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.