A Kingshouse Wobble

Our correspondent from Britain gives his account of a solo 52 mile, 27,700 feet of ascent circuit of Glencoe and Glen Etive (a "Wobble"?) starting from the Kingshouse Hotel, Lakes District, England. 12-13 May 2006.

By John Fleetwood

A circuit of Glencoe and Glen Etive's hills had long appealed and at last I seemed to have found the line that I was looking for - a true round of high ridges with no out and backs, no contrived peak bagging and including some of the best scrambling in Britain. It had to be done, so despite still feeling somewhat weary after a winter of strenuous outings, I set forth. Leaving Kendal after work at 6.30 on a Friday evening it all seemed a bit of a rush and I was tired. Perhaps thats why I forgot my torch. Passing Southwaite Services I did a quick mental check and reasoned that Tesco's at Carlisle would probably stock a make do torch. They did and I left the store armed with a 97p torch and 6 batteries. Made in China ... hmm, I wonder how on earth anyone can make a torch for 97p, but my moral scruples were discarded in this instance as I drive North. I reached Glen Etive at 11 pm and with no energy to do anything but lay out in the back of the car, I waited for the dawn, sleep interspersed by moments of wakefulness. At 5am I roused myself, watched the dawn breaking over the loch and set forth to drop off bags of goodies. Finally at 7.15 am I was ready to go; the Buachaille reared regally ahead and I left the Kingshouse for the peak that so dominates the hotel.

After an unpleasant jog down the busy road, I headed out across the moor, passing the doss at Jacksonville, and then up the scree. The pattern of the day was set - straining slowly up steep, loose slopes of rock. However the morning was very fine, and the delights of Curved Ridge soon reached. I had climbed the ridge twice in winter, but never in Summer, so it was a surprise to find the rock quite so enjoyable, being warm to the touch, plentiful in holds and wonderfully situated beneath the expanse of Rannoch Wall. I felt very privileged to have the mountain to myself in such outstanding conditions, and the fine setting meant that I took the time to look around, take some video and absorb the atmosphere. It was a bit of an anticlimax to emerge on to the upper slopes and continue in more ordinary environs, but the day was perfect - cool, clear and sunny with a moderate breeze. At the end of the ridge I stopped to survey the scene. I could see all of the route ahead or rather round me, and beyond that a great circle of mountains from Ben Nevis to Ben More, Ben Cruachan and Mull. However, rather closer was the bulk of the Buachaille Etive Beag opposite. It looked very steep and it was, as was the descent: 450 metres of loose scree at a forty degree angle, both down and up. Extreme choss just about summed it up After that the ridges seem easy, even when they're rocky, and the descent down grass seemed like liberation from the jolting of the rocks.

Down by the Coe, I ran through the roadworks and greedily chomped on my sandwiches just past Jimmy Saville's House. The day was warm by now, and I toiled away up the steep slopes to Am Bodach: 800m of ascent in a mile. 52 minutes later I was on the summit and chatting to the walkers having their lunch, before trotting off for the narrow, twisting ridge of the classic Aonach Eagach ridge. Scrambling quickly, taking nifty bypassing manoeuvres of the slower moving parties was a joy. Warm rock, sun overhead, a cool breeze and fantastic situations made for a most enjoyable traverse but one that lasted all too briefly. From Sgorr nam Fiannaidh I set off directly for the road; this time 900m in a mile. By the time I reached the river my legs were already becoming blobs of jelly and I was glad of the chance to assume a horizontal position at last. I was tired, there was no getting away from it. May be it was the journey up the previous night, the accumulated weariness of the winter, or the severity of the slopes: whatever it was, I felt pretty drained and I was only a third of the way round. Things didn't look promising, but I'm a bit like a horse with blinkers on - once the goal is set I just keep on going until I collapse and that didn't look like happening for a while.

Having stirred myself I vainly jogged up the first bit of path to Coire nam Beith, but this rather pathetic effort soon ceased at the initial steepening. I was bound for the steep rib called Dinnertime Buttress that descends from Aonach Dubh. This rises all too obviously from the glen and is steep, very steep. The ascent of the steep grass up to the scramble above can only be described as pure toil following on the calf busting ascents up both Buachailles and Am Bodach, and my head started to spin whilst my legs turned to jelly. Only the vista of acres of rock on Aonach Dubh lightened my agonisingly slow grind upwards; that is until I reached the scramble which proved to be most entertaining. By keeping to the rocky crest until the very summit of Aonach Dubh, my mind was suitably distracted from the effort of the ascent and once established on the ridge, my inner cursing was brought to a halt by the spectacular scene before me. Opposite, the Aonach Eagach was framed against the backdrop of Ben Nevis and the Mamores, whilst to the North the buttresses of Stob Coire nan Lochan held the gaze. Unsurprisingly I met the hoardes on the ridge up to Stob Coire nan Lochan, but the bouldery walk up was relieved by identifying winter climbs done and yet to do. On Bidean I inwardly recounted a past epic descent but on this day it was benign, despite surprising amounts of snow in the upper coire. I rested on the summit, gazing at the peaks of Etive and Mull beyond, alone with my thoughts.

My reverie was soon broken, however, by the brutal descent to Beinn Maol Chaluim. This has got to rate as one of the most difficult descents in the British Isles. It starts as a relatively gentle amble down stony slopes, but soon rears alarmingly; a broken cliff of crags, exceedingly loose rock and turf which just about clings on to the 50 degree slopes. With jelly legs I barely managed to walk down the slope, yet alone run. Aware of the potential results of a trip on this sort of ground, I wobbled slowly downwards, picking my way down the cliff. My legs were shot, yet I was barely half way. Not good news!

From the top of Beinn Maol Chaluim I gazed back up at the cliff. Did I really come down there? Unfortunately I knew only too well that a similar slope led off Beinn Maol Chaluim so I tried a traversing line beneath the black cliff. Even this involved contouring very steep grass and scree and I felt like the fabled three legged haggis shuffling round the hill. There was just no relief from this brutal attack on my legs. The next slope led upward at a familiar 40 degrees until the summit ridge led on more gently. Only when I began to descend Sgor na Ulaidh could I actually break in to a jog and even that was steep. On the other side yet another very steep slope led upwards, but I managed to pick a decent slanting line upwards which reduced the stress on my wobbling legs. The sea loch of Etive led away from the summit of Fhionnlaidh backed by the jagged skyline of Cruachan and Mull,and I jogged down the easing slopes to the dim forest beneath. Once on the track i broke in to a proper trot for the first time and maintained this until my appointed resting place by the road. This is where the fun and games really began.

I had hidden a bag of goodies in the trees, but the questions was, where? I seemed to recall that I has buried it under shreds of bracken but could I find it...? I could not. I ferreted amongst the dense undergrowth trying to recall one tree or bush from another in the growing gloom. Soon it would be properly dark and my torch was in that bag as well as my drink and food. I was very tired. I was struggling to think, let alone recall what I had done with the bag 16 hours earlier. To and fro I went trying to be logical but ending up kicking at anything and pretty much going round in circles. Finally, after 45 minutes of fruitless scrabbling in bushes and bog, I gave up and determined to just eke out what food I had, fill up with water and just stumble in the dark without a torch. Fortunately, I was not required to put this to the test as I virtually walked over the bag on the way back to my rucksack. Naturally there was no-one to watch my shenanigans, but I had a laugh to myself as I gratefully ripped open the bag and devoured the contents.

By the time I set out again it was dark and I could put the Tesco torch to the test. Initially it seemed fine but the batteries were quickly drained and the 97p quality shone, or should I say failed to shine, through. After the debacle at the rest point, I had lost all urgency and just walked up the steep and long ridge leading up to Ben Starav. As always in the dark, the three and a half thousand feet of climbing seemed to be twice as long, but just kept stumbling up, switching the torch off every now and then to conserve the batteries. The moon was particularly helpful even though it was full, but later on it did cast enough light to dispense with the torch for much of the time, which was just as well because the torch really did run through the batteries at an alarming rate. May be the Chinese don't use their torches for very long?

I went in to auto pilot and just kept meandering along, trying not to stumble on the narrow rocky edge leading to the next top. The night was characteristically fuzzy in my memory - a bit of a blur of a yellow moon, silhouettes of rocky ridges and stumbling along with everything drawn out in the monotony of fatigue and darkness. It was also cold, very cold. All the snow patches were frozen like concrete and my new shoes made no impression on the hard surface. A quick glance at my thermometer and it registered minus four. No wonder I was cold. I wore everything I possessed: my shirt, a micro-fleece, windshirt and cagoule, but still I was cold. I stayed that way for the next ten hours until the sun made an appearance. At one point I became a little concerned as I was just getting colder and colder, having had no warm liquid and moving slowly in the dark. The middle of the Blackmount is a lonely place. The nearest road is many miles distant and there's no quick way out. At least the torch was small. When I needed to scramble I could stick it in my teeth and wiggle it up and down to direct the light as I picked my way along.

Dawn eventually came, but it wasn't a particularly cheery one. More of a cold, grey emergence from the dark. A fresh wind hurried the clouds along and I reckoned the wind chill to be minus ten or so, but I couldn't hurry. I was far too tired for that. My speech was somewhat slurred by cold and fatigue when I spoke in to the video camera and my legs were now like a stiffened jelly. The bleakness of Rannoch Moor stood out beneath Stob Ghabhar, the lochans reflected in the weak morning sunlight. It all felt an inhospitable place just then and I looked forward to getting back, but it was another four hours or so of keeping myself alert enough to pick my way over the broken hillsides until the ski slopes of Meall a Bhuiridh were reached. At last I saw people and surprisingly good enough snow runs to slither down almost all the way to the top of the chairlift. What an excellent end to the trip - lolloping down the ski runs and then trotting down the ugly slopes to the ski car park and thence my car.

A quick dust down at the car, then the drive home. Fuelled by caffeine, cooled by cold air rushing past my face and frequent naps on the way home, I made it back in time for Alison to go out and collapsed in to bed.