Ben Vane – the hill we didn’t go up!

The Ascent of BenVorlich

I wasn’t in top form.  We’d been walking along the tarmac road towards Loch Sloy for some 45 minutes and I was feeling more than a bit lethargic.  Although we were making reasonable time I suspected that there wasn’t much get up and go in the legs.   Yes, they were going through the motions but it was pretty obvious that that all important drive wasn’t there.  By the time I’d reached the legendary 4th pylon before the dam I wasn’t convinced I’d make it off the tarmac road and was considering an alternative walk through Glen Loin to Arrochar instead of a hike up Ben Vorlich.

Having said that – I am very competitive (with myself) and even though I knew I wasn’t firing on all cylinders I knew I was going to give it a go.

The Fatdog had also decided she would give it a go and started up the well eroded path like a miniature traction engine, grinding out that relentless steady pace I have come to know (and fear) so well.   If I had any concerns regarding her ability to cope with a major hillwalk after a few months off they were soon dispelled.  Gone was the shambling, droopy head geriatric canine of the morning dog walks and in its place was the alert summit fixated Fatdog.

If FD had a theme tune it would be “The Only Way is Up”.  Ignoring anything other than the path in front she was totally fixed on the ascent, leading out the climb like the “hard-man” domestique of a pro cycling team.    I followed on in the “slipstream”, head down trying to block out any negative thoughts and just hanging in there.

The first hour was an unpleasant slog up a steep, reasonably well defined, path into a shallow corrie just below the main ridge.  The recent dry-ish weather had left the going mainly dry underfoot with only patches of soggy ground to be tolerated.  The Fatdog was lead-bound, the hill being covered by an unpredictable spread of white wooly grass munchers.  This did nothing to relieve the misery of the climb.  With my pace inevitably dropping off the higher we climbed, the more The Fatdog’s lead went to full stretch and the more I was being forced to push that wee bit harder to keep up.  FD is a real slave driver.

It was a humid ascent and I had the urge to wring myself out by the time the gradient eventually eased on the final climb out of the corrie.   I don’t even pretend that I enjoyed it…but, as always, I was looking forward to that gentler gradient and a wander through the hummocky summit approach.

Beside the path we found a solitary man sitting on a rock.  I took one look at his face and instantly realised this was a man we had to befriend.  The black dotted face identified him as that most valuable of all outdoor resources; the next best thing to finding someone prepared to carry you, the dog and your pack to the summit and back down again.  We had found us a bona fide midge magnet.

I hadn’t even noticed the presence of the irritating wee b*****s, but there they were splattered in their hundreds across his cheeks and forehead; a sea of miniature roadkill.  My hand went instinctively to my face to wipe away my own collection of removable black freckles…but it came back clean.  I was puzzled but not unhappy.  Apparently the couple a few minutes in front of us had complained about the midges and our acquaintance clearly wasn’t over enamoured by their presence either.  The Fatdog and I exchanged glances as if to say “What’s all the fuss about?”  The typical west coast feeding frenzy appeared to have bypassed us completely.

I’m sure it wasn’t malice on his part, but after my comment that I’d barely noticed the presence of the local insect life, he seemed to take great delight in announcing that we’d still some way to go to the summit.  I was suitably crestfallen.

I should have done my homework.  Ben Vorlich is one of “those” hills!  The sort of hill you think “Great…there’s the summit”…only to think it again…and again…and again.  No sooner we were nearly at the “top” of one “summit” than another of the wee buggers loomed out of the cloud to mock our misplaced optimism.  We were well mocked by the time the regular shape of the concrete trig point appeared some 50m in front.  The cloud was now lifting from the summit and a wee bell rang at the back of my mind that this was indeed one of “THOSE” hills – the ones that trick you into believing you are at the summit but it’s actually a hundred metres or so further on hidden in the cloud.  I checked the map to make sure.  Yep…glad I remembered that!  Could have been embarrassing.

A young couple we met had warned us about black flies at the summit so with some trepidation FD and I settled down to lunch at the cairn waiting to be chomped by the dreaded blood sucking beasties.  Then I saw the welcome (and timely) approach of our midge magnet.  Good on ya mate!

In felaweshipe and pilgrims were they alle.

G Chaucer C1390’s

.

“One scoop of pink sparkly fairy dust!”

“Two scoops of pink sparkly fairy dust!”

A cloud of tiny sparkling dots billowed gently before landing on the cold hard surface of the toilet floor.  On the worktop above the baby pink contents of the plastic bottle frothed and bubbled as tiny, mica-like crystals continued to dissolve.   Measuring equipment was wiped and quickly packed away in a small polythene bag; the worktop and tiles wiped clean of telltale signs.  No one would ever know…

It is said “the clothes maketh the man”. Given the circumstances the more fair minded among you might consider this to be a totally uncharitable phrase to apply to Mr P as he cajoled his motley crew into leaving the Tolundy car park, the tiny bells on his multi-pointed hat tinkling merrily.  But let’s face it fellow pilgrims who but a troupe of clowns, jesters and comic opera stars would consider 16km and 1500m+ of ascent as a jolly day out.  So it was with a resounding “Hey, nonny, nonny” we skipped and pranced after the hero of the hour, following his lead as he capered along the forest track which would lead us eventually to the shattered red scree slopes of Carn Mor Dearg.

It was a BIG party.  MrP’s Munro Completion had attracted as diverse a bunch of Shillers as had ever climbed a Munro.  The large enthusiastic turnout was testament to Simon’s popularity within the forum…and possibly a lot to do with his promise of free food afterwards.

The provider of free food…may his little bells always tinkle!

But free food was a distant promise and promises can only take you so far on a walk of this magnitude.  I was prepared.  Jammy hot cross buns, chocolate and Jelly Babies.  I took along muesli bars for appearances sake but I had my secret weapon…the Strawberry Milkshake.  Lurking in my two plastic bottles was my magic muscle replenishing formula, designed to keep those leg muscles rolling for as long as possible.

Up the hill to the left – across the ridge (centre) – up “The Ben” (right) – then back down the slope on the right…“tckkk…simples!”

It didn’t take long before the initial concertina-like movement of the bunch became a thin ragged line extending up Carn Mor Dearg’s north spur.  Mind you, perverse is what I’d call it.  After seemingly years of constant bickering and bleating on the forum about the number of bodies on Ben Nevis, here we were endeavouring to out- populate the Pony Track on our, less well used, route to the summit.

ChrisM struggled to get to grips with his water supply as it first ran down his t-shirt, then thundered down the mountain towards an unsuspecting Molly

I had a surprise meeting with Davelaid as we wandered up the first section of open hill; surprising, because (to me) Dave is usually a small dot in the distance.  I’m not sure exactly what happened; maybe I blinked for a second; but there was no doubt about it…Dave was now a small dot in the distance.

“Nice doggy….smile for the camera!”

“Is he with you?”

The Flickr “Beginners Boulder Photography Group” thoroughly enjoyed their first meet.  I believe they’re still up there.

The North Face (or at least a bit of it) from the slopes of CMD

My short stops for “drinks and photos” (ahem) found me gradually working my way to the back of the party.  I stopped while the final group caught me up; Tessa (goth_angel), Stuart (melancton) and Anne (Anne3366)…and a surprise, slightly breathless, addition.  Lorna (weeleo) had made a last minute decision to join us but had most sportingly given the group a 40 minute start before sprinting uphill from the car park to catch us up!  This explained the pale blue dot in the distance that we had all wondered about earlier.  So intent we were on our ascent that none of us had noticed Lorna’s frantic “Wait for me!” waving.  Now we were 5.

Lorna’s (40 minutes back) view of distant Shillers “Eh…Yoo-Hoo!”

By now my bottles of baby-pink liquid were beginning to receive some strange looks.  Maybe my comment…”Oh…it’s just a little something a bodybuilder friend of mine gave me to mix into my fluid supply to keep me going” could be subject to misinterpretation.   It was a case of any advantage I could find to haul my sorry carcass over CMD, the arête and that dreaded final boulderfield to the summit of “The Ben”.  I had another swallow of diluted pink sparkly fairy dust….and prayed for a miracle.

“…right…Right…RIGHT!!!”

The final sweep up to Carn Mor Dearg was an impressive swath of red scree curving upward to end in a point at the summit.

The summit of Carn Mor Dearg – almost there!

The wind was picking up and fine drizzle swept across the rust coloured top from the west soaking the outside of my right trouser leg.  This fine upward view didn’t last long and as we neared the summit the visibility began to drop.

No sooner did we arrive…than the group in front packed up and left, disappearing into the damp cloud covering the arête.  We Stragglers munched a quick lunch on top of CMD and, as more serious rain began to drive in, set off down the red gravel path into the thickening murk.  Today there would be no impressive view of one of our hillwalking treasures.  The Carn Mor Dearg Arete, with its sweeping curve of knife edge boulders, was in hiding.

“This CMD Arete doesn’t look too bad!”

“The Stragglers descent onto the arête”

“The murk sets in”

Soon it was decision time for our little group of five.  While Lorna and I clambered onto the initial rocks of the arête proper, Anne, Tessa and Stuart dropped onto a bypass path.  It was just after 1pm.  Lorna and I didn’t realise it then, but that was the last we would see of them until after 7pm that evening!

Lorna ready for the tougher stuff

The arête was a mist shrouded step into the unknown with little to focus on other than a narrow point of rock a few feet in front.  There was a suggestion of a big drop to the right but I barely noticed it.  That said, I had a feeling that you didn’t want to make a mistake here.

…and off we go…

The narrow ridge proved to be a tougher proposition that I had anticipated.  Slick from rain and drizzle, outward sloping, lichen dotted slabs were not to be trusted with hesitant boots.  I kept hands to rock as much as possible.  Over the past four years I have completed sixty five doggy-walking Munros, but I was a complete novice on this terrain.  Lorna was faring better; she had done more scrambling than I and had greater confidence in her abilities.  Sometimes we found ourselves walking with comparative ease over the narrow top of the ridge then suddenly we had to drop down to scramble around a trickier assembly of boulders.  It was slow going.

“Our visibility wasn’t great.”

Every few minutes we stopped and peered over the south side of the arête looking for the other three on the bypass path, but no sign.  Our visibility wasn’t great.  At times we could see up to about 20m but that was the limit.  Suddenly the mist in front of us blew off and we could see forwards about a hundred metres or so…but there was no sign of the others in front either.  The bypass path must have taken them past us quicker than we thought possible.  The mist swirled back in and our visibility dropped yet again.  Where were they?

Indescribable levels of happiness…just before it all goes…aaarrgggh!

We were just over half way across and I knew I was beginning to slow, big time.  The unaccustomed clambering had been stretching the leg muscles to the limit and at the same time draining my energy supply.  Sadly pink sparkly fairy dust can only do so much for a body with so little recent hill time.  Threatening twinges on the inside of my legs just above the knee warned me of what was coming.  Pain flashed up the inside of my right leg as something inside shot into spasm, forcing me to hold onto rock to stay upright.  Bugger!  Nothing for it but to stop for a few minutes and hope it eased off.

Fortunately it was only a minor attack and after a very short break we were moving again, if a little more slowly than before.  Minutes later its counterpart in my left leg twanged in sympathy but this time it was with a bit more intent.  I was going to need a longer break this time.  Lorna was beginning to look more than a little concerned.  Her face spoke of yellow helicopters and the approaching cries of mountain rescue teams.  I was more terrified of Simon sending Will (Mountaineagle) trotting back down from Ben Nevis, slinging me over his shoulder and trotting back up again!  Oh how we all would have laughed…well some us anyway.

I was now 2 legs down.  I sat immobile on a rock staring abjectly into the mist considering our alternatives.  That didn’t take very long; we were rather low on those.

After a few minutes the sharper pain eased and I was able to take a few tentative steps.  I could feel the muscles tight and threatening but it seemed they were prepared to stay quiet and calm as long as I behaved myself and didn’t make any silly moves.  The first job was to make it off the arête.

We set off through the boulders once more but with me reduced to the pace of a geriatric snail it was pathetically slow going.  The odd mild aftershock hit nervous leg muscles, but I was ready and stopped moving before they came to anything.  Thankfully it wasn’t long before the unmistakeable shape of the Abseil Post loomed ahead as we neared the end of the arête.  We were 2 very relieved Shillers at this point.

Fed up with me bleating about my legs, Lorna checks her bag for a rope…”….hmmm….maybe he could just…”

It was only later that I recalled the efforts of a couple of my fellow bloggers who had recently, on one of their wee ambles, taken extreme measures to seek help for my wee leg problem.  I think now would be a very good time to have a read here (my legs come into it half way down).  My thanks to Alex and Bob for all their spiritual efforts. Just like the pink sparkly fairy dust every contribution had its part to play.

Lorna hauled out her map and compass to confirm where we were and to give us a line for the final haul up “The Ben”.  There was a path shown on the map and I could see the beginnings of one ahead.  Unfortunately it proved to be a very short one and soon we found ourselves clambering in amongst boulders yet again.

The final 200m of ascent was hell.  The muscle spasms from the arête had left my legs underpowered, but on the bright side there were no further twinges that required a complete halt.  Lorna, bless her, moved up in front to find the easiest way through the seemingly endless boulderfield, zig-zaging upward until she picked up the rough path.  I shuffled from stone to stone but could only manage about 5-10m before I needed to halt once again for a few seconds breather.

Some six hours after leaving the Torlundy car park the boulderfield ended and we found ourselves on the mist shrouded plateau of “The Ben”.   We knew we were south and west of the summit but by how much?  Lorna’s map made its final appearance as the last bearing was taken.

In reality we probably had as much chance of being trampled by a herd of rampaging wildebeest as missing the summit.  Numerous large indistinct shapes loomed eerily out of the mist accompanied by the crushing sound of many hooves on shattered rock. It was possible that the wildebeest hypothesis was already losing credibility.

Nothing prepares you for the sudden appearance of so many people on a mountain top…especially after the remote feeling of walking the cloud covered arete.  Around the old observatory a swarming mass of walkers had congregated…though I discovered afterwards that that had something to do with the dubious pleasures of MrP’s “Love Shack”.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen such activity on a summit.  It was surreal winding our way through various groups of strangers while trying to find a familiar face.

I think I speak for both myself and Lorna when I say there was an incredible sense of elation completing those last few steps and finding our friends still on the summit waiting.  Simon’s group had hung around waiting for The Stragglers to arrive and we were met by big beaming smiles and all round congratulations.  Mr P had an enormous grin on his face as he descended from “The Love Shack”…which reminds me that we’re still waiting for an adequate explanation of his “bruise”.

The “Love Shack” empties.   Last out turns off the red light.

Our elation dissipated rather quickly when we found out that Anne, Tessa and Stuart hadn’t arrived in front of us.  So they hadn’t passed us on the bypass after all.

Where were they?

I think I’ll finish here on the summit.  Hopefully others will add their thoughts on the day and fill out the remainder of the story.

Other than…

“I don’t care if it’s his big day out.  If he doesn’t take off that f*****g hat he’s not getting a lift back!”

And I’ll leave the final words to SimonP.

“Right…you’ve all had your free food…now b****r off!”

I’m 2 weeks behind with this one…a source of great embarrassment.  Given the way the milder weather is now setting in with the arrival of Spring, this may have been the last of this year’s real winter hills for The Resurrection Man, Cap’n Jack and The Fatdog.  This wee walk up the Drumochter Munro, Meall Chuaich (10/03/10), contained more wildlife (admittedly all grouse and mountain hares) than we’d seen on all our travels.  Most definitely not what we were used to!

It was another cracker. As we drove into Drumochter there wasn’t a cloud in the sky…again! It’s incredible the number of good walking days there have been in the past few weeks. It was such a beautiful morning that the feelgood feeling didn’t diminish even although I had to lift The Fatdog over a fence only 30m from the car! I have to say that the circuit training must be having some effect because lifting the black hairy brute over the fence was not the hit-or-miss operation it once was! As we prepared to start our way up the track towards the hill a jet screamed past overhead...

The trek in begins up the track to the little power station - Meall Chuaich left of centre

The long winding track beside the aqueduct was covered in ice filled puddles which The Fatdog took great delight in pounding through. Before the inevitable crash, the frozen surface creaked and groaned as FD tested its load bearing capacity to its limit…a bit like my back at the earlier fence.

There was a lot of loud laughing coming from the surrounding heather. In this part of the world this can only mean one thing…grouse! Lots and lots of grouse. You’ll find a number of photos of grouse throughout this “Tail”. Cap’n Jack’s camera was doing overtime. Usually we only see a couple (if that) but today we could hardly walk a couple of steps without another pair shooting out of the heather 20m in front. CJ’s big 300mm lens was coming into its own.

After 2km of gently rising track we reached the tiny power station. Photographed from the east there was a “ye olde mill” look to the setting.

The building appeared to be served, at least in part by an enormous pipe leading in from the south.

Next to the pipe there was an unattended skidoo. It was times like this one regretted not having a misspent youth hotwiring cars!

Continuing along the track for another 2km we came to the old bothy.

From here we left the track and followed a faint trail across what looked suspiciously like a frozen bog to the “foot” of Meall Chuaich’s south west spur. There were so many grouse lurking in the clumps of heather that FD was hitched up. To be fair it’s unlikely she would chase the grouse, but she always gets a fright when they shoot out of the heather at close range and I didn’t want her careering off into the undergrowth accidentally scaring more of the native bird life. Here we came across the two extremes of the grouse world. In this photograph is a shy, retiring female of the species...

...while the local "blackshirt" practised for the forthcoming rally of the Dalwhinnie Fascisti

Most of the tracks appeared to head straight up the snow slope but I reckoned my legs would prefer to head right and follow the gentler angle up the spur...

…but I hadn’t reckoned on the “Bird of Prey” uncloaking off to our right.

“Cap’n look!…”

“Eh?”

“Th-e-r-e-’s…

Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow…”

Cue video…

As we climbed the number of grouse diminished and the number of mountain hares increased. Now they are something The Fatdog loves to chase, sure in the knowledge that she has no chance of catching one and thus neatly avoiding the decision of what to do with one once trapped! She’s such a softy. The Fatdog takes time out from bunny chasing to pose for the hillwalking paparazzi

It didn’t take long before she spied her first big white bunny. I could almost hear its sigh from where I stood as FD thumped up the slope towards it. It wearily turned and slowly ambled off leaving The Fatdog in its wake. Maisie tired of the game very quickly and contented herself with interested stares from then on.

The snow had been our friend up to about 700m. There was enough give to make it walkable and enough consolidation to prevent our feet shooting through the crust. From the 700m mark it became variable. Sometimes it felt slushy and at others solid. From time to time feet and legs would suddenly disappear into unexpected deep pockets. The final upward traverse onto the top of the west spur and from there onto the wide shallow domed summit was harder going than the earlier slopes. As we headed for the cairn each step was a bit of a lottery.

An old fence post was caked in frost. The edges were beginning to thaw, leaving delicate sheets of frozen lace. Tiny dots of glittering colour lit up the surface, sparkling in the strong sunshine. Sadly our limited camera skills failed to reproduce the incredible beauty of these wonderful ice forms.

Its position at the north end of the Drumochter Munros means it is a hill of distant views. The Northern Cairngorms were sadly a near indistinguishable lump with little discernable detail as were the Southern Cairgorms off to the east. As we headed back down there were however more detailed views westward into part of Ben Alder and to Creag Meagaidh (shown centre).

As I eyed up the steep snow slope I dug in a tentative heel to test the surface. It pushed in a couple of inches. Good, it wasn’t frozen solid so no need for the microspikes. I brought the other foot onto the snow and took a couple of tentative heel-dig steps then stopped to look round for Cap’n Jack. I really had expected him to be his normal “careful” self but to my astonishment he shot past with The Fatdog close on his heels, “skating” down the snow slope in metre long foot slides. I had forgotten that he skied when he was at school. Best fun he’d ever had on our walks, he declared later. I was just thankful to get down in one piece!

As we shuffled our way back down the track to the car Cap'n Jack couldn't resist yet another grouse shot

I was half way through pulling off my boots when Cap’n Jack commented that we had just made it on time. Puzzled I looked into the sky for signs of rain. “No…look over there” he said. Some 100m away, near the track we’d just walked down, the heather was ablaze.

“Th-e-r-e-’s…

Klingons on the starboard bow, starboard bow, starboard bow…”

I’ve added pages for:

a)  Binnein Mor

b) Geal-charn and A’Mharconaich

…and still have a trip to Meall Chuaich to write up.

Hopefully we’ll see a few more added this year

Above is a perfectly innocuous photograph…of a hill.

What makes this hill important is that it is my hill or more strictly speaking it is the hill that The Fatdog and I are supposed to be ascending. This is unfortunate because between us and the hill that we are supposed to be ascending is an ever widening gorge. Current route thinking, and in fact best practice, suggests that we should not be on this side of the burn at all, but that we should be working our way up the spur in the photograph.

“Oh b****r!”

Cursing myself for being such a numpty I quickly scanned the ground…then followed the clear trail left by an earlier numpty across the snow filled corrie towards Geal-charn.

A’ Mharconaich (left) and Geal-charn (right)

This ascent of Geal-charn should have been almost eejit proof. You’ll note I said almost! What could be simpler…follow track until another forks off to the right, head up this track and then up the broad spur.

At Balsporran we crossed the railway, followed the track and took the first right. I admit to taking my eye off the ball as I rummaged through the pack, eventually hauling the whole lot out into the snow, in an attempt to find my glasses case. This proved to be an unsuccessful exercise and left me in a grumpy mood, my glasses now having to put up with the indignity of residing in the plastic box with my hot cross buns and strawberry jam. This minor distraction proved to be my undoing.

Looking back to Balsporran with A’ Bhuidheanach Beag in the background

The Big Yellow Digger

Maybe I should have realised as we passed the big yellow digger that our track might be that bit more recent than the “first right” mentioned in my instructions. I just hadn’t checked the map…an omission I was deeply regretting at this point. The thought of dropping way back down the track to find the correct route was never going to happen…so it was press on and hope the terrain in the corrie at the source of the burn was easy to cross.

But not all mistakes are total disasters. I looked at the map (about bloody time they all grumble) and reckoned that if I followed the burn up into the shallow Coire Beul an Sporain I’d be able to tackle Geal-charn from the north. The plan having been formed we followed the tracks of the other eejit who had obviously done the same thing the previous day.

Up in Coire Beul an Sporain

And very good tracks they were too. Our benefactor had made steady zig-zags up the north slope giving us a reasonably easy approach. Eventually the boot prints curved eastward, meeting up with what I assumed to be the main trail on Geal-charn’s NE spur.

Light on the hare? tracks

Clouds below the Gorms

The Fatdog in the snow

At the memorial cairn to Mick Costello

We stopped briefly at the cairn erected in memory of Mick Costello before turning west towards the summit. It had taken us about 2 hours which wasn’t bad considering my blunder at the start. Now I had to decide whether to press on to A’ Mharconaich or call it a day and head back to the car. No brainer really! The sun was blazing down and the sky was bright blue. The views across Loch Ericht to Ben Alder were spectacular. I’d never seen this mountain mass before. The chiselled blocks of the mountains looked intriguing from our vantage point, a potential exploration for another time.

Into Ben Alder

Loch Ericht

Beyond Ben Alder

It was only 11.30 so I decided to keep pressing on. I stuffed a chocolate bar into my mouth and a Bonio into The Fatdog’s, then down into the bealach we lurched.

A’Mharconaich

Last view of Loch Ericht

About an hour later I was wondering why…why did we not go back to the car? My legs were tiring and I had watched what felt like the same 30m of snow stretch up to the horizon…for over 30 minutes! I was suffering from “hamster in treadmill” syndrome.

Slogging up the north slope of A’Mharconaich

We were following another set of footprints now…this time cutting west to east across the north face of A’ Mharconaich. The powder was just deep enough to cause a drag even though I was studiously placing my feet in my predecessor’s prints. While the Fatdog was full of beans (and various other consumables) my legs were beginning to complain. Rest stops became more frequent. I wasn’t disappointed though. I had reckoned this second hill was about my limit anyway so the drop in power was not entirely unexpected.

I was grateful to leave the long slog behind me as I reached the broad summit ridge of A’Mharconaich. I’d only seen one other person since the walk began but as we made our way to the centre of ridge a skier shot across our path heading south west towards Beinn Udlamain. Three more plank-footed adventurers waited between us and the summit. As The Fatdog and I approached they prepared to move off, until FD (by now on her lead) wagged her tail and decided to visit. The Fatdog weaved in and out the group, winding the cord around ski-footed legs. All it needed now was FD to gallop down the slope with three tangled skiers in tow leaving me to explain that shambles to the local MRT. To prevent what was heading for slapstick catastrophe I dropped my end of the lead to the obvious relief of Maisie’s new found friends.

Skiiers on A’Mharconaich

At the summit three walkers were finishing lunch…which as we all know was incredibly lucky for them. I hope you’re reading this Geldo (ScottishHills member) ‘cause your photo’s up next! As you can see…Geldo wasn’t quite as lucky as his friends.

Geldo finds he hasn’t eaten lunch soon enough…and ends up giving half of it away

We had a quick bite with an overexcited Fatdog knocking over the flask and losing half of my tea. I couldn’t stay grumpy for long as the sun was beating down and the views were glorious.

Geldo and friends

Geldo and friends headed for Geal-charn while The Fatdog and I contemplated our descent down the NE slope. The sun was beginning to heat up the top of my head and the back of my neck so on went the bandana and the sunglasses. I sent up a prayer of thanks to The Minor God of February Sunshine for such a cracker of a winter’s day for walking.

Heading down A’Mharconaich’s NE spur

With big crags some 30m off to the right I decided to keep FD on the lead for the first part of the descent. Off down the steep snow slope we hammered, clouds of white powder swirling up from our feet. With only descent left to come my legs were once more in a happy mood so after the ridge flattened out we set of at a quick trot, following the easy downward gradient of the wide rounded spur. Running…ME!

Looking back up to A’Mharconaich

It took us an hour from summit to car with a couple of minor delays. The first was a couple of minutes looking for a burn crossing which, as it transpires, appears not to be necessary once you reach the bridge at the railway. The second was an “Oof!” moment. I thought “Oof!” only lived in comic books but, as I chose not to attempt the splits while erratically descending a short snow slope, I landed heavily on my back to the sound of “Oof!” , as air was dramatically expelled from my lungs.

Even the fall was shrugged off after a brief count of arms and legs. It was difficult to be disappointed about anything in this glorious weather.

Camera balanced precariously on top of the Tank’s wing mirror!

Some 5 hours after setting off we arrived back at the tank ready for the journey home. Back on the A9 the cruise control was set to 60mph and with Steve Earle blasting out the CD player The Fatdog and I left the sunshine of Drumochter (not a phrase in common usage I suspect) already planning a midweek excursion…

.

The Minor God of February Sunshine smiled benevolently upon his worshipers below. Since giving up his job as a Building Control Officer to a post where he could say “No!” on a more regular basis, he was basking in the somewhat puzzled adoration of his newly acquired earthly followers.

February wasn’t supposed to be like this, it was supposed to be dull wet and thick grey…with a bit more wet thrown in just in case. It was his job to deny sunny days to all petitioners but it couldn’t hurt to be nice, just this once. To make sure things didn’t get out of hand he was rationing it strictly to one day per person only.

As he watched the two figures drop down off the mountain his eyes narrowed…he could sense a plan in the making, a plan that would involve an extra day’s sunny weather. He checked his list. No…that pair had most definitely had their February allocation, that was them finished for another year. He made a mental note to keep a beady eye on them.

Odd, he could have sworn that the small black hairy one had just turned and winked…naw…he must have imagined that. He poured himself a cuppa from his flask and with careful precision opened his “My Little Pony” lunch box and reached inside. He frowned as his hand rummaged in an empty void.

As the years pass by I have become increasingly edgy when I find I’ve led The Fatdog into an exposed situation. Narrow summit ridges are a case in point. Narrow summit ridges covered in snow promote me to a superior league of “edginess” altogether. As we neared the final push up the white covered ridge to the summit of Binnein Mor I was feeling very edgy indeed.

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I hadn’t even considered doing a Munro when I scanned the weather forecasts during the week. In fact I hadn’t been thinking much about hillwalking at all (“Burn the Heretic” they scream!). For me and The Fatdog November is a time when thoughts turn to easier pursuits so I was quite surprised when, on Thursday evening, I began to plot a major outing. The forecast had an optimistic feel to it with potentially a bit of brightness and a reasonable chance of walking cloud free Munros in the west. Too good a chance to miss really.

The alarm went off at 6am and by 9am we were off on the wrong track from Kinlochleven to Loch Eilde Mor. As usual the most difficult part of the day is getting out of the car park and once more we had failed the most basic of navigation tests. Still we ended up almost where we had intended, we had just taken the roundabout tourist route to get there. It did however give us our first photo of the day…

Loch Leven with the Pap of Glencoe (left)

I have no intention of detailing the route for the next couple of hours – follow track is about as detailed as it gets. I couldn’t call the route scenic other than the early looks back down Loch Leven.. Mostly it was relatively bleak moorland on the right with the uninspiring south slopes of the easterly Mamores to our left.

We gained height as the path climbed gently across the south face of Sgor Eilde Beag, the panorama to the south gradually expanding in all its glory. From Beinn a’ Bheithir in the west past the dramatic Aonach Eagach Ridge all the way to Schiehallion in the east, mountain top after mountain top became etched on a clear skyline.

It’s a very nice path…

I found a great path! Not just a good path…a great path. On my Harvey map I noticed a zig-zag line, climbing from the main path across the south face of Sgor Eilde Beag. It was where I wanted to go but I was dreading it. I imagined a badly eroded trail with death defying scree. Much to my amazement it was in perfect condition with the type of finished surface that allows you to ease your way upwards with barely any effort. I couldn’t believe my luck. The Fatdog and I virtually flew up the face of Sgor Eilde Beag to the ridge beyond! It was there we caught our first glimpse of Binnein Mor…and the snow.

(Centre – unnamed top) – (Left – Na Gruagaichean) – (Right – Binnein Mor)

If you look at the photo above – we headed straight for the top in the middle – then cut east (right) to the summit of Binnein Mor. But first I wanted to have a quick look down to Coire an Lochain and Sgurr Eilde Mor (off right of photo).

Sgurr Eilde Mor and Coire an Lochain below

A confident Fatdog demonstrated how to “arrest” in snow without the aid of an ice axe.

Sometimes you get the light, and sometimes you don’t. Today we were lucky. Although the sky didn’t look too promising on the way up when we gained the east –west Mamore ridge a localised band of sunlight floodlit both the Mamores and Ben Nevis on the opposite side of the glen. The low, late autumn sun brought the panorama to life. The mountains gleamed. From the car park it had taken us 3 hours to reach this point but as I looked west along the Mamore ridge I had to admit it had been 3 hours well spent.

As we stood admiring the view the bright sunshine began to dull and the colours on the surrounding hills began to fade. It had been spectacular while it lasted though. For FD and I it was time to get down to the serious business of the day, the ascent of Binnein Mor. I looked at the approach for a wee while trying to anticipate any problems for the Fatdog, but it looked a straight run in with only a couple of places nearer the top where things were narrowing a bit. On went Maisie’s lead and off along the ridge we tramped. I realise that the lead won’t stop a fall (which I really don’t anticipate) but it does at least stop her casually wandering near the edge or rushing off to the summit cairn in search of discarded food.

It went pretty much as expected with no real dodgy bits other than at the very top but it did narrow “interestingly” a couple of times. I imagine it would feel nothing on a summer’s day but with a little snow on the ground there is always that wee doubt at the back of the mind.

Looking down on a Munro!

Na Gruagaichean

Summit done! Hmmm…now, could I be sure that the point at which we were uncomfortably perched was the summit…or was it at that pile of rocks 20m away…at the far end of the rocky arête? I looked closer…it didn’t matter. No matter if it was, there was no way I was taking The Fatdog across that snow covered knife edge of jaggy boulders. As it was feet and paws were jammed together while we shuffled around on very top of the mountain in an area some 600mm square with large droppy-off bits to either side. It was time to beat a snappy retreat. We stepped down. I checked my watch 12.45pm, time for nibbles.

The summit arete – where Fatdogs fear to tread!

I scraped the snow from a flattish rock to make way for my foam mat and began removing various items from the pack. Flask, lunch box, choccy bar, Labrador head…I retrieved FD’s goody bag from the bottom of the pack and gave her a chew to keep her occupied whilst I sorted out my snack.

The snow was a tad deeper near the summit…

…and the weather was having second thoughts about behaving itself – but it cleared!

The Fatdog was trying to stare me out. I glared back, my fruit scone with strawberry jam wedged firmly in my gob. From somewhere behind us, hidden by the summit rocks, there was a determined scraping noise. A lone figure appeared, slowly clambered off the arête and made its way down to where we sitting.

“What a great day!” the stranger exclaimed.

“Absullty fashntshc!” I responded, my mouth crammed full of scone and jam.

“Houw, Houw, Ho-uuwww!” added The Fatdog, totally ignoring our new acquaintance, eyes firmly fixed on the remains of Asda’s finest home baking crumbling in my hand.

“Shooshhk!!!” I spluttered at FD, fragments of semi-chewed scone spraying into the chill mountain air..

“Houw, Houw, Ho-uuwww!” insisted The Fatdog completely ignoring my unintelligible command.

With no discernable hesitation the new arrival continued to pretend he was talking to a normal human being and continued the conversation as if I hadn’t covered the summit in a fine layer of scone crumb residue. I swallowed a big mouthful of tea to clear the last of the bun from my throat and made a stab at coherent conversation.

The Fatdog, persistent as ever, continued the demanding “Houw, Houw, Ho-uuwww!” until her gob was firmly in possession of the last drop of strawberry jam from the last crumb of scone.

Our man from Greenock was heading off to Na Gruagaichean and from there back down the corrie towards Mamore Lodge. It would have been good to do the circular but I had no idea how difficult the rock section of Na Gruagaichean would be for FD. We had had a good day so there was no point in pushing our luck. We sat and watched our brief acquaintance quickly make his way along the ridge towards the adjacent Munro.

The “Man from Greenock” bids farewell…and heads west.

A quick look at my watch told me that, at our sedate pace, there was no chance of us doing another hill anyway, so for me and The Fatdog it would be a straight forward walk-out the way we had come in. It was now 1.10pm and it would take us until roughly 4pm to reach the “Tank”. I packed up the non edible remains of lunch and whipped my walking poles from the back of the rucksack. Then, for FD and I, it was the long empty descent back to sea level at Kinlochleven.

Our homeward journey down the ridge to Sgor Eilde Beag – and from there to pick up the path back to Kinlochleven

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It’s 3pm and FD and I are sitting at a granite memorial bench just off the estate track looking down on Loch Leven. Unfortunately the sun isn’t far enough round yet for a classic sunset and is lurking behind the dark solid mass of Beinn a’ Bheithir, but there’s a growing shine to the loch’s surface. I pull out the camera for the last time today. In the distance I can see the mobile phone mast just along from the high perch of Mamore Lodge Hotel so it’s time to call home. J’s pleased that I’ve “clocked in” early (still daylight) and we have a chat as I pour the last of the tea into my cup with the light gradually dropping over Loch Leven. I munch yet another choccy bar and The Fatdog pillages the pack for another Bonio. We’ve about an easy hour’s walking to the car but it’ll pass pretty quickly as we drop back down through the native woodland to Kinlochleven below. Another 5 minutes and we’ll start back down the track but for now we’ll just sit here and take in the view.

(Stephen R Donaldson)

The Wee White Dug

There was no thought of Gods dark, hungry or otherwise on the track from Dalrigh to Cononish. There was however a wee white dug. A very persistent wee white dug. The problem was the wee white dug wasn’t supposed to be there, it was supposed to be at the B&B near the car park. According to the wee white dug’s owner, who asked us to look out for it and chase it back in the general direction of home, this wanton wandering was quite a common occurrence. When we came across the wee beastie it was amiably tagging along with a couple of walkers heading for Beinn Dubhchraig via the bridge at Cononish. The three of us made valiant, if totally unsuccessful, attempts to shoo the wee rogue back along the track but it just wasn’t going to happen. The fortunate intervention of a young lad on a trial bike got us off the hook…once we scraped the gory remains off the road and into a bag….only kiddin’ – we didn’t have a bag between us. I suspect the youngster had been sent out from the farm to escort the little monster home. Whatever he did…we never saw the wee white dug again and some 10 minutes after my companions of one hour’s standing veered left towards the Cononish bridge, leaving me and The Fatdog to continue along the track to its end at the foot of Ben Lui.

From Cononish, Ben Lui’s Coire Gaothach is an impressive feature. With its two distinct ridges either side of the hanging corrie it exudes uneasiness and that feeling of…“Oh s**t, I’ve got to get up there?” To emphasise its point the whole NE side of the mountain looms ominously over the glen as a threat to all those who dare challenge its mighty facade.

Reality is…it’s a bit of a pussycat!

The closer you get to the foot of the mountain the less threatening it all appears.

A short bog and stream crossing of some 20m and we were starting our ascent for real following a path on the right hand side of Allt Coire Ghaothaich. A couple of hundred metres above us a lone figure watched our upward progress. I waved. The watcher raised an arm in return then turned away and disappeared over the next rise.

We caught up with Peter just before entering the corrie. He had supposed to be walking today with one of his buddies and his black lab, but his mate had called off. On seeing The Fatdog, and me waving from below, he had thought his friend had changed his mind and was trying to catch up. I came as a great disappointment I fear! On the plus side Peter provided great entertainment for the rest of the morning including in his cautionary tales a previous abortive exploit in the same corrie in almost zero visibility and the near, if accidental, ascent of Central Gully. The weather in the corrie had been almost balmy but as we crawled onto the ridge a stiff breeze came out of nowhere turning the air icy chill. I had been walking in a thin shirt but now on went the micro fleece and the Rab Generator smock. I hadn’t expected that!

We left Peter to take photographs and The Fatdog and I tackled the corrie rim ascent to the summit. A steep path wound its way near, but never quite in sight of, the drop into Central Gully.

Almost 4 hours from the car park we reached the summit… and the views.

I was still snapping away when Peter caught up with us, but it was now lunch time and time to sit down and just enjoy being there…well enjoy being there once the large hairy head had been removed from the rucksack.

Peter was finished for the day and was about to head back down the way we had come up. I, on the other hand had plans, fluid plans, plans that depended on how the day was going. The weather was perfect and the legs were in great shape so it was time to push things a little. After all, I still had a whole lot of Munros left to do.

As I eyed the drop to Beinn a Chleibh my bagging urges began to kick in….and somewhere deep in the mountain below me The Nameless God stirred and smiled. Another gullible pilgrim was on his way. The Fatdog groaned.

The early afternoon sun was now blazing down and inside my head I was on the perfect roll. In a few hours though inside my head would become darker, a lot darker…

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All Smiles…and then Someone Looks at his Watch

I think it’s safe to say that you don’t expect to meet a Dark and Hungry God on a day like today when the sun is splitting the sky and white fluffy clouds hover peacefully over the glens below you. Such deities are usually reserved for bubbling pits of red hot molten magma or blasted lands of black rock and oozing mires. Having looked down from Ben Lui towards Beinn a Chleibh I can vouch for the absence of both molten magma and oozing mires at that particular location…but appearances can be deceptive.

Having left Peter to his leisurely descent of Ben Lui, FD and I sauntered downward in the direction of Beinn a Chleibh.

Jim stepped out from behind a rock part way down to the bealach. The Fatdog growled and barked suspiciously. Maybe it was an omen. Maybe FD sensed what was to come but in that one moment the fate of our day was sealed. As we chatted about our plans Jim told me of his intention to do all four of the Tyndrum Munros and although I had no firm plans our potential routes more or less coincided so we opted to tag along.

I must have missed the evil chuckle from the earth below as the Nameless God of dreamers, baggers and the gullible realised another sucker was about to sign an dodgy contract but in that one conversation I had stroked my own ego and unknowingly traded my relaxed day out for one of fanciful glory…but uncertain consequences. All thought of the reality of reasonable timescales was quickly forgotten, swallowed by the greed of the incurable bagger. My eyes glowed at the thought of 3 Munros and a contemptuous stroll up a 4th, just to show off. The Nameless God mocked my hunger and shuffled off to consult his dusty tome in which he could check his purgatorial fee per Munro ascent.

Beinn a Chleibh was an easy stroll after Ben Lui and was marked more by the happy smiling faces of sun drenched walkers than by any feature of the hill itself. There was only a very brief halt on the summit before we turned tail and strode back down to the bealach, ready to take up our next challenge…the pathless traverse of Ben Lui’s south slope to pick up the SE ridge down to the bealach between Ben Lui and Ben Oss.

It was an uninteresting slog other than a near(ish) encounter with a female ptarmigan. The route from Ben Lui to Ben Oss followed Ben Lui’s south-east ridge for some 1.5km down to the bealach. There followed a similar length of haul up Ben Oss’s south west ridge with about 300m of ascent from the bealach to the summit. I could now feel tiredness creeping into the legs but the Nameless God was keeping to his part of the bargain and was pushing me on past the minor crags towards the top of the hill.

I looked at my watch. I was steadily drifting away from my timescale for the trip. All those chats and breaks with the happy hikers were beginning to mount up and the long traverse past Ben Lui had taken more time than I had anticipated. Jim, myself and The Fatdog took our final break on the summit of Ben Oss, the dipping sun setting up a ruddy glow on the west sides of the surrounding hills. With the sun behind it the east face of Ben Lui was back to its foreboding best, black and threatening. The effort of the final 50m of ascent suggested that I was well past my best and that my legs had very little chance of taking me up the 4th Munro..

As we dropped off eastwards towards the bealach between Ben Oss and Beinn Dubhchraig I made the decision to drop down into the corrie and head back for the car. Again and again I counted my exit time and came to the conclusion that not only was I very tired, but I was very late. Well, very late was actually a gross understatement…I was about 2-3 hours behind where I should have been. In my need to grab that extra Munro I had totally miscalculated. I hauled off my pack for a drink and shook my head in disgust. I hadn’t even packed enough fluid for a trip of this size…my two bottles had only a few mouthfuls left in each with at least two hours walking left to go. The Nameless God had opened the till and was beginning to make up the bill.

Jim had decided to keep to his original plan and tackle Beinn Dubhchraig so we said our goodbyes and off he marched up the path on the west slope. Anxious to make our way back to the car The Fatdog and I hurried to the corrie’s edge…

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A Dark and Hungry God Arises…”It’s time to pay up!”

The Fatdog and I peered over the corrie’s edge. In the distance the bright green roofs of Cononish farm provided a focus for the route out but I could see bugger all way of getting down the corrie without a lot of slow hard grind. The initial descent was full of little crags and shallow ravines. I scanned for any trace of a path but there was nothing to suggest a well trodden route. Oh well, it was going to have to be up and over Beinn Dubhchraig.

The Nameless God of dreamers, baggers and the gullible leered ominously then called in the trade. My misplaced belief and over-ambition was about to be called to account. Time-wise I had pushed us well beyond where we should have been. I looked at my watch for the umpteenth time. We should be half way to Larbert by now. With Jim disappearing up Beinn Dubhchraig FD and I were on our own and I could sense an unaccustomed anxiousness sneaking into my mind.

I knew that unless I made the correct decision now I could have us stumbling around in the dark. At best we could make the descent from Beinn Dubhchraig in 2 hours, flat out. Assuming we could make the ascent from our current position in the bealach to Beinn Dubhchraig’s lochans at the 900m contour in say half and hour, then we could be back at the car about 8.30…just as darkness was setting in. That would be about the time J would be thinking of hitting the panic button. Even now we were beyond our contact time. I had no signal on the mobile and wasn’t anticipating having one until Lochearnhead, and we wouldn’t reach Lochearnhead until about 9.00pm at earliest.

The ascent up Beinn Dubhchraig went better than I expected given the psychological blow of being forced into yet another climb. Much to my surprise I felt I could have made the summit easily. But by now I was totally focussed on what needed to be done.

Jim was well on his way to the top and by the time I reached the lochans he was disappearing over the final crest towards the cairn. Now I had to make a decision…would I head down on my own or would I wait for Jim. The problem was that Jim was under the impression I was half way to Cononish by now and I had no way of knowing whether or not he had seen me tailing him. If I waited I would lose at minimum another 15 minutes. Jim knew of a route off Beinn Dubhchraig avoiding “The Bog” which was tempting me into waiting, but the length of that delay was uncertain…the bog wasn’t.

Once again The Fatdog and I stood on a corrie’s edge.

This time there was no hesitation. With The Fatdog close behind I plummeted off the hill like a downhill slalom skier, poles working frantically as I zig-zagged down the soft grassy bog. I knew this corrie and knew I could push the pace as far as the trees, if I kept off the path and on the yielding vegetation at the side. The following hour and thirty minutes had to be the worst I’ve known on the hills. The pace inevitably slowed as the energy levels slowly drained away. I was now out of water and out of leg power but I had reached the trees on the lower slopes. Squelching through thick mire I brushed aside tall brown bracken fronds as the tree branches overhead began to filter out the last half hour of glowing sunlight. I lost count of the times my boots disappeared above the ankles into the sticky, black, sludge of “The Bog” as we waded through the old forest swamp. Only one suicidal insect dared take a bite at my person leaving a red blotch the size of a 2 pence piece. It is no longer.

As we neared the burn crossing I looked back through pine branch silhouettes to see the last of the evening sun drop behind Ben Lui with the Tyndrum Munros taking on the dark foreboding colour of night. Without a thought for its ability to support our combined weight (which was dropping by the minute) we staggered across the old rickety bridge and straight through the final bog of the day with no attempt to skirt around the worst of the marshland.

The legs were barely functioning as we shuffled our way along the track back to the old road at Dalrigh. The Fatdog, stoic as ever, looked a metre off my pace but was still plodding on relentlessly. We were minutes away from darkness. Swallows were making their last dives of the evening and small bats were flapping frantically in a warm up for their nightly adventures. For my part it was all I could do to concentrate on keeping the legs moving but I was also becoming increasingly anxious about getting a phone signal…which is when my mobile phone went off.

It’s difficult to put into words the relief at hearing that horrible racket echoing from somewhere inside the pack. I could sense the worry in J’s voice as the interrogation began. I think my voice rattled her as it quavered as I tried to string a sentence together. I must have sounded pretty bad as she even suggested coming up to meet me half way. I assured her that I would be taking my time driving back and would have a break and gallons of tea before starting the drive home. With J partly reassured The Fatdog and I were now able to take it easy and amble the last few hundred metres to the car. Some 12 hours after starting out we arrived back at the car park, the outlines of 4 shadowy vehicles suggesting we weren’t the last back from the hills.

Trying to take my boots off proved to be a lengthy operation as I’d barely the energy left to untie my double knotted laces. Removing the socks was a nightmare with various inner leg muscles itching to go “twang”. I avoided the worst of one spasm by slamming one foot onto the ground and applying pressure before the pain shot all the way up my right leg. I was in a state of imminent dilapidation.

A figure loomed out of the darkness from the Cononish track. Jim had discovered his descent route was no better than mine, having waded about in the River Cononish. He was in a lot better shape than me though.

It must have taken me 20-30 minutes to get changed to drive home. I could hardly eat or drink and was not feeling great. I reckoned my heart rate must have been well up on normal. We stopped off in lay-bys on the way home gradually topping up the fluid and food intake and at Callander I gave J another ring to update her on our homeward progress. By now, thankfully, I could feel my system settling down with some sense of normality being slowly restored.

Ultimately the baggers euphoria kicked in and with 3 Munros in the bag (and nearly an accidental 4th – although we’d done that one last year) there was no way that achievement was going to be ignored or forgotten.  The Nameless God was forgotten once more as The Beach Boys Greatest Hits was slammed into the “Tank’s” CD player and The Fatdog and I howled triumphantly along to “Surfin USA” all the way home.

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The Nameless God chortled in delight at the pathetic sight shuffling down the track away from the hills. Another day…another sucker. On reflection it was a pretty good life for a God in this part of the world with its seemingly endless supply of human weakness. He might never be revered but they would bloody well remember His name…! ???????????

Click

HERE

The view you can see in the photo above is that of “Jock’s Bog”. I coined the name earlier in the day having taken an unexpected detour off “Jock’s Road”. I didn’t notice the cairn indicating a change in direction and very soon found myself squelching around the lower western slopes of Crow Craigies as opposed to being on the significantly drier looking ridgeline. I only bring this up because I’m not doing a lot else just now other than sitting on the grass looking down on the soggy morass below.

I’m sitting on the grass because my right foot’s stuck down a hole and my leg has disappeared to just above the knee. I was lucky, I don’t think anything’s damaged but the inside of my left thigh did an unusual sort of a stretch which, if it had been a sound, would have been a discordant “twang”.

I’m very keen not to move too quickly so I’m gingerly, and up to this point unsuccessfully, attempting to retrieve my foot from the sinkhole but it’s having none of it. On the plus side I’ve managed to shift my left leg for the first time since landing awkwardly and the first signs are promising…no squeaks or yelps. The Fatdog has planked her bum down beside me and watches me patiently, waiting for me to do something interesting…

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There was glorious early morning sunshine, sprightly young pheasants…and the blood splattered carnage of road kill bunnies littering the narrow winding Glen Clova road. This suggested a rabbit population with an uncompromising death wish. Rising sun headbands were ceremonially tied around big pointy ears before they marched from their burrows on their nightly one way mission. Come morning they were carrion fodder. History does not record what their mission was or whether it was a success. One thing is for certain, there was an attrition rate to rival that of the Somme.

The sun continued to shine as we, and an army of mountain rescue personnel, parked at the forestry car park at Glendoll Lodge. The red clad hordes appeared to be taking part in a massive training exercise with a whole array of organisations involved…including the polis. I reckoned remembering to pay the £2 parking charge would be a shrewd move on my part. You never know…I might need them later.

By 9.15 we were off along the forestry road and then onto the trail that is Jock’s Road, the old hill route to Braemar.

I imagine, on a dark and dingy day, the walk through the woods would be a bit “Lions and Tigers and Bears, Oh My!”, but for now, in the dappled sunlight, it was a very pleasant if monotonous stroll the quiet broken only by the rush of White Water below and the respective whirring and grunting of two mountain bikes and their owners as they wobbled by.

After about an hour we reached the high ladder stile entrance into Glendoll. I expected The Fatdog to squeeze under the gate but no, FD had another idea all together. The Fatdog is not generally known for her athletic prowess, in fact, quite the opposite. Tentative would be a good description of her approach to all things inedible. I was almost at the top of the stile when I heard a frantic scrambling behind me. Paws flailing wildly The Fatdog lurched past then scrambled unconvincingly down the other side. I stood on the top staring in disbelief at FD’s retreating frame wondering…WHY?

Once past the deer fence trees become a distant memory. The steep sided heather clad glen narrowed towards the north, the surrounding terrain becoming ever more rugged as we climbed the narrow trail on the east side of the glen. This was to be the most scenic section of the day, the path from the stile to the shelter at Lunkard.

I contemplated ending the story here, at the mountain rescue bothy.

It was just past this point that we missed the upward trail that was Jock’s Road and ended up following another straight into Jock’s Bog. I should have bitten the bullet and climbed straight up to meet the path but instead I opted to cut slowly upwards across the side of Crow Craigies which proved to be a slow soggy drag of tussocks, minor hags and treacherous bright green squelchy stuff.

I had read that both Tolmount and Tom Buidhe were fairly uninspiring Munros so I had hoped that this route might prove to be more uplifting than the route across from Glenshee . I’m afraid not. While a number of the surrounding hills do have some degree of character, this pair has all the appeal of a 1960’s Soviet apartment block. They were found lacking…but they proved to be easy, so I shouldn’t complain.

Having hacked our way across Crow Craigies to the watershed we were treated to one partial view of Loch Callater to the north. The other views were tame and distant. To the east I recognised the characteristic summit pimples of the Lochnagar 5, reminders of our longest walk to date, all 30 (never to be repeated) km of it.

Where Glendoll had been one of hillwalking’s “must sees” what lay beyond came into the “only if you must” category. I expect the full traverse of Jock’s Road would be more rewarding but our initial destination lay near the half way point of that walk in a rolling landscape of dreary bleakness. It didn’t help that the blue morning sky had now dulled to a woeful shade of grey and thickening cloud from the west was beginning to swirl around the nearby Munro summits. A few hundred metres of easy ascent from the watershed and we’d reached the summit of Tolmount.

We had a snack in a little shelter before strolling across some more bog onto the next un-Munro like bump in the landscape. Tom Buidhe.

On the summit of our second Munro of the day the cairn was occupied and with no other obvious spot for a semi-sheltered seat we marched straight past the small pile of rocks and down its gentle SE slope to pick an easy route down to White Water…and back into “Jock’s Bog”.

We were roughly half way down when our descent came to an abrupt halt as my right foot disappeared down a hidden hole. It was somewhat ironic as I’d spent most of the descent keeping The Fatdog away from a number of the more obvious dog traps. The jolt was sudden and bone shaking. While the right leg was surging down into the earth, the left leg, undecided on an appropriate course of action, waggled about ineffectually before opting on the wide splay position. Things in the inner thigh stretched, squealed, screamed…then went deadly silent.

Total collapse was prevented by getting my arms down in front of me before my face made contact with the local flora…but my position was unsustainable in the long term. Given the possibility of bad things having happened to either leg I now had a wee problem…what did I try to move first? I didn’t dare move the overstretched left until I was in a position where collapse could be catered for and the right felt pretty well wedged.

Without moving either of my legs I managed to push off with my hands and get my bum onto the ground. I slowly supported the left leg and eased it into a less ridiculous position in front of me. To my relief that went a lot better than expected. I pulled gently on the right leg but couldn’t move it much. I pulled a bit harder and it moved upwards a little but it was still pretty much stuck. Still unsure of the condition of the left leg I stretched forward until I could reach the hole where the right was jammed. Trying to minimise any movement I reached into the hole and pulled vegetation away from the top of my boot and slowly, an inch at a time, my foot emerged into daylight once more.

Good…I now had both legs ready for the big event of the day…the standing up bit!

I rolled onto my knees and slowly wobbled unsteadily to my feet…then strode off down the hill and back to the car as if nothing had happened.

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“Sorry? You expected from the plot line that I might have become a convenient victim for the mountain rescue guys?” “Nope…wasn’t injured in the slightest…all hype” Funny how things work out eh! Let’s face it without it this “tail” would have had as much life as a Glen Clova kamikaze bunny!

What? You don’t believe the bit about The Fatdog and the stile? Have a peek below.

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