Walking the Watershed

8: Hitting the wall (14th - 21st June)

Wednesday 17th June

The morning failed, thankfully, to bring more midges, but did bring wind and cloud racing in from the northwest. One glance was enough to send me packing. By nine I was across the bridge and hurrying back up the pass.

Despite the forbidding conditions, soft light settled in bright patches on the slopes - although to reach the pass was to be greeted by An Teallach smothered under a cushion of cloud. This almost provoked rejection of a plan to pop up off-route Sgurr nan Each before going over Sgurr nan Clach Geala, thus making Sgurr Mor the walk's fiftieth Munro. Contrived perhaps, but also fitting, it being the last hill of its height. The final decision was delayed by heading straight for the Clach Geala/Each col - before, with cloud still just clear of the tops, the sack was dumped and the extra hill climbed. Not that much more than minimum effort was required, Each's relationship to its higher neighbour being akin to that of Beinn Tulaichean to Cruach Ardrain: more outlying top than separate peak.

Clach Geala was easy too, although cloud now swirled down around the ridge. The earlier softness had hinted the day held no real malice however, and seconds after reaching the pointed summit overlooking a steep, stepped, snow-filled eastern corrie, whiteness drew back to reveal a now-clear An Teallach and a jauntily-angled Stac Pollaidh beyond.

[page 196]

Walking returned to the relaxed enjoyment of yesterday. Carn na Criche came and went - a nondescript top until the 250m crag plunging almost sheer into Loch a'Mhadaidh was seen - then I stood to hear deer clatter the screes beside the Allt a'Choire Mhor far below before turning to Sgurr Mor's final steep cone.

Fifteen minutes saw me kick the cairn of this great northern landmark, then sit down to lunch with a younger man wearing tracksuit and trainers. Remembering how chuffed I had been at having my own intentions correctly guessed at Kinbreack, I voiced a sudden hunch by enquiring if he was attempting the fastest-ever round of Munros. I was right, too! He had set off from Ben Hope on Sunday, with hopes of reaching Ben More on Mull within seventy days. Fifteen of the 277 hills had already been chalked-off, a further six to come that afternoon. His two companions soon joined us: climbing only occasionally, they mainly provided supplies and support. A happy hour was spent swapping stories and plans.

We parted with handshakes and mutual Good Lucks, then I distractedly wandered down and over Beinn Liath Mhor Fannaich. Here, once away from the twin-cairned summit, the going became much rougher. The grey, stony ground from which both this hill and neighbouring Beinn Liath Bheag were named was more a of type with the hills north of the A835 - reached at the head of Loch Droma in late afternoon sunlight.

I needed to visit the Aultguish Inn, five miles eastward, where a parcel containing food, clothes and maps awaited, having been deposited by Bridget and Duncan - part of the Loch Ericht entourage - at Easter. If it had felt strange then, as I spent the weekend in Moffat, to think of people helping out so far ahead in both distance and time, it felt even stranger now to think of all that had happened since. Strange, that was, only until the receptionist handed over the carrier-bag, when I was suddenly interested in nothing other than gleefully rushing off to rediscover its contents!

[page 197]

With a night in the hotel beyond my means, I camped at the east end of Loch Glascarnoch. This differed from most east ends in being attractive and well kept, the elegantly curved grassed-over wall of the huge hydro dam towering above.

I later returned to the hotel - beyond which Ben Wyvis stood as a huge, natural dam wall at the foot of the glen - and treated myself to a bar supper: soup, scampi, crŠme caramel. A couple also down from the Fannaichs came over as I sat watching TV in the lounge. They were from Parwich, near Ashbourne: the third Derbyshire couple met on the walk, and this after years of never having encountered anyone from my old haunts! They kindly sold stamps and took letters to post. After the rigours of the four-day stretch since Gerry's, it was fine to spend an evening in good company and a comfortable armchair, well clear of midges. I arranged to return for breakfast next morning.

With the benefit of hindsight, this was a day of landmarks and endings. The fiftieth Munro, the last previously visited hill, the last people encountered on a hill, the last time for a whole week when I would feel genuinely happy. But only half of these were known at the time, and even they were of little concern. I was simply glad at having reached the end of another section, slightly uncertain as to the wisdom of pushing straight on into the Deargs tomorrow: in so doing I would commit myself to eight days without a break. It was a decision I preferred to leave until morning. By then, a good night's sleep and another look at the weather might clarify the situation. For now, all I knew was I felt - well, pretty fannaiched!