loch creran

loch creran from slopes of creach bheinn

A pleasant November day four  years ago found me and my wee dog, not in photograph, heading onto Creach Bheinn.  Loch Creran stretched out serenely at our feet. It was a lovely, cold morning with not a breath of wind and a day to wander free with only my thoughts for company.

'we shall never cease from exploration

and the end of all our exploring

will be to arrive where we started

and know the place for the first time'

T. S. Eliot

mont blanc - super dangereux

I cannot remember where my love of mountains began. Early childhood experiences, people met, opportunities afforded, decisions hardly recalled, who knows? My mountaineering aspirations were born among such scarcely realized influences. They developed as I extended my boundaries and mountain experiences.

Thus did the 4807 metres of snow and ice that is Mont Blanc fill my horizon with a burning desire to stand on its summit.

Its position on the western boundary of the European Alps, with its complicated topography, attracts its own weather. In the dreamy Alpine hamlets all can be calm, while the summit peak can be gripped in a maelstrom of wind, spindrift and ice. Mont Blanc can be serene and beautiful, it can be an awesome, deadly killer, whatever its mood it demands respect.

A hot day in late August 1988 found me by the shore of Lac Leman, Geneva, gazing transfixed past its spectacular water fountain, to the distant horizon where the massive gleaming white pyramid that is Mont Blanc shimmered in the sun and seemed suspended above the earth. Would I really stand atop that lofty pedestal, why would I want to? Why can be difficult to explain, perhaps understanding dilutes the desire.

mont blanc towers over chamonix

The weather in the Chamonix valley is foul and not boding well when I team up with my two colleagues. We snatch the ‘Petit Aguille Verte’, then after some serious knee breaking work on the Merdis Glas followed by a late afternoon in front of tumble dryers, we are dry enough to consider our next option, a choice of play low and go home or take advantage of a wee hole in the weather coming up the next day. Our lack of acclimatisation stacked against our success. We opt to take advantage of the weather break. What would you have done?

 A fitful sleep, to the accompaniment of a severe electrical storm complete with heavenly pyrotechnic display and rolling percussion hardly fills me with confidence. In the morning I peek out to a clear, if windy morning. Mont Blanc’s head is coyly hiding beneath a billowing raiment of white silk.

Rucksack repacked for the umpteenth time, then, past the long winding tourist queue, into the Aguille du Midi cable car. After a short, speedy ascent, we alight at the half way station and watch the remaining passengers swing and sway, ever upward, to their summit for the day.

My colleagues and I are soon crossing our first small area of glacier. Quite a tame stretch of ice, giving no clue as to the shock we are about to experience as we leave it. A simple ascent across broken ground is followed by a scramble through steep rock. We then gingerly pick our way along a narrow ledge under a towering buttress and as we round a corner our gaze is exposed to the first real obstacle of our journey, the Bossons Glacier.

super dangereux

Then we are on the glacier, a spectacular potpourri of twisted, shattered ice and towering seracs. Every few minutes we hear the sound of some serac or other huge ice monument crashing onto the glacier or down a crevasse, not the most reassuring sound, however spectacular. Roped and crampon footed we gingerly turn and twist over knife edged ice bridges perched above another pitch black, seemingly bottomless, crevasse, like some wide mouthed creatures awaiting a stumble. We encounter a well equipped party who are retreating from this precarious place, warning us of ‘Super Dangereux’ crevasses, we press on. Our passage is interrupted momentarily and we watch helplessly, for what seems an eternity, as an avalanche directly above us booms out a warning and careers headlong towards us, only to crash behind a distant fold and never reappear.

refuge des grand mulets (from a postcard)

 The final barrier is breached, not without some difficulty and a heart stopping uphill leap across another chasm among a frenzied flurry of kicking crampons and flailing ice axes. Then we are through onto steep but easier snow. It is now possible to see our haven for that night, Refuge des Grand Mulets, a silver coloured rectangular box, perched precariously amongst a rocky outcrop, high above us on the right bank of the creeping glacier. We cover the ground quickly and are soon scrambling up through the rocks and into our refuge at 3051 metres. The time is 1.00pm.

Boots discarded we settle in and take on board sustenance, in the form of bread, cheese and chocolate, washed down by copious quantities of warm tea. An afternoon of lazing about on sun drenched rocks follows. At 6.30pm we are summoned to partake of the communal meal, prepared by the Guardian of the Refuge. Choice is limited to, ‘take it’ or don’t eat. There followed a hot, greasy stew of questionable origin. Well, not so questionable really, does anybody remember ‘Shergar’’?

The day concludes in spectacular fashion, with the sun settling down over the jagged silhouettes of a thousand peaks. Its dying embers wash the sky from crimson, through countless hues to a golden finale. I crawl onto my allotted space on the ‘open plan’ communal shelf and curl-up into my individual hairy blanket. I fall asleep, tired and expectant.

Our cheery Nepalese assistant guardian arouses us from my slumbers at 1.00am. A cold breakfast of lukewarm tea, hard bread and jam follows. We then fumble about in the glow of our head torches and rope up for the day. A quick descent through steep, ice-covered rocks, a brief stop to don crampons, then onto the glacier and away.

The inky black sky is encrusted with shimmering diamonds with full moon beaming its silver smile on us. So bright that it’s reflected light on the vast White Mountain allows us to conserve our head torch batteries.

We crunch our way over the ever-steepening glacier, avoiding black chasms where we can and crossing them when we must. Our meandering ascent takes us under high beetling ice covered buttresses and a fresh covering of snow requires trail breaking and a steady rhythm. It is not long before the predicted altitude sickness overtakes the party and we go very quiet as we try to walk through it, quiet that is, apart from the noisy retching and groaning. I look behind and the distant twinkling lights of Chamonix turn my thoughts to cosy beds and warm duvets.

vallot refuge

My malaise recedes with the dawn and the changing of the sky from inky blackness, through shades of grey then blue, tinged by a pink glow. I feel ready for the next phase of my journey and soon emerge from le Grand Plateau onto the ridge beside the Vallot Refuge at 4362 metres. I can almost see the summit from here and muse; it’s not much higher than Dumyat from here, perhaps its possible after all. 

It had settled into a cold, clear, windy day at our altitude, while far below the valleys were filled with white cotton wool.

Our spirits are high as we traverse the narrowing icy ridges that lead to the summit. Then, there it is, the summit of Mont Blanc, a few hundred feet up a narrow two foot wide strip of ice, with mind blowing drops down either flank into Italy on one side and France the other.

Above our position a duet of climbers get into trouble. Both slither slowly, imperceptibly gathering speed, disaster looms. We look on in helpless disbelief. The lower of the sliding pair affects an ice axe arrest and stops; his roped companion hurtles past, in the general direction of Chamonix. We gape and for a few short seconds, which seem endless, the drama unfolds. A thin lifeline of rope snakes out to its full extent, goes taut and the descending German is yanked to an unceremonious halt. As we move forward and watch he gets to his feet, smiles, shrugs his shoulders and applauds his companion. A reasonable response. We speak to them and all appears in order so we push on. Was that a reminder by the mountain to take it seriously?

We are soon over the final ridge and onto the summit of Western Europe. A military jet rises from our left, up the French flank, in a vertical climb, spins over our heads in a victory roll before plunging down the Italian side. Am I so important, or was it just a coincidence.

I stand on the summit amidst a mixture of emotions, elation probably uppermost, as through tear filled eyes I try to make out some of the other great mountains that are thrusting out of the Alps massif. The Matterhorn, Dent Blanch, Monta Rosa and more, wow!

the summit party

Then it was time to get out of there before it changed its mind. A thought supported by our guide, Roger Payne, who said, 'hurry up and get your photographs then let's get down before the bastard kills us!'

The accursed mountain had briefly let down its guard and allowed me the privilege of standing on its summit; many have not been so lucky. It can be a lonely, frightening and unforgiving place; but maybe that’s where the fun is.

Postscript: Roger Payne, who so professionally guided our party to the summit of Mont Blanc, died on this mountain a few weeks ago. I have posted this article, written some years ago, in his memory and take the liberty of adding a few thought of my own about Roger.

roger belays one of our party across a tricky snow bridge

 I was a client of Roger's on that trip, not a real mountaineer, I would never call myself that. Client, mountaineer, it did not to matter to Roger one little bit, he had such an enthusiasm for life and an understanding of people that his whole being simply radiated friendship and whilst hardly knowing him, he made me feel special, he made me feel I could be a mountaineer, he made me feel that we were friends and despite our seriously short history together I have always regarded him as a friend.

Roger Payne was indestructible, his love of life brimmed over, he was the real deal. He gave so much in a world where most cannot give for taking.

I will never forget you Roger, you will never understand what you did for me.

red squirrel

red squirrel

I was quietly doing a bit of bird watching in a forest near Loch Ken, Castle Douglas, trying, unsuccessfully, to photograph a lesser spotted woodpecker when I became aware of a red squirrel doing a bit of people watching.

the gaick pass by bike

auld gits by edendon water

November 2008 and a group of 'auld gits' is meeting in Blair Athol. It is about 7.30 am and the gathering is upon us. There are eight auld gits on that cold November morning in Blair. After warm greetings and some nervous packing and repacking of panniers we are ready for the off on the first part of our weekend cycling odyssey to Ruigh-aiteachain in Glen Feshie, via the old military road, the Gaick Pass. We set off in dribs and drabs, no peleton for us. Our first ten miles or so takes us along the old A9 road from Blair Athol, past Bruar and Calvine to Dalnacardoch where we leave tarmac and follow the old wagon tracks that lead due north into the mountains and the Gaick. Just north of Calvine we encounter a large red deer stag on the side of the road. He has his head down in vegetation and is oblivious to our approach. We get within a few feet of him before he becomes aware of us and crashes into the trees and undergrowth. He probably git a whiff of Dave.

Dalnacardoch shooting lodge was built in 1715 to serve the General Wade Military Road, the Gaick.

The Gaick is a hill pass that connects Badenoch and Strathspey in the North with the lands of Atholl in the South. I understand that Gaick is Gaelic for cleft and the pass is a glacial valley with very steep sides and a wide flat-bottomed floor. A bird's eye view will see the line of the main A9 road between Dalnacardoch and Kingussie tracing the shape of a bow with the Gaick making the string of that bow.

badnambiast cottage on the gaick

At the point we leave the old A9 road and cross the new dual carriageway to enter the Gaick track there is a high fence and gate. The gate is locked this fine day so we have to remove the panniers and lift everything over the gate before reassembling and getting on our way. It is good that we have already got our second wind, having already cycled ten miles, because the next mile is steepish and uphill. At the top of the incline we emerge from the forest onto open hillside and see our track winding away to the north. It is going to be a good day. We are soon scudding along a good track. We pass a large cairn on our left. To this day we have no idea it's purpose, other than just being a cairn. Then we pass a lonely uninhabited cottage, Badnambiast. Again on our left and sitting high above the Edendon Water. Edendon Water emerges from the Cama' Choire, a spectacular steep sided choire, complete with waterfalls, that cuts into the eastern flank of the Drumochter hills between the Munros of A'Bhuidheanach Bheag and Carn na Caim.

gaick from an dun looking south over sronphadruig lodge

Then we are clustered again at Sronphadruig Lodge as we dismount and push and drag our bikes across half a kilometre or so of seriously mucky peat hag. Our bikes are soon covered in glaur, as are we. If you have never tried dragging bikes, laden down with bulging panniers, in and out of acres of peat hag, you are not missing anything. Honest. After what seems an age we are on the narrow path that runs along the west side of Loch an Duin, on the steep flank of An Dun. One or two of the more daring of our group cycled bits of it. Most of us had a hard enough time stopping ourselves falling from the steep path into the bloody loch. To make it more interesting, there was a fierce gale howling through the pass, strong enough to spray loch water on us and strong enough to blow one of our group's cycle goggles from his head, never to be found. There was also patches of hard snow on the track. Despite that it was exhilarating and despite our moans we were soon at the north end of the loch, at the outflow. There followed a tricky moment or two as we carefully teetered our way across on not very obvious, or stable, boulders. We then cooried doon in the lee of the bank to have a well earned food stop.

Then we were off again and back on cart track, or to be modern, land rover track. The next few kilometres were downhill and reasonable cycling, if a little rough in some sections. Ahead of us lay Loch Bhrodainn and then our biggest challenge, the crossing of Allt Gharbh Ghaig. The Gharbh Ghaig emerges from the huge plateau to the west of the Tilt and can range from a fearsome, uncrossable torrent to a widish easy running stream. If the former, then we are headed back to Blair Athol. It was behaving itself today and with only the risk of wet feet we safely emerged beyond it. One of our group managed to cycle right through it. Bully for him.

An ancient tale about this area tells of a stranger gifting his dog Brodan, to a hunter. The hunter soon realised that the dog was a magical beast. It was the hunter's great ambition to hunt the white fairy deer of Ben Alder and with Brodan he did so. An epic chase ensued in which Brodan, with the magical deer in it's jaws, disappeared into a loch in the Gaick. That loch from that moment to carry the dog's name for eternity, Bhrodainn.

gaick from loch an duin north to loch bhrodainn

Another tale of this area, not so magical, concerns avalanches and over the years many have been witnessed and recorded in this part of the steep sided, narrow Gaick. Most dramatic being on new year's eve 1800 when Gaick Lodge, as it stood then, was overwhelmed by a huge avalanche. Unfortunately there were people in residence and after some time the remains of five men and their dogs, who had been sleeping in the bothy, were recovered.

No avalanches for us, although it is uncommonly cold. The track past Gaick Lodge and then Loch an t-Seilich is good quality and obviously used regularly by vehicles visiting the lodge. At the north end of the loch, near Poll Dubh one encounters a water board station and the track changes to a tarred road. The hard part of The Gaick is over for us and we simply cycle the last few miles to Tromie Bridge and Drumguish where we swing right and into a forest track as we head into Glen Feshie. We still have eight or nine kilometres left before we reach Ruigh-aiteachain but none of it is too onerous, apart from one stretch on wet grass where a couple of us without knobbly tyres slip and slide a bit. Then we are at our destination.

For those with no experience of bothy living what follows is interesting. There are already some people ensconced in front of a roaring fire, so protocol means you try not to disturb them too much. We spread ourselves in the fireless room and set to work getting our cookers going and preparing our respective meals. Understand, a bothy tends not to be well equipped with chairs and tables. So with space at a premium, the 'dancing' and waltzing about so as not to get in each other's way is amusing and would be worth a study for behavioural psychologists. Despite that we are soon feed and watered. Alcohol is calling. So we make our way into the other room, the only other room in the bothy, the one with the lit fire and with people already clustered around it and in deep conversation. It does not take long for our larger numbers to take over and soon we are singing, telling tall tales and laughing, even although we hear them every time we gather. Oh, we also partake of the alcohol. It is not about the alcohol, it is about reducing the weight of the pannier.

Then back to the cold room where we spread our sleeping bags on the freezing concrete floor and get snuggled in. We are a tired bunch.

Getting out of the bothy in the pitch dark to answer calls of nature are for another study and best forgotten.

our guardian angel watched over us the whole trip

We, each and every one of us, combined age some 500 and more years, thoroughly enjoyed our trip through the Gaick and would recommend it to anyone.

Wait till I tell you how we got home. But that's another day.

new zealand antidote for jet lag

I have just arrived in New Zealand, Rotorua to be exact, it is about 2.00 a.m and my first impression is of drifting smoke and the smell of rotten eggs. I have been travelling for more than thirty hours and just want to sleep. My slumbers are rudely interrupted by my son, who tells me to get up or the jet lag will only get worse. He has a busy day planned, no dozing about for me. A quick breakfast and then we are heading to meet a friend of his who has an exciting introduction to this land of adventure.

‘White Water Excitement’ are running a free promotional trip down the Kaituna river and there are two spaces available. I soon find out why. Our guide, Nick Gutry, fits us up with wetsuits and goes over the safety drill and after a short portage we are on the river in our inflatable raft. More instruction follows as we bob through exciting and ‘dangerous’ white water. Did I have a surprise waiting?

For the uninitiated it might be of interest at this stage to explain that travelling in an inflatable raft requires one to sit, precariously balanced, on the side of the raft, leaning out over the water whilst propelling it forward with a paddle. Staying on board requires jamming a foot, your own preferably, under one of the inflated cross tubes that fit across the width of the raft to keep it rigid. An uncomfortable position. We are descending a grade five river and will go over a series of waterfalls, one of these, the Okere Falls, some nine metres of a drop and apparently the highest commercially rafted fall in the world. As we pleasantly drift we receive important 'in flight' safety instructions. Apparently and most importantly is to paddle really hard as we near the top of the falls.This will keep us in control. We don't want, under any circumstances, to get out of control and go into the waterfall sideways or backwards. I nod sagely. No we certainly cannot afford to go in backwards, what am I saying, I don't even want to go in 'frontwards'. Seems there is a fifty-fifty chance of remaining upright with even shorter odds of us all remaining in the craft. Now he tells me! We certainly will not stay dry.

The river now enters a meandering narrow gorge, dank and gloomy. The sheer vertical walls are covered in vegetation, mostly ferns of one sort or another. I also see fantails flitting about. To complete the picture a thin mist hangs in the air. A hundred and fifty foot above us a narrow strip of blue. That must be the sky I muse. Then I hear the falls. A faint, non-threatening sound soon transforms to a deafening roar and we are urged to paddle faster, in the wrong direction I think to myself. Our guide, sitting calmly on the stern, steers our craft into the best position to tackle the narrow entry. No going back now, no last minute escape for the faint hearted.

My memory is limited, fragmented into a few short snapshots. I recall being hurtled forward at breakneck speed, at the same time urgently paddling towards the abyss, all accompanied by the incessant, increasingly deafening roar as the torrent accelerates uncontrollably over the cliff. I remember thinking, 'what am I paddling for, were going over anyway.'

Nick’s cool commands permeate the roar. GET DOWN, HOLD ON. I did. My stomach seems intent on leaving my body through my mouth. I am deafened by roaring water and screams. All seems chaos. We crash onto the next level and I am aware of being struck about my shoulder by a flailing paddle then beaten up by thousands of gallons of water. Our rubber craft is helplessly trapped by the awesome hydro-power and thrown about like a cork in a toilet bowl. I stubbornly cling on. Then we are released and I am aware of cheering. I, then a fifty two year old child who should know better, am also cheering, with relief I suspect.

We rest a few minutes, gather our wits, gaze back at the falls, then we were off to traverse the remainder of the river. There were plenty other white water experiences and we play ‘ride the bucking bronco’ (I think that's what he said. With all the noise and the accent I might have misheard) at one section. This involves getting an idiot to sit astride the prow, facing forward, feet dangling in the river. The remaining crew then paddle the dinghy as hard as they can back into the base of the torrent. The bow is forced violently below the water and the ‘rider’ is pounded senseless by it's brute force. As the craft loses forward momentum, the paddling stops. The sheer raw power of the waterfall dips the front of the craft down alarmingly. Then comes the good bit. Having lost forward momentum and been forced down by the force of water bombarding the prow, hydro powers again take over and in an instant the inflatable is throw backwards out of the torrent. On being so quickly released the front of the craft violently and alarmingly is pitched high into the air, summersaulting the prow rider some feet backward into the boat. As I untangle myself from painters, paddles and the other 'passengers' I understand why this piece of tomfoolery is so named and I wonder; 'why me?' (a painter is a seasalt's name for a rope, showing off a bit there)

Soon we are at the end of our river trip, for that day anyway. The Kaituna offers a relatively short outing, just over an hour, what an hour. It is not regarded as one of the classics, however, certainly for the uninitiated it is an exciting and memorable, if not to say mind blowing, experience.

Probably not for the non-adventure seeker, but a must for anyone looking for an early wake up call to New Zealand and definitely an antidote for jet lag.

As we trudge up from the river porting our inflatable I see my first New Zealand Kingfisher.

thirty years on

layered horns

 

In October 2002, I completed my round of the Scottish, English, Welsh and Irish three thousand foot mountains, included in these were the Munro’s, even those relegated, as well as the new ones. It took me thirty years, to the month, but who’s counting. Following is a garbled summary of my round and a bit more. 

October 1972 and I accept an invitation to go up a hill. I had been up hills before as a youngster, not that I remember much about them. What do I need, my rugby gear will not do. A pair of bendy boots and a Ventile jacket, both purchased in Aberdeen, I think the shop was Andersons, not sure. The hill was Lochnagar. I have vague memories of a Royal Shooting lodge, sweating up a rocky slope, Meikle Pap, then my first view over the edge to the black lochan nestling below an awesome amphitheatre of broken crags and cliffs that seemed to touch the sky. I had never seen anything like it and couldn’t take my eyes off it. Three weeks later it was Glas Maol and Creag Leacach, again faint memories of a plateau, a wooden hut where shelter was taken to eat amidst a blizzard, then a rocky ridge and wonderful views onto the Devil’s Elbow.

It was three years before I again ventured out. This time it was into the Fannichs with members of a Mountain Rescue Team. I was being tried out as a prospective rescue team member. Roddy Lovatt led that day. My memories, not so vague this time, are of a pair of heavy duty ‘shit catchers’, borrowed from a friendly stalker. By the end of the day they felt about a ton in weight, not a good thing as we trailed through deep heather in a wet cold day. Oh the mountain used for my fitness test, Meall Gorm, in the Fannichs. If I thought the walk in from the Ullapool road to Loch Li, followed by a steep ascent onto the ridge went on forever, I had not experienced the interminable trudge back out, dragging by heavy duty plus fours. My test was semi successful, I did not get in and was told to get more time on the hill. Oh, the semi bit, I survived. A dram or two in the Aultguish were memorable.

I had done four Munro’s by then and didn’t even know.

I took the advice and over the next few years I trudged over various mountains, all the time getting more ‘hill fit”. My experience, in terms of becoming fit for the hills, is long breathless pulls up never ending muddy grass. The ridges and the tops however always eased away my pain and I pressed on. By this time I had given up all hope of International honours at rugby, not that anyone else ever thought I had them in the first place. So it was the mountains for me. I am not sure why, many reasons probably, influences scarcely recalled, but a desire to keep fit and the expectation of these exhilarating ridges and summits.

copied from poucher's 1964 book

An important influence was my old father in law and a close friend of his, Frank Wilson. Both had spent years tramping hills all over Scotland, they had little idea which hills, but they had perfect memories of the lochs as their passion was fishing. One Day Frank brought me a treasured book to read. During my devouring of that book I read an account of Ben Alligin and the Horns of Alligin (see picture inset), I was transfixed, there was something mystical about it. Was it named after a Greek God or perhaps a mythical warrior. Alligin was therefore my motivation. The book was Poucher's, 'The Scottish Peaks', my awareness of Munro’s had begun and I promised myself that if I were ever to go over them all, The Horns would wait until last and if I did not get there, then they would remain a mystery to me. I kept that promise.

My experiences over the interim have been many and various and all good. I did join a Mountain Rescue Team and spent some happy years in that organisation, where I had spells as training officer and secretary. Two crossings of Scotland in the ‘Ultimate Challenge', classic rock climbs like Agag’s Grove and Savage Slit, ascent of Mont Blanc, bothy nights, crossing rivers at midnight, inversions, Brocken Specters, wonderful companions and tall stories.

Before finishing I have three completely different moments that will always stay with me.

After a glorious winter day my companion and I were heading along a narrow, steep sided track when we were faced with a large flock of sheep going in the opposite direction. We, being responsible mountaineers immediately took to the bank and sat still, so as not to disrupt the sheep. Behind them was the shepherd with his five four legged helpers. There we sit on the bank blethering to the shepherd who was below our lofty perch. His dogs kept up a crazy pace running hither and yon. I was aware of a hot feeling on my right shoulder and thinking, I know Lifa vests are good, but not that good, I casually looked round and nearly had my right eye poked out by the cocked rear left leg of a collie as it peed on my back.

west ridge of sgurr nan gillean

Another memorable day was in the Glen Lyon hills, again in winter. As my companion and I ascended a ridge we heard a sharp report followed by a deep whirring noise as a bullet passed over our heads. At the end of our day we were intercepted by a well known person who after some heated discussion was persuaded by his companion to get back into their car, as our conversation was about the shooting and perhaps he was saying too much. Yes we had been shot at. Well probably not directly at, as I assume if they had meant to hit us, then we would have been hit. No, it was a warning shot. To my shame I did not report that incident to the authorities.

Then there is Skye and the black cuillin, the jewel of Britain's mountains. One balmy May day on the Skye ridge I was sprawled out looking over Rum when I had one of those moments that I don’t think I have the skill or vocabulary to adequately describe. There was no other place I could have been. For that fleeting moment I was in the exact spot that fate had decreed. For that short time I was in perfect harmony with myself, the mountains and the universe. A magic moment of perfect contentment.

I am now a wee bit older, a bit slower, it is November 2002 and I am facing ‘The Horns”. It is a dreich, blizzardy day and wet snow clings to every ledge. It is 'super dangereux.' I savour every moment and like so many days before, braving out the storm brings its rewards. The black clouds part and stunning views emerge. I have lived my dream, I have kept my promise, to myself and to Frank. I am on Alligin and about to complete my round of the Munros, every last one of them. 

savage slit

I remember why I do this and why I will always do it. It does not need explaining, explanations can devalue, our mountains do not need explaining, they can speak for themselves, just get out and listen to them.