First we headed for the four 'Loch Treig' peaks. Starting from Fersit we climbed easily to the foot of the north ridge of Stob a'Choire Mheadhoin where we got into snow just where the steepness begins. There were another party's buckets to step in but even so it became a bit hair-raising. I had the feeling that an avalanche was imminent, everything was so soft. It was quite a relief to gain the flatter ground above. On the easy ridge between the two Munros we met the makers of the footprints coming back. I pressed ahead and crouched down at the summit of Stob Coire Easain planning a photo of my son as he climbed through the cornice. He thwarted me by breaking through in a new spot. We collapsed in fits of giggles, then I sent him back to do it again! The south ridge appeared untrodden and gave a brilliant descent in virgin snow with the Glencoe peaks sparkling white in the distance ahead.
Where the ridge flattens to a slight col we dropped off westwards over rough and craggy terrain to the Lairig Leacach bothy. Our original plan for the day had included Stob Ban, an awkward little outlier which we had omitted on our traverse of the Grey Corries a few years before, but already the feel of evening hung in the air and we had not brought any overnight equipment so another visit to this pleasant little bothy in the near future seemed inevitable.
First we tackled the other two Loch Treig peaks also from Fersit. One could have a really tough long summer's day doing all four. The streams on the northern slopes of Stob Coire Sgriodain are unusual. Instead of tributaries flowing into a single stream they split up and flow down the hill in different directions. We followed up to inspect the most striking bifurcation, then scrambled onto the steep nose of the mountain. We reached the summit just as the bad weather swept in. By the time we reached the subsidiary top visibility was gone for the day. Compass navigation took us to the two 'tops' of Chno Dearg.
I have always collected the 'tops' as well, even though some of them are a bit obscure. Once having bought a wall chart of the Munros it became a compulsion to fill in all the triangles (Munros) and circles (tops). As the chart was based on the old tables all the tops new and old must be done! From Chno Dearg main summit it was a splendid run down on snow and very satisfying to come out of the mist exactly on the intended bearing; a feat not always achieved in the past! Coming down is harder in every way except 'puff' than going up!
Next day it was back to the Lairig Leacach bothy. From here the climb onto the summit of wee Stob Ban, as I have heard it described, is very short and easy. We varied the return by running down southwards on the snow, but rather regretted it when the snow ran out and we faced the trackless tussocks of the valley. Back at the bothy I was brimming with confidence of success and made a swanky entry in the book: "came back for the 'sore thumb' Stob Ban - 5 to go!".
The next one had to be Ben Klibreck. We drove to the highest starting point at the Crask Inn. It was pouring with rain, thick mist and a howling gale. An unhappy horse was tethered at the roadside but there was no other sign of life. Discouraged we drove on down the road and had an early lunch and brew up near Klibreck Lodge. By then the rain had stopped so there was no excuse. We booted up and set out. We saw recent footmarks on the track and far above made out a tiny figure disappearing up the ridge into the mist. When we got up into the snow we followed the prints easily but were mystified when they multiplied suddenly into two sets up and one down. When we met the owner coming down the mystery was solved. He had got in a white-out high up where the ridge narrows and wisely decided not to pursue the search for the trig point. Coming down the mist had cleared and he had reascended to bag his summit.
Well we were luckier as we reached the top during the day's clear half hour. The summit ridge was spectacularly corniced and storm clouds were brewing to the west. About ten minutes down and the mist engulfed us again. Fortunately we had our own footprints to follow so didn't have to worry about complex navigation. However we could clearly see that its not safe to rely on such aid for very long. By the time we reached the point of departure from the ridge the footprints were almost obliterated; not by fresh snow but just by old snow blown into them by the gale.
We had a cottage booked for a week at Leckmelm, a few miles south of Ullapool. From this base I now had four to do and I think most people would have taken the same decision to polish off Am Faochagach first. Hamish Brown calls it 'the sort of boring peak Munro-baggers deserve'.
We drove round to Strath Vaich and parked near the dam. We walked along the shore of the loch for a short distance and then up the Allt Glas Toll Mor. A track of sorts materialised for part of the way. When this ran out we swung right onto a broad ridge and trudged upwards into the clouds. In this totally featureless terrain it seemed that the climb might go on for ever. A party of about a dozen walkers loomed out of the gloom and greeted us with a cheery 'more lunatics'. A few minutes later we reached a large cairn. Very faintly through the mist we saw another of about equal altitude and size. To be sure we visited both. A melee of footprints made it clear that the other party had done the same. No point in hanging around in these conditions. The descent by the same route went a lot faster - the ideal mountain for getting off!
Only two day's left until completion now: my highest unclimbed summit Beinn Dearg, a fine mountain but one of several with this uninspiring name. The Lake District similarly confuses with two 'Red Pikes'. Far more romantic to say that I finished on the unique 'old mountain' Seana Bhraigh. Besides Hamish Brown describes it as 'one of the really remote peaks in the north' and elsewhere wrote 'its a far cry to Seana Bhraigh'.
So much of the romance of Munro-bagging lies in what other Munro- baggers have written. Words are a powerful drug and there is no doubt that Munro-bagging is a drug too. The spell is cast not just by the mountains, some of which might be admitted to be rather boring; nor by the ticks accumulating in the tables and the triangles and circles on the wall chart changing slowly from white to red; nor yet the conceit of the title 'Munroist' and the prospect of seeing one's name in the list. The multitude of words written about Munros and the quest for Munros combine to weave a spell so powerful that once trapped there is no escape until the last top lies under one's feet.
So next day we started at Inverlael. Soon after leaving the forest we got into snow which seemed very icy and we were optimistic of a good climb with crampons. It was not long however before these promising conditions were superseded by deep soft snow which made progress an uncomfortable wallow. It is often more icy lower down, not what one would expect at first thought but perhaps it is because there has been more melting and re-freezing there. After an agonisingly slow struggle we emerged on the flat triple col between Meall nan Ceapraichean, Cona Meall and Beinn Dearg.
We had been here before after climbing the two Munros to the north. Today's two summits would have been included on that day had we not been overtaken by a thunderstorm. We could hear it and feel it as we raced over the top of Meall nan Ceapraichean. We took shelter under an overhanging rock and when the worst had passed made a run for it down the valley we had struggled up today. Several years later we discovered that we had done quite the wrong thing! Anyway we lived to return. Just one of a few moments that could have ended in disaster. The nearest was on Sgor na h-Ulaidh but that's another story! We passed another pair lunching on the col. Despite all the exhortations never to venture in groups of less than three it is a matter of simple observation that the vast majority of parties consist of two. Not really surprising for two must be the ideal number if one has the right companion. I must confess that quite a few of my Munros were done alone. It is rather hackneyed, but true, to say that walking alone is something rather special, and the lonelier the place the better. This is perhaps especially true for a woman. I feel a lot safer walking, and certainly camping, alone in the mountains than I would in a lot of so called more civilised places. Only six of my Munros were done in a group of more than three.
We kicked steps in the soft snow to the top of Cona Meall where I sat down with the map to figure out which of the array of peaks to the north was the one now certain of a special place in my affections - Seana Bhraigh. The other party caught us up on the top having used our ready made steps to facilitate progress. On the next ascent they did the same for us. A great gale was whipping up the soft snow on the ridge making them look most dramatic as they climbed ahead of us into the sun.
The summit of Beinn Dearg was completely white and strangely quite calm. The other party offered to photograph us sitting on the cairn. I told them that this was my penultimate Munro. They offered to accompany us to the summit of Seana Bhraigh if we were carrying up a bottle of whisky to celebrate!
So there it was. The last one decided. All that remained was deciding how to get there. The books suggest an approach on the private road to Rhidorroch Lodge but looking at the map we could see that we were already closer so decided to walk there straight from our front door. A good track runs through Strath Nimhe and presumably continues to the lodge but we left it at about its highest point and cut across rough country to the ruined bothy in Glen Douchary. From here we flanked onto the ridge which higher up flattens out, changes direction and becomes the west ridge of Seana Bhraigh.
No doubt the approach from the east is more interesting, especially if one ascends by the striking ridge of Creag an Duine, however the western approach has one compensation, the dramatic unfolding of the eastern corrie. For a long time I had been wondering what I would feel as I took my last steps to that final summit. Would I be feeling great elation or would I be overcome with regret that the quest was over? Now it was answered. Any walker taking the last few steps along the west ridge of Seana Bhraigh will have all other thoughts swept away by the sudden stupendous vista as the plateau ends abruptly with a 400m plunge into the depths of Coire Luchd. Nonetheless protocol must be satisfied. In the traditional manner, following the example of the first Munroist Rev. A.E. Robinson, I kissed first the cairn and then my spouse.
This was the crowning moment of many wonderful moments and one or two bad ones. The lowest ebb was on Ben Mhanach. Trudging up in the rain I suddenly thought 'this is daft, I'm only going up here to get a tick'. It was Munro 161 and the one on which I nearly gave up the whole crazy business. Suddenly instead my resolve was strengthened and I knew that I would persist to the last summit. Now I was on that last summit and I felt only delight. Later I realized, as others had warned me, that something had gone out of my life.
Munro-bagging is indeed a drug and sometimes I feel like an addict deprived of her fix. No longer will I set out in pouring rain and thick mist to bag my summit come what may. Now as the rain drums on the roof I turn over in the sleeping bag and await the sun. Yet I cannot keep away from the Highlands. That beauty and wildness draws me back again and again. In the new edition of the tables it says that the Munroist knows Scotland in all its moods. Yet sometimes I feel that I have hardly scratched the surface. To some areas we went again and again to pick off the peaks one by one. To other regions we went once and climbed everything. Often this happened in the most remote and splendid places where one could scarcely bear the thought of never going again. So I shall be back. No longer driven by the compulsion of particular summits I shall wander at will in this magnificent wilderness.
Epilogue:
Looking back on this now the final paragraph seems curiously non-prophetic. Turning over and waiting for the sun is something which has never happened. The peak-bagging compulsion has remained - the Corbetts - the Grahams - and lesser listed hills - have continued to lure me. The enjoyment however is in no way diminished.
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