was an extra fifth of TCP and gave it a good shake to produce a frothy green mass in a clear bottle. This would have given anybody a fright if they had seen me enter the local public toilets with this in hand. Come to think of it it would have been more of a fright if I had left with it like that. A few gargles later I emerged stinking of TCP and, like when I was eighteen, single.