I left Glasgow a little down as I was not to do the thing I was most looking foreword to in Scotland. I had planned to hike the West Highland Way, which is a six or seven day trek through the western highlands of Scotland. It begins in a village outside of Glasgow called Milngavie and winds it’s way up to Fort William at the base of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the UK. I was not able to begin the hike because of a four hour blizzard that hit the west of Scotland on Saturday night. Fair enough two feet of snow dropped in that four hours, however these were hardly Himalayan conditions, as I was told. I had counted on a bag carrying service to take the things I didn’t need on the hike from Glasgow to Fort William. When I rang them up I was informed that there were Himalayan conditions and that all the roads were closed. Indeed the roads “were” closed however as I drove the windy road north from Glasgow, the next day, I couldn’t help but notice the freely flowing traffic.
My spirits were lifted as the stop start driving of the city and villages gave way to a slow windy crawl through a thick pine forest. We followed the western side of Loch Lomond north. I looked longingly out the window and across the loch towards the path of the West Highland Way that snaked its way up the Eastern side of the Loch. In the back of mind I was still happy. I was choosing my own way in a new place and I knew I was headed into the mountains to spend an unknown amount of time with two German girls. But my jaw completely hit the floor when the bus steamed down a hill and out of the forest. We had arrived at a breathtaking expanse of swampy land with vast snow capped peaks jutting out, known as the Rannach Moor. It was here that hundreds of years earlier the entire MacDonald clan was massacred by the king of England. I could feel the power of the place as we steamed on through.
The bus twisted and turned its way off the Rannach Moor and down between the highest peaks in the UK. It was an awe inspiring drive and I couldn’t wait to get out of the bus and into the mountains. We stopped out the front of a run down petrol station and the driver growled “Glencoe”. Yep, that is what it said on my ticket, but I wasn’t too sure I was in the right place. The driver promptly opened the bottom of the bus and threw my bag on the ground. As the bus tore off again, in a cloud of dust, I took in my surroundings. Mountains surrounded my existence on all sides. More tangibly there was the petrol station on one side of the dusty road and a police station on the other. If I kept my eyes off the snow capped peaks I felt like I stepped of the bus and into a deserted outback town. Glencoe, the lake, was visible about 200 meters toward Ballahulish but Glencoe the town seemed like it had slipped off the map.
I asked in the petrol station about the whereabouts of the youth hostel. With sketchy directions I strode off down through the “town centre”. Three minutes later I was walking along a narrow road along the base of the Pap of Glencoe. I realized why the town was difficult to see. Other than the petrol station there was one shop and the town had one street. Not too difficult to get lost. Twenty minutes walk up the road and I came to the hostel, dumped my things, got changed and was out the door with a liter of water and an apple.
I tore my own path up the side of the Pap after doing a bit of a jump and run through someone’s back yard. Luckily their dog was overfed and even in my hiking boots I beat it over the back fence. After only fifteen minutes of leg pumping I felt I had gained a bit of altitude and stopped to have a little breather. I turned around to look at the view and I was gob smacked. I felt obliged to take my camera out and take a few snaps. But the further I got up the mountain the better the view got and the more photos I took of the same thing. After only half an hour I had reached the saddle between the Pap of Glencoe and the western end of the Aonach Ridge. During the winter mountaineering season this ridge is fully of activity and has been the training ground for many British mountaineering expeditions. I felt good to be there.
After a moment of daydreaming about the pedigree that has come through this region I snapped back to reality and thought about my prospects of making the top of the Pap. Previous experience in cold, icy conditions? Umm, about half a day, a week ago. No worries, just don’t think about it, is what I told myself. The scramble to the top of the Pap was another step up from my first scramble down in the Lakes District. I just kept thinking of all the times I had jumped from rock to rock back at home. I could usually be found early Saturday mornings bounding across slippery rock platforms with arms full of diving gear looking for a safe entry to the sea. So I told myself that I was experienced at this scrambling capper. It was a slightly different perspective looking down at the water 700m below with clouds whisping overhead. The climb turned out fairly straight foreword after following cairns some of the way up I lost the trail and just headed for the pointy part, the top. I sat in the clouds and enjoyed the grey view at the top for about fifteen minutes until I stressed myself out enough to think a storm was coming. On the way down instead of looking at the view laid out in front of me I couldn’t help looking back up at the rocky Pap with a sense of accomplishment.
I met up with Elli and Marion that afternoon and we had dinner together and talked about what we had seen and done since we last saw each other. The hostel began to fill with actual mountaineers who were just there for the weekend. I think we pissed them off a little staying up late chatting, playing cards and having a few a few quite drinks. We didn’t care. Some of the mountaineers really impressed me though. One father and son duo left at sparrows fart, technically around 6am, and we didn’t see them again until about 8pm. I reckon that is pretty good, especially considering they did it all again the next day. Makes you feel really lazy.
The day after climbing the Pap I decided to take the girls up to the saddle between the Pap and the Aonach Ridge. It was a similar walk if a little slower. It was however pretty funny when we left the hostel. I was waiting outside for them and they came out with big thick ¾ length jackets, scarves and of course handbags. After rolling around on the ground in laughter for a few minutes I composed myself and asked if they were serious. Yes they were. Ok, let’s go. We made the saddle fine and I was a bit clearer than the day before so they got a good view of glen and of all the surrounding mountains. I wanted to climb up on the Aonach Ridge (the easy way) from the saddle. So I parted ways with the girls and told them to send someone if I wasn’t back by nightfall. What a contingency plan, you only learn that from the Duke.
I jogged away up the hill keen to get moving a little bit. I hadn’t yet really warmed up much due to the slow pace of the girls and the chilling wind that was blowing over from the north. I also had no map and didn’t know how far it was to the top, so I wanted to knock over the easy parts quickly. I promptly slowed down as the angle increased and the little specks of the girls disappeared below me. I really wanted to make the top of this hill as it was one Scotland Munroe’s. A Munro is a mountain that is over 3000 feet. This doesn’t seem much, and it isn’t in the big scheme of things, however the Scottish mountains have a reputation for catching people out and they have a long history of fatalities. This is due to a number of factors. Firstly the steepness and exposure of the mountains, secondly the rapidity with which a Scottish storm can engulf you but mostly it is because people don’t give them enough respect. People come for the weekend and want to climb no matter what, they are arrogant and macho and they give the mountain rescue service plenty of work during the winter.
I left the slippery rocks and vegetation below and continued the ascent on fairly hard packed snow. I tried to keep to the southern side of the ridge as the wind coming from the north was a little too chilly for my supple Australian nose. This path went up and down across small gullies but the general direction was up. I thought I could see the top forming ahead of me so I found a rock and had a breather. This was definitely the first time I had had to kick my feet into the snow to form steps to climb. Before stopping my feet were sinking in at least a good twenty centimeters so I had some good purchase and didn’t feel uncomfortable. I left my rock I continued up the steepening slope. As the angle increased my calves burned more with each step but the most distressing thing for me was the snow was getting harder. I got to a point, not too far from the top, I believe, where I only had about 5cm or less under the end off my boots and slope that dropped away below me wasn’t to be scoffed at. So I stood there alone with boots and gloved hands thrust into the snow thinking. I knew if I had crampons I would probably be at the top already, but I didn’t. I thought if I had an ice axe I would probably keep going because I had something to self arrest with if I fell, but I didn’t. But I was so close. So with a mixture of common sense and a lack of balls I turned around, dug my heels in and took the first tentative steps away from the first hill I hadn’t reached the top of. I wasn’t particularly unhappy because I had had a taste of being higher up on a mountain and knew that I could do it with the right equipment. I was happy.
That night Elli, Marion and I had a few drinks, played a few drinking games and walked to the pub. Other than that I have no recollection of what happened between the hours of 7pm and 10am.
Somewhat groggily I dragged myself out of bed the following morning and looked out the window while eating my breakfast. I was trying to decide which mountain the climb. I picked the one straight across the valley from the Pap because I wanted to know what was on the other side. I set off with my first challenge being to run through someone’s paddock and then cross a river without getting wet. I could have taken my boots off and crossed really quickly, but I had only just put them on and I didn’t want to get my feet wet. So I walked back and forth along the river bank trying to decide which rocks were slippery, which ones would move if I stood on them and whether the sheep in these parts were of the attacking kind. Eventually I got to the other side with one dry foot and one boot full of water, oh well.
The mountain wasn’t particularly high but it looked a hell of a lot less steep from the hostel. There was grass almost to the top but that wasn’t a good thing. At least with the snow I could kick my feet in and get some good purchase. With the grass and the steepness of the slope I had to zigzag my way up the hill. There were sheep all around again but they weren’t rabid English sheep so I was safe. I reached the top of the ridge quite quickly and was immediately blasted with the coldest wind I have ever experienced in my life. Up to that point I had just been in a T-shirt but by the time I had gotten out thermals, jacket, gloves and beanie I was shivering. After a quick photo of Ben Nevis off in the distance I was out of there. But my route for the next kilometer or so was along the top of an exposed ridge, so I was buffeted by the cold wind for little more time. Not to worry, it didn’t kill me so that was good. I descended off the ridge and down into a pine forest which I eventually found an exit to and found myself looking down over Ballahulish and, at one time, the UK’s largest slate quarry.
That about wraps up my taste of the mountains in Glencoe. It was a fantastic time and made me want to get out into the mountains more often. That part of Scotland is an excellent place and I suggest it to anyone. If you are going to visit England, make the effort and head a bit further north. You can get a bus from London to Glasgow for £20 and from there it’s easy to get into the mountains. Do it you won’t regret it.
