"The West is the Best," sang Jim Morrison and the Doors as we sailed down Glen Coe toward the setting sun. I had to agree with him; there's nowhere in Britain to compare with the western seaboard of Scotland. There are rugged high mountains, long deep sea-lochs, wide lonely glens, - and islands. And among the islands, Skye is the most spectacular, with the huge jagged peaks of the Cuillin visible from almost any high summit in the Highlands.
The preparations had been made. Waterproof overtrousers replaced, Gore-Tex jacket re-proofed, and tent seams painstakingly sealed. I had been to Skye twice before in beautiful weather, and I could not gamble that my luck would hold a third time.
A friendly boat-man had been persuaded to take us to Coruisk, saving a half-day's walk to this lonely glen. And on Saturday afternoon, my car stopped for a few hours near Buachaille Etive Mòr for a lightning ascent of the legendary Crowberry Ridge (that's the occupants doing the climbing, not the car) to re-acquaint ourselves with the pleasant sensation of Scottish rock under our fingers. But even Crowberry Ridge is merely an appetiser when Skye is the destination...
Much to our surprise, everyone met at the agreed time at Sligachan. Lizzie Kennett and I had driven from England on Saturday and camped wild near the coast. James "JC" Campbell arrived in a hire car from the B&B he'd stayed in in Portree. The other five were camped in the Sligachan camp-site: Pete Wilson, Dave Jones, Ian Watson, James Blake, and Andy Gibson.
James, Ian and Andy had already been on the island for a day when we met them. James wrote a short account of their Saturday:
After an epic journey through the night to Scotland, Ian, Andy and I had already enjoyed an exciting first day on the Cuillin with an ascent of Bruach na Frithe, Am Bàsteir and the Bàsteir Tooth. The ascent was made by the NE Ridge of Sgùrr a' Bhàsteir with Andy and myself lagging behind with developing headaches... nothing to do with the 80 shilling offered by the Sligachan the night before! We were rewarded near the top with a stunning view of Pinnacle Ridge on Sgùrr nan Gillean towering above us as the mist cleared. The Bàsteir Tooth was a lengthy Diff climb (Collie's route) where a precedent for rope faffing was set which was to last throughout the week, culminating with the nightmare ascent of the In Pinn with four on 100m of rope. The views from the top of the Tooth were terrifying, so we rapidly moved on to the climb to Am Bàsteir: another Diff climb with one tricky move. The descent was by way of Coire a' Bhàsteir back to Sligachan: the second hardest peak in the Cuillin already bagged as an aperitif to our exploration of the Cuillin!
It was at this point that I hit our first change of plan. Although all the people I had talked to on the phone had been enthusiastic about the idea of getting a boat to Coruisk and camping near the head of the loch, everyone seemed to have gone and bought tins and other non-carriable foods. There was a general disinterest in wild camping; apart from Lizzie & myself, most people wanted to visit the more accessible western side of the Cuillin. The more we discussed it, the more entrenched we all seemed to get in our beliefs.
As I was starting to think that the trip had divided into two separate groups, a compromise began to emerge. Instead of getting the boat that evening (Sunday), we could try to re-schedule the boat for Monday, giving us one full day and one shorter day in the northern and western corries, and giving a chance for people to stock up with lightweight food. I phoned the boat-man with this suggestion, and although I didn't get to speak to him, his wife said there wasn't likely to be any problem with the new arrangement.
With the plans settled, we were able to set off on our walk. From the campsite, we could see Sgùrr nan Gillean rising into a small cloud, so we took a chance on it lifting and set off up into Coir' a' Bhàsteir (well, most of us did; Ian was more interested in improving his "score," so he left us to bag Glamaig, in the Red Hills). As we climbed, the ground got steeper, until we were on the difficult, loose scree and boulders for the final pull up to the corrie headwall. We gained the ridge just east of Am Bàsteir, and turned left towards Sgùrr nan Gillean along a narrow rock ridge with big vertical drops on both sides. This terrain was to be considered the norm by the end of the week! Occasional gaps in the cloud gave us views down into Harta Corrie - views some of the group would have preferred to be without, for they were not confidence-inspiring! One short stretch, which once held a gendarme, was sufficiently exposed that even the experienced rock-climbers had no qualms about accepting a safety-rope.
With the small summit reached, we continued eastwards to the subsidiary summit of Sgùrr Beag, and then to scramble up Sgùrr na h-Uamha. By the time we reached the summit of this final peak, the cloud had dispersed completely, giving a view back to Sgùrr nan Gillean and the route we had taken. It also gave a view southwest to the remainder of the main ridge, and eastwards to the rounded Red Hills and the impressive buttresses of Blà Bheinn.
Retracing our steps up past Sgùrr Beag, we left the ridge to descend by the Tourist Route, which somehow manages to pick an easy line around Sgùrr nan Gillean's eastern crags. When we arrived back at Sligachan, I stopped to phone the boat-man. The news he had wasn't good - he could take us out almost any time, except Monday evening. If we went in on Tuesday, that would leave half of the group with only one complete day in Coir' Uisg (James, James, Andy and Ian had to leave on Thursday morning). So I had to tell the boat-man that we were unable to go as planned. Amongst ourselves, we revised our ideas so that when the first half left Skye, the remainder of us would walk to Coruisk from the east. As we left to find some wild camping, I was carrying the hope that this plan would last a bit longer than the previous one had.
Lizzie and I arrived at the campsite the next morning to find it empty of our friends. Their tents had gone, and their cars - apart from James's - had gone. They hadn't left us a note to say where they had gone, so we had to use our initiative. I remembered that there had been some interest in going to Glen Brittle, so we went there in the hope that that was where they had gone, and I left a note under James's windscreen - "Gone to Glen Brittle. Meet you there by 21:00, or see you here in the morning."
In actual fact, the campsite wasn't quite empty, as we found out later. Dave had been left to watch out for us, but was mysteriously absent when we were there.
James again:
Having no idea of the whereabouts of Toby + Lizzie (and certainly not wanting to disturb them against their wishes) we set off to Portree to stock up on tuna surprise and plan for the next day. On the way, we noticed that the Northern hills were clear whereas the Cuillin were still enveloped in a tiresome veil of mist, and so decided to explore Trotternish culminating in a visit to its dramatic high-point, the Storr.
After a particularly fogeyish start (c1:15pm) Pete, James, Andy, Dave and myself set off up the steep climb to the Sanctuary which was the location of a number of extraordinary pinnacles of collapsing rock, the most famous of which was the Old Man of Storr. A festerous ascent of the Storr followed, which involved a devious route to avoid the massive 1000ft vertical cliffs that defend the Storr from any direct ascent. The views from the top were magical: from the Red and Black Cuillin in the South, across to the vast ranges of the Scottish mainland (with Torridon particularly well seen). Most impressive, however, was the foreground: seascapes shimmering in the unbroken sunshine; views as far as the weird shaped pinnacles of the Quirang to the North, the strangely shaped MacLeod's Tables in the West and the inviting knoll of Dun Caan on Raasay.
We stayed for some time, not wishing to hurry back to the relative bustle of the car park and campsite. Eventually we walked briskly back to the car and drove around to Glen Brittle, stopping a couple of times to admire the ever improving views of the Southern Cuillin, to plan our epic for the morrow and to try and find Toby and Lizzie...
Arriving in Glen Brittle, there was no sign of anyone we knew (not surprising, given that they were on the Storr at the time), and so we set off into Coire Làgan to climb the Cioch. Not having a climbing guidebook would normally make route-finding difficult, but the Cioch is a very obvious feature, visible from the campsite, and we knew that there was a 'Severe' route called Cioch Direct which we naturally assumed must start below the Cioch and go straight up.
When we arrived under the Cioch, we found helpful labels painted on the rocks. "C.G. HVS" - that must be Cioch Grooves. And "C.W. VD" was Cioch Wall, or Cioch Western, or something (I never did find out which). But there was no sign of "C.D." anywhere!
We put on our rock boots and set off up "C.W.", following a couple who obviously found it harder going than we did. This didn't matter as much as it might, for we were continually scouting leftwards for Cioch Direct, but at one point it became a bit awkward when Lizzie caught them up at a chimney, and had to set up a belay for me in this cramped position. Soon after, though, the angle eased off, and we were able to change back into walking boots and pad gently up slabs to the summit of the Cioch.
Well, not quite to the summit. A few feet below the top I climbed an awkward corner, and made a delicate (irreversible) move left around a rib. The slab above was steep, exposed, and distinctly lacking in good holds. Thankfully, there was a ledge big enough to stand on with both feet, while I found the rope in my pack and secured myself to a rock spike. With three turns of rope lashing me to the spike, I had a feeling of what conditions were like for the pioneers of this area at the turn of the century. Somehow, I managed to put my harness on, and Lizzie did the same in her rather more constricted position in the corner, and we were able to climb to the top roped up.
The top of the Cioch is connected to the main part of the crag by a very sharp arête at the top of the slabs. It's only a few yards long, but it took an age to traverse it safely. From there, things got a bit easier, as a huge rake (big enough to climb right in) led across to Eastern Gully.
Once in the gully, we were confronted by a huge chockstone. Thankfully, the guidebook warned us of this, and provided the key to passing it - a climb behind it and out onto the left wall of the gully. The gap is too narrow to pass through with rucksacks on, so we had to go one at a time, throwing a rope up to haul our sacks up with. After that, a straightforward scramble up the stone-filled gully took us to the ridge, where it was only a short walk to the summit of Sgùrr na Cìche.
The gloom had gathered by now - we had spent nine hours since leaving the campsite, including five or six climbing the Cioch. We had reached the highest, furthest point of the day's walk and it was already nightfall. The descent in the dark was not amusing (although it could have been much worse). The wedged boulders of the summit plateau became steep heather with boulders, scree and crags lower down. Some sixth sense meant we lit head-torches at almost the exact moment that we met the ill-defined path around the bottom of the hill to Coire Làgan, after which we had a reasonably safe (if not entirely bog-free) walk back to the campsite, where we arrived at exactly ten o'clock. So much for meeting the others at nine! They were in the Glen Brittle campsite, however, and after a confused (i.e. lost) drive around the campsite in the dark, we found their tents and camped alongside them - our exertions that day meant that we were only too glad to put our heads down where we were.
A council of war in the morning determined that everyone would like to do the classic Coire Làgan round. Some of the rock-climbers amongst us (me, Lizzie and Dave) were keen to do some of the classic easy climbs on this circuit, so we decided to walk in two groups again. Furthermore, neither Lizzie nor myself wanted to re-ascend Sròn na Cìche, our descent route of the previous night.
The "climbers" began roughly where we'd finished off the previous day, by climbing Sgùrr na Cìche, this time up the Eastern Gully (including threading the chockstone again!) and then went on to Sgùrr Sgùmain. From this summit, we could see the other five just reaching the top of Sgùrr Alasdair, our next peak.
We climbed Sgùrr Alasdair, directly along the ridge over a "bad step" that required the rope (the others had taken a wide detour to by-pass this obstacle). Crossing the head of the Great Stone Shoot, we caught and passed the others on Sgùrr Thearlaich. We were not to stay in front of them for long, though, as we were arriving at our first graded rock climb of the day, King's Chimney. This takes a direct line up the steep end of Sgùrr Mhic Choinnich; the walkers' route follows an airy traverse known as Collie's Ledge to gain the other (less steep) end.
I won the battle to lead King's Chimney, mainly by promising Lizzie that she could lead the climb on the Inaccessible Pinnacle. The climb was graded "Difficult," and when you're wearing walking boots and a rucksack, this really does mean difficult. Normally, I wouldn't take this grade seriously as a climb, but a combination of awkward rock, heavy encumbrances, and the dramatic situation meant I found it a test. Eventually, I pulled myself onto the final ledge, just as Ian arrived, having been round the long way.
By the time the three of us had all climbed King's Chimney, the others had almost reached the next col, but we caught up again as they started to climb the unexpectedly steep slope of Sgùrr Dearg. We were the first to arrive at the Inaccessible Pinnacle, and Lizzie set off up the steep end straight away. It's not as easy as it looks - the handholds are poor, and slope outwards, and she reached more than half height before finding any protection. With some security, though, she found easier going to the top, and belayed myself and Dave to join her. Meanwhile, on the other side, four more were also joining us - including at least two people (Pete and Andy) that I never expected to see roped up on rock.
We would have had quite a party on the summit, but space was limited, and anyway, JC (who had "had enough scrambling for one day - for one year, even") would have felt left out, so we all abseiled down - a new experience for those used to doing their hillwalking in flatter parts.
Those of us who wanted to doggedly stick to the rim of the corrie descended down Sròn Dearg; I rashly suggested that it might be easier to descend to Bealach Coire na Banachdich, where a major path crosses the ridge. James was one of the group who tried this and disagreed with my assessment:
Return for the misnamed `walkers' party was intended to be via the West Ridge of Sgùrr Dearg. Given the exertions of the day, however, we were looking for the easiest route off and gratefully took up Toby's suggestion to try a scree run down through Coire na Banachdich. Initial impressions were not favourable, as we struggled down to the col on terrain similar to that encountered through the rest of the day. This was nothing on what was to come. As dusk rapidly approached, the ground far from being a pleasant scree(!) became steeper and steeper until the point we were having to reverse down a technically quite challenging gully. Eventually, it became steep enough for us to consider using a rope, with the easier ground below tantalisingly just 100ft below.
At this point, Ian managed to locate a difficult but manageable traverse across to easier ground: which, when reached, was hardly visible in the near dark. Our nerves by this time in tatters, we silently (no, loudly!) cursed our reliance on Toby's local knowledge - after over 4 years I should have known better! Ian and I then had a two hour chance to practice our recently acquired Mountain Leader night navigation skills (to make up for the complete lack of route finding skills) through rock and bog on the interminable return to Glen Brittle, which we finally reached at 10:35pm to complete a 13 hour day.
Extract from the guidebook description of our descent route:
"Unless you are prepared to emulate the efforts of Messrs. Gibbs, King and Mackenzie in 1898 who overcame the four vertical pitches in the rift, one at least graded `Difficult' by climbers, the surest way [down] from the pass to Glen Brittle should be made ... [back] to the summit of Sgùrr Dearg and by descending the West ridge"
(Wilson Parker - Scrambles in Skye)Cheers, Toby!
By this time, two of our strength had done enough of the main ridge - Andy and JC went somewhere else (I don't know where) for the day.
The rest of us fancied the round of Coire na Banachdich, so we started outside the Youth Hostel in Glen Brittle, and set off up Sgùrr Thuilm. This hill has to win the award for the hardest slog of the week. Continuously steep, but unrelieved by any scrambling of interest, it seemed interminable. Add to that the strong sunlight beating down on us, and it's no surprise we were tired by the time we reached the top.
Sgùrr Thuilm is a spur of the main ridge, so we weren't surprised to have it to ourselves. From here, a sharp ridge led us eastward to meet the main ridge at Sgùrr a' Mhadaidh. The highlight of this was a fine scramble up steep slabs by a huge dark cleft.
From Sgùrr a' Mhadaidh, we negotiated the narrow gap of An Dorus, and toiled up the next peak southwards, Sgùrr a' Ghreadaidh. It was a feature of this day's walk that every summit we reached was higher than the previous one, and it was tiring work - and it's difficult to see where you're going when you're climbing directly towards the sun. Sgùrr a' Ghreadaidh has two summits, of almost exactly the same height, so we continued to the second (higher) one before stopping for a lunch break.
The Cuillin ridge continued southwards, still rocky, narrow and precipitous, to Sgùrr Thormaid and Sgùrr na Banachdich, where we found a sizeable crowd on the summit. The descent was into Coire Eich, although Dave in particular seemed to want to continue along the spur above it. Wake up, Dave!
Once down, it was time for another parting; James and Ian were heading home, and the remaining four of us would drive around to Kilmarie, on the east side of the Cuillin near Elgol. We arrived there as the last of the daylight was leaving, and in the dark we carried our camping and climbing gear over the (thankfully) easy pass of Am Màm to the broad, grassy bay of Camus Fhionnairigh, or Camasunary.
Blà Bheinn ("Blaven" on some maps) is the classic hill to climb from Camasunary. Its easy-angled - but rugged - southern ridge rises straight from Camasunary bay and takes you right up to the south summit. We took our time. The half-hour we spent festering on the nose of the ridge was nothing compared to how long we spent on the summit, even allowing for the extra time incurred doing food and photography. Mind you, the view from the summit needed some time to absorb. To the west were arranged the entire Cuillin ridge, from Gars-Bheinn to Sgùrr nan Gillean (I later produced a key to this view). Behind this were the Harris mountains, separated by the undulating land of North Uist from Hecla and Beinn Mhòr on South Uist, and to the east were spread the whole of the Highlands, from Assynt and Fisherfield in the north, through Torridon, Kintail, and Knoydart, to Lochaber and Mull in the south.
Instead of descending by the same route, we chose to return over the strange-shaped lump of Slàt Bheinn. While we did so, we made plans for the next day. Pete and Dave were both concerned that they hadn't done enough festering this trip, so they planned to rectify that situation. Lizzie and myself had no such ideas. We wanted to climb the famous Dubh Ridge, on this side of the main ridge, and beginning about an hour's walk from where we had camped. This was going to necessitate a pre-dawn effort in the morning, so we weren't going to hang around awake longer than we had to.
Our early start was justified. At 6 o'clock, there was a cloudless sky and no wind. Lizzie & I roused ourselves, made porridge, ate it, and had left by seven. (Well, okay, I admit that she made the porridge while I lay comatose in my pit - thanks, Lizzie!) An hour later, we were pausing to fill our water-bottles at the stepping stones across the River Scavaig, and eagerly eyeing the broad sweep of boiler-plate slabs rising from the edge of the loch. This was going to be good.
A quick glance at the guidebook and we were off up the steeply angled, perfectly rough rock. The glance at the guidebook was obviously too quick though - after we had climbed a hundred feet or so, I looked across to the right and saw our intended route. Should we down-climb or abseil what we had done, or should we attempt to traverse across to where we should be? Perhaps foolishly, we chose the latter. The ledges became narrower, and the rock became steeper and slimier, and soon we were forced to concede our error and abseil down.
Starting once again, this time from the foot of the correct mountain, we roped up to take on the steep lower section. This obstacle forced, we climbed solo for seven or eight hundred metres up continuously steep gabbro slabs. It's something that can't be described to those who haven't done it; I hope the photo can put it better.
The summit of Sgùrr Dubh Beag was a peaceful place to be, if you don't count the RAF screaming through the glen below. It was a good place to briefly sit, drink water, and look at the map and the guidebook. However, it was not a good place to lay out the map on a flat rock. A sudden and unexpected gust of wind lifted it, and it hovered ten feet above our heads for several seconds before it dived into the corrie below. I ran to the edge in the hope of seeing where it landed, but my hope was quashed as I watched it disappear from view under the overhang.
I don't give up easily, though. We descended from the summit (a spectacular free abseil) and I headed into the corrie. I thought I could see it, caught in the boulder field below, so I delicately made my way down.
"Bugger!" It was just a stone, differently coloured to the rest. I turned up to Lizzie, to tell her I was coming back up, when my heart jumped a beat. I could see the map! There it was, across the corrie on a precarious ledge under the summit. A tricky move to gain the ledge, then an even trickier one to leave it, and I was back on the ridge, reunited with my precious map.
An impressive serrated ridge led upwards from this col to the summit of Sgùrr Dubh Mòr. Its ascent was enjoyable, but time consuming - many times we found ourselves backtracking to circumvent overhanging pinnacles. We arrived at the top just as it was reached by a vertigo sufferer and his patient belayer; I was impressed by their commitment (or by their stubbornness - bloody stupid Munro-baggers!). We met them several more times along the remainder of the Dubh Ridge, until we arrived at Sgùrr Dubh an Dà Bheinn, where we arrived at the main Cuillin ridge.
We roped up for the climb onto Caisteal a' Gharbh-Choire. It seemed a bit like overkill, as only the first move was tricky (its "prang potential" was quite high, though), but after Monday's effort when we had to rope up on the crag face, we took no chances on what was unseen around the corner.
The descent on the other side definitely called for the rope, though. I could not bring myself to leave any gear behind, so I ended up down-climbing with the protection of the rope to leave my sack at the bottom of the rock, and then climbing it again to remove the protection and solo back down. After that, I was ready for a drink! Unfortunately, a small swig of water turned out to be most of a bottle, so I had to descend to Coir' a' Ghrunnda to fill bottles.
The walk along the ridge to Gars-Bheinn turned out to be quite straightforward, very similar to the ridge above Coire a' Ghreadaidh. As we approached the summit, I said how unusually quiet it was, in this weather, to see only two other walkers all day. Only five minutes later that figure was doubled; we met two enthusiastic lads starting a traverse of the main ridge as we began to descend. The descent turned out to be a real epic, at least for Lizzie, who isn't fond of scree and loose rock at the best of times, and especially not at the end of such a hard day.
Eventually, we managed to pick our way down the slope, by which time night had well and truly arrived. Loch na Cuilce was serene in the light of the half-moon; a dot of warm light identified the Coruisk Hut; an otter frolicked in the calm water. I tried to point out this last to Lizzie, since otters generally keep themselves to themselves, but she wasn't interested - "Shut up, Toby; I'm trying to stay upright!" Maybe she had a point.
We somehow made it around the sea-level crags to the River Scavaig, not helped by the tide being fully in, and from there, it was a matter of staggering around the coast trying to retrace our steps from the morning. We arrived back at our camp at about 10:15 PM - well over 15 hours since setting off.
It was heart-breaking to roll off Skye and onto the boat. Suddenly, we were no longer part of the island, but now floating spectators viewing it from the sea. The engines roared, black diesel smoke belched from the chimneys, and the land began to recede.
But as the moorland of Sleat was taken from us, we were treated to a final view over it. A single, sharp triangle of black appeared above the moor behind Armadale. Another one to its left, then several in between. The contrast between the Sleat peninsula and the Black Cuillin behind made them look like something on a different island, or indeed from some other planet. Suddenly, they were all joined together, and we could see the drama of the Cuillin one last time before we turned towards England.
Last modified: Wednesday, 25 April 2007, at 19:58 (BST)