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MOUNTAIN CHALLENGE 2009 - THE STORY (Part 3)

In September Simon set out to climb the three second highest peaks in mainland Britain in 36 hours to raise over £3,000 for the St Mary’s Restoration Project. Gary Butcher and Carina Harris provided the back-up team.

I really didn’t expect to sleep properly on the long drive from Cumbria to the Cairngorms. Huddled in a sleeping bag, the seat belt rubbing my face, I struggled to get comfortable on the back seat of Gary’s car. I was therefore both surprised and pleased when my eyes opened at 2.30am as the car turned off into Aviemore and four hours had passed in no time at all. Gary had broken into his secret supply of Red Bull and driven all the way without a break. The last time I’d been here the snow lay several inches deep on the surface of the road. Now everything was just worryingly wet with fresh rain as we threaded our way through the Rothiemurchus forest and up onto the steep winding road to reach the Cairngorm ski car park. With an immense feeling of relief I released the seat belt and stretched out on the back seat, only to feel the car rock as the first gust of wind hit it side on. The forecast promised gales in the afternoon and if they had arrived early I wouldn’t be going anywhere. There was nothing to be done except go back to sleep and hope things got better.

The shrill bleeping of the alarm came all too quickly two hours later. I sat up reluctantly in the darkness, only to hear the rain patter depressingly on the windows. An early start was out of the question. I reset the alarm for an hour later and put my head back down. At 5.15am I gave up trying to sleep. Dawn was not far away but I could hear that the wind had dropped and the rain had softened. As Gary and Carina woke up I cautiously got out of the car and walked up to the information board. Immediately I spotted an up to date forecast from the Mountain Weather Service. I couldn’t believe it - the gales were no longer coming and the day promised low winds and a higher cloud base. We were back on! This was Carina’s moment to go beyond the call of duty. As I struggled back into my outdoor gear in the back of the car, she stood outside in the wind-blown drizzle coaxing a reluctant stove to boil water for me to refill my flask with tea.

Just after quarter to seven I was off, striding along the well made path, leaving behind the ugly metal tows of the ski area, and heading for Coire an t-Sneachda, the “corrie of the snows.” Despite the persistent light rain, coming sideways on the wind, it was a pleasant walk, but I couldn’t help reflecting on the sobering fact that two years ago a pair of well equipped winter mountaineers had both died near this very path, overcome within an hour of safety by a freezing blizzard driven by one hundred mile an hour winds. The northern corries of the Cairngorms are a winter climber’s playground, easy to access but with challenges for every level of ability. It was therefore slightly strange to see it in summer with a dark scree filled gash splitting the corrie cliffs. I’d climbed it several winters ago as the enticing white snow ramp called Central Gully. Crossing the corrie floor I reflected ruefully that this would also have been much easier in winter when it had a level surface of deep frozen snow. In summer the path disappeared into a field of massive boulders with large recesses beneath them, any of which could easily swallow a leg and snap an ankle. In addition there were now two small lochans too deep to wade and equally boulder strewn around their edges. As I plodded gingerly round them I was already 3,000 feet above sea level and the real climbing had barely begun.

The back of Coire an t-Sneachda is filled with climbers’ crags but to the right is a steep rocky slope known as the Goat Track. In winter it is used as a descent but is almost as steep and avalanche prone as some of the easier gully climbs. Some sort of path cut its way across diagonally before disappearing into the small rocky outcrops higher up. I made my way up carefully, conscious of the wetness of the mud and rocks beneath my feet and the angle of the slope below me. Always steep, the path cut back from side to side seeking the most accessible line until two hundred metres above the corrie I pulled over the top to be greeted by the vast expanse of the Cairngorm plateau. This is Britain’s only true Arctic wilderness, frozen hard under wind scoured snow and ice for six months of the year. The rough red tinged rocks are flat and curved where they have been worn by the elements. The grass is short and tough as it clings to the ground. Even though I was back in the clouds with visibility barely a hundred metres, the sense of vast openness was almost tangible. This was truly a wild place.

Yet, to my surprise, it was a wild place with a path. Normally buried under snow, in late summer a clear track was visible in the direction of Ben MacDui. Knowing that I was going to walk in poor visibility through four kilometres of largely featureless landscape, I took a compass bearing before I set off and checked it regularly. From time to time the cloud lifted for a moment. To my left a waterway streaked across the lower ground, eventually feeding its way down hill into the magnificent and solitary Loch Avon on the other side of the plateau. I had been there a few years ago when it was frozen solid from end to end. A few minutes later the cloud lifted again and to my sudden surprise I saw animals. In the mist they seemed as large as cows and it took me a few seconds to conclude that there could not possibly be cows up here. But cows do not have large antlers. To my delight I realized that I had stumbled upon part of the unique Cairngorm reindeer herd. I had no idea that they grazed so high. I paused to take some hazy photos, keeping my distance so as not to disturb them, before pressing on.

In what seemed like no time at all I had reached my first check point, Lochan Buidhe. At 1,125 metres above sea level this is the highest body of water in the British Isles, and nearly half way to the summit of Ben MacDui. By now the weather had really closed in. My world was a flat stony wilderness bounded by mist and filled with light rain. It was time for another compass bearing and real care with the navigation as the path became less distinct on the rock strewn ground. Mindful of the difficulties, previous generations of walkers had built a series of stone cairns to mark the route, but today the visibility was so poor that the next was barely visible from the one before. Attached to my jacket by a lanyard, the compass stayed close to hand.

Ben MacDui has steep crags lower down to the west and south but for the most part it is like a huge upturned bowl, slowly rising to the highest point on the plateau. In the thick cloud there were no landmarks, just the faint sense of higher ground ahead. On the vast open summit the cairns ran out so I took another bearing to find my way back. Now all that remained was to locate the peak itself. Suddenly a huge pile of stones topped by a trig point loomed out of the mist and at 10.09am I touched the top of it.

I’d promised St Mary’s I would try to phone from wherever I was on Sunday morning. Turning my back to the wind and rain I propped myself against the cold concrete and made the call. Kevin conveyed my shouted message to the congregation and I could hear their applause. Next to the cairn was, ironically, a viewpoint marked with the direction of all the other major peaks for a hundred miles. More useful was a large stone shelter to keep off the wind chill and I gratefully settled down for something to eat and drink. Able finally to relax I felt an enormous sense of privilege to be in this wild and remote place, literally hours away from the nearest human being. Twice before I had been beaten off a Cairngorm peak by impossible weather so there was a wonderful sense of achievement finally to be on the highest of them. Walking alone heightens the senses as you become alert to every change in the wind and every fold of the ground. No-one ever conquers a mountain, you simply accept with gratitude the days when it allows you to climb it. Now was a time to enjoy one of those moments.

Half an hour passed quickly before reluctantly I gave up this magnificent solitude. On the way back to Lochan Buidhe my eyes started to play tricks in the poor visibility. To the left of my vision I suddenly saw a pin-point flash of light like a camera. For a moment I stopped in my tracks wondering who on earth could be taking pictures, but there was no-one there. A few minutes later I was sure I heard a voice, but again there was no-one there. I smiled at the tricks the senses play and thought about the stories of “Am Fear Liath Mor,” the Grey Man of Ben MacDui, the ghostly figure whom legend says haunts this summit, terrifying unwary climbers. Tuned in to the raw power of nature, I couldn’t imagine a less ghostly place.

Near the top of the Goat Track I met other walkers coming up for the day. A team of climbers was inching their way up the cliffs, and in the floor of the corrie the sun was shining for the first time that weekend. In front of me as I descended the Highlands stretched away to the north as far as the eye could see, an invitation for another day. I’ve had many great days in the British hills. The St Mary’s Mountain Challenge ranks with the best of them.

“A huge pile of stones topped by a trig point” – the summit of Ben MacDui,
Britain’s second highest mountain.