On another fine day at the beginning of August I drove to Chapeltown, parked in a small car park opposite the church and set off for Càrn Mòr (the big cairn), a Corbett and the highest of the Ladder Hills.
The walk from the car park to the base of the mountain is quite a long one; however, it takes in breathtaking views of the surrounding hills to the north east. The walk is easy going and covers interesting terrain as the path winds around the base of the hills.
Eventually, after crossing a stream, the path sidles into a narrow valley, where the ascent path becomes clear. Compared to my first mountain — Ben Rinnes — the path is far narrower and skirts around the contours as it continuously climbs. A slender slope to my right soon became a rather steep slant as I progressed up the slit-like path between banks of heather. To give a sense of how slimline the path is, the straggling heather would catch the outside of my lower shins as I walked.
It was a very hot day and the sun beamed down on me without the reprieve of a single cloud. I had worn shorts and regretted not having the additional protection that would prevent my legs being continually scraped.
The path bent to the left, which revealed another stream — this one was coursing down the sides of a miniature valley through a rocky cleft in its face. At that point, I heard a distant thrumming coming from above. The water continued to trickle as a rumbling herd of stags moved from right to left and out of view again. Their antlers being the last I saw of them.
I crossed the stream and followed the path around and out of the temporary crook. The path straightens and starts getting steeper from here. The heather thins and all that’s left is a faint band marking the path up a grassy slope to the parapet.
Sadly, this is where I began to struggle. The sloping gradient to the right was indeed quite sharp. The sheep were in no such distress as they munched on the grass. I was able to stretch my fears further than I’d imagined, but unfortunately had to turn back. For a moment, as I looked up at the brow of the hill, my body wouldn’t budge. Even if I managed to push on, there was a real risk of me entering the paralysis zone.
I talked to myself on the way down and rationalised the situation: having spent 33 years walking on flat ground, I couldn’t expect myself to be a dab hand in the hills after climbing a single mountain. I’d walked further than I would have a few years previously and that was good enough for me.
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Up next was Meall a’ Bhuachaille, a Corbett in the Cairngorms. I favoured Geal-charn Mòr, the nearest of the Monadhliath summits to Aviemore, but alas, the weather was fairer east of Aviemore. Until it wasn’t.
After taking a few wrong turns the rain began to pour and my clothing was sodden. This was my first insight into what it feels like to wear the wrong clothing. My cargo trousers were heavy with rain and created a friction that made it difficult to walk. Though my jacket withstood the initial onslaught, it was soon penetrated. The jacket wasn’t leaking as such, but it allowed in enough rain to make me feel uncomfortable.
It was a long walk to the foot of Meall a’ Bhuachaille where a trail forks off near Ryvoan Bothy. The ascent is well trodden, the path is reasonably wide and in some areas stone steps make the going easier. Before long, an annoyingly steep staircase rises up — this was to be my first challenge. I’d only just got onto the bleeding hill and it was trying to throw me off.
I moaned like my spoiled cat for a bit and eventually forced myself up. It wasn’t that high just yet (around 300/400 meters) but the way the hills fell away down the valley made everything seem so much steeper than it was. I could see An Lochan Uaine, which seemed so far off now. Bluff edges, illusions of the land, made my mind squirm.
I walked further, bracing myself against the wind and the rain. The path bent right around the contouring of the hill and as I looked up I saw where my future self would have to walk. It was a staircase too far.
As I turned to see where I’d come from (mistake 1) and then looked back up the hill to see where I was headed (mistake 2), I couldn’t get over the gradient. My mind was telling me I couldn’t do it and I was listening. Behind me, the Cairngorm plateau, lingering behind cloud, rose up to heights I couldn’t even imagine scaling. And yet, exposed on the hillside, appalled by the sheerness of the scene and disliking the moment, I vowed I’d be back.
As I looked around, the landscape appeared to contract, which made me feel slightly giddy. I was forcing myself to become accustomed to the scenery. After sitting around for five minutes, it was clear I wasn’t going any further. My retreat was hastened by a figure clad in black nigh on tumbling down the staircase, as though the Grim Reaper had arrived to usher me down. Even he wasn’t ready to take me just yet.
It turns out it was a group of three Fifers. I tend to act cool around other hillwalkers so as to give the impression I am used to the hills. Back in the bothy whilst eating peanut butter and jam sandwiches, and crunching through Kettle Chips, I listened to the blether whirl around the place. A couple from The Borders spoke about their lack of skill with a map and compass, much to the amusement of the three Fifers. They were truly used to the outdoors: they were well-clad, had the hillwalker’s swagger and had already summited a few Munros, having begun in the early hours.
Sitting there, eating my crisps like a kid on a school trip, I felt a bit stupid. I admired the sturdiness of the Scots that surrounded me. A beautiful bunch of people who in that moment seemed so comfortable in an environment that I wasn’t used to, despite wanting to be. As I said previously, flat places and all that.
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On a whim — on my birthday no less — I decided at noon that it was a good idea to head to the Cairngorms proper and reconnoitre the range I so desperately wanted to climb. Despite my contentedness on the descent from the summit of Ben Rinnes — ‘I really feel like that scratched the itch; I don’t feel the need to climb another mountain’ — my being had been drawn to the hills ever since.
As the plateau came into view I immediately thought of Meall a’ Bhuachaille. The Cairngorm range is so awfully spellbinding; it lures without luring and leaves lasting impressions that appear in dreams. The majesty of the mountains has captured my imagination.
The approach to the car park at the ski centre was enough to increase my heart-rate. When I got out the car, I admired the views down to Loch Morlich. Due to how flat the car park is I felt safe as I stood for a moment to take in the views.
Having watched a few YouTube videos of Munro baggers ascending to Ben Macdui, I was confident I could navigate myself part way there and was even more comforted by the amount of walkers in the vicinity. It was two o’clock when I started walking and I only had two hours before I had to return, so summiting Ben Macdui wasn’t going to be an option.
The path is almost too generous and is easy to navigate. It was a real pleasure to walk on. Even as the gradient increased I always felt comfortable, which goes to show that height isn’t my concern, but rather being exposed and the sheerness of the land.
The path winds through a terrain that is ever-changing: the grass and heather eventually make way for rock and stone. Cairn Lochan begins to fill the scene and I was set on making its base my temporary stop-off before returning, but I ended up taking the wrong path and so I continued on up its right flank, which I believe is called Miadan Creag an Leth-choin.
This time, as I started to feel the fear, seeing the land slope away to my left into the corrie, I decided to look only at my feet and a couple of meters ahead of me. Blinkers on. I reached the summit that wasn’t a summit in good time and even walked close to the edge to peer down into the small turquoise pool in the basin of the corrie. I could see people ascending to Cairn Lochan up a steep path and the valley I’d walk through in the future to the summit of Ben Macdui.
The views from 1080m/3543ft were sublime and I felt no fear, rather I felt a sense of accomplishment having climbed to Munro height. If only it were a summit, maybe that would have scratched the itch…
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