The Cuillin Ridge is an iconic sight - lording over Sligachan in the heart of the Isle of Skye like a tri-peaked behemoth, its upper reaches frequently obscured by cloud.
Seen once - as here on the day we arrived on Skye - it is instantly recognizable
All the way back in 2019 - when this trip was in the planning stages - I saw a video that had been made a few years beforehand, but which nevertheless came to my attention as my thoughts were on Scotland. It was the incredible "The Ridge" featuring Skye-born mountain biking phenom Danny MacAskill. While I'd never be able to cycle like him, the rugged landscape and sweeping vistas of the Black Cuillins were captivating and I began to wonder: could we just hike a bit of it?
Now, I'm not so naïve as to think we could do this sight unseen; while Ben Nevis has an established, well-maintained trail, everything on Skye - and particularly in the Cuillins - is much more remote and wild. I did some searching, and found an outfit called Abacus Mountain Guides, whose website advertised a couple of different options for Skye & the Cuillin Ridge including Munro bagging day trips. This was precisely what we were looking for, so I made contact and explained a bit about our previous climbing and scrambling experience, and what we hoped to do in the Cuillins. Sally was very responsive and we booked a date in July 2020, which then became "maybe 2021", and then finally July 17th, 2022 - my 43rd birthday.
Would - in fact - be the single most intense experience of my life.
As we approached the day of our climb, a gentleman named Caspar McKeever made contact - he actually has his own mountain guiding business (McKeever Mountain Guiding), but had been contracted through Abacus for our day in the Cuillins - the mountain guiding community is quite small, particularly on Skye, and everyone tries to help each other out when they can. We established that we'd be staying at Sliga, which was ideal as it meant we could just leave the van parked up and walk over to meet him at the Sligachan Hotel, which we'd learn was more or less the birthplace of mountaineering in Scotland and the home base of the UK's first professional mountain guide. The afternoon before our excursion, we had a brief introductory phone call to go over our general goals and experience, required kit, and any concerns we might have (like sore legs from having climbed Ben Nevis 5 short days beforehand). Our meeting time was set for 8am at the hotel parking lot - just look for the red van - Sunday morning, right across the road from the campground. We packed our bags the night before, stuffing puffy jackets and Gore-Tex and gloves and toques into a pair of packs, with nalgenes full of water that we hoped would last us all day as we didn't expect to have any opportunity to refill.
We awoke at 6am to the worst possible conditions: a howling wind driving buckets of rain against the popped-up roof of our tiny campervan home. The weather forecast looked promising, though: the rain was predicted to end right at 8am, though it was going to stay quite windy.
Oh please oh please oh please just let the rain stop
Epic adventures require epic fuel, so I cooked us up a pair of breakfast sandwiches with egg and pork belly, on Warburton's amazing gluten-free "super soft" buns, washed down with a moka pot of coffee.
As I finished dressing, I also slapped a bit of moleskin on my damaged baby toe to try to protect it in my boots.
Those boots had not been kind to me on Ben Nevis, but the required kit list from Abacus specified "stiff walking boots", so I didn't feel I had much choice.
Oh, and there was also a bit of cake for my birthday!
..in the form of an AWESOME double chocolate muffin. Seriously: I still drool over the gluten free baked goods we had in the Scotland!
Fortunately, our luck held out and the rain dissipated by 7:30am or so, with just low cloud remaining when we left Mindy (the van) behind around ten to eight in the morning. My dumb arse had to go back as I'd forgotten to grab lip balm, but I was still able to make it over to the Sliga Hotel a tick before 8, and found Tanker and Caspar already engaged in conversation. We discussed some options which would dictate the gear we'd need: nothing but what we stood up in if we were just going to be hillwalking, but that wasn't really what we'd come for. So, Caspar doled out equipment - harnesses and helmets for each of us, to be stowed for now - and we set off toward the old Sligachan bridge, coincidentally passing the Skye Mountain Rescue Team base just behind the hotel on our way.
..and then things started to get incredibly beautiful.
We headed upstream after crossing a bridge over Allt Dearg Mor - a tributary of River Sligachan that runs down under the historic and new road bridges into Loch Sligachan - but parted ways with it before seeing the actual Sligachan Waterfalls.
We'd just have to make do with this
There was still a good path to follow at this point, though we gained elevation with each step.
The mountains look huge and almost close enough to touch from Sliga - it turns out they're actually quite a long way off and REALLY huge
With the best timing ever, I felt a bit of...pressure...in my digestive tract. Perhaps the pork belly sandwich hadn't been the best idea after all? There was nothing I could do about that now, though - I had brought a cathole trowel, but the soil up here was so thin there was no way I could properly bury any excreta.
Starting to run out of grasses and into cloud, so I'd just have to hang on
As we reached the bottom of the corrie (or coire, or cirque, or cwm - whatever you like to call a great amphitheatre-like bowl surrounded by mountain peaks), Caspar called a welcome halt so we could drink some water and discuss our options now that we had been out and moving for a bit. The full-on option was Pinnacle Ridge - a series of five towering peaks culminating in Sgurr nan Gillean (the peak of the young men) at 966m/3,169ft. This would require a lot of climbing and downclimbing and sounded perhaps a bit more ambitious than we were feeling for the day.
The softest option was Bruach na Frithe (slope of the deer forest), which wouldn't really require any scrambling at all. The middle option - to which Tank and I both agreed almost without hesitation - was 934m/3,064ft Am Basteir. It would require a bit of downclimbing and 2 abseils, plus a fair bit of scrambling. Oh, and it means either "The Cleaver" or "The Executioner", depending on how you view it - it turns out Scots Gaelic is highly contextual, so either translation is acceptable.
This giant ridge rising like a shark's fin in the middle of the Cuillin Ridge, with the "Basteir Tooth" sticking out to the right (Sgurr nan Gillean rises behind at far left) Photo by Tim Spencer Photography
To all of which I was blissfully unaware as we made our choice. Caspar pointed out these bilberries as we climbed, so I ate one.
We donned our helmets once the decision was made, and continued the upward slog.
Me attempting to keep up with Caspar the mountain goat...I mean guide. You can see the shattered chunks of rock underfoot that remain in my mind as the dominating characteristic of the Cuillins
It was already starting to get a little more hands-on.
..and I'm incredibly grateful that Tank was clinging to the rock like I was as Caspar just seemed to scamper upward
Sligachan was disappearing behind us as the clouds boiled up the corrie behind us.
You can just glimpse the loch behind the far-off peak of Glamaig - part of the Red Cuillins
However - and I cannot stress this enough - we still had so much further to go.
Pinnacle Ridge shrouded in cloud off to the left
Some sunshine at last, with Am Basteir and the Tooth of Basteir dead ahead
The way was not getting easier - the path was now all broken rock that would roll underfoot, and it just kept getting steeper.
Caspar just trucking along - meanwhile sweat has streamed down my back and soaked the butt of my trousers.
We stopped at a beautiful little waterfall on the side of the mountain - Caspar filled his tiny water bottles (the little 500ml soft flasks I associate with hydration vests for trailrunning), and Tank and I topped off our nalgenes.
While there is always some risk in drinking unfiltered water, Caspar assured us he'd been doing so here for years with no ill effects.
Past the waterfall, the path degraded into a steep scree slope: smaller chunks of broken rock mixed with damp dirt, with a trail of tiny little switchbacks trudged into it by the passage of feet over many years.
You can see the little curve of one here, as Tanker looks back toward Sliga
Some more sketchy hiking over shards of rock awaited, as we continued up Coire a Bhasteir toward the bealach (pass, or saddle) between Sgurr nan Gillean and Am Basteir.
We approached from the north (Image from MapCarta)
Image from my phone - a bit more visceral than a bunch of topographical lines all having a huddle!
Photo by Caspar - he sent us a huge lot of pics that night after he got home!
We finally reached Bealach a Bhasteir and Caspar called a halt so we could don our harnesses, as we'd need to rope up for the true scrambling along the ridge. It has taken us close to 3 hours just to reach the pass, covering a bit more than 6km of ground.
Finally what looks like some stable rock!
Looking back - tiny Loch a Bhasteir shining in the sun in the corrie, and you can just barely make out the white form of the Sliga Hotel this side of Loch Sligachan
As we had reached the ridge, we were now afforded an incredible view down the other side into Lota Corrie, which I admired as I munched a snack.
Yep, that's a lotta corrie all right.
Happy girl
I also needed to put my vest and gloves on, as the elevation and wind combined to chill me through my light shell and wool longsleeve - I'd been sweating as we hiked up, but as soon as I stopped moving I was freezing!
From here, you essentially turn right and follow the ridge. This sounds simple.
Looks relatively simple, too. (Those are Caspar's trekking poles. He offered me one on the way up, and on the way back down, because as he said "I mostly use them for pointing at things". Can confirm.)
Friends, it's not simple. At least not if you're a graceless oaf like me, with precious little confidence in my abilities on rock and a pair of boots that only seem to enhance my natural clumsiness.
Oh yeah, with crumbly rock underfoot as well
So, there was a lot of holding on to rock with my hands, and some crab-walking, and I am almost 100% certain a few facepalm moments for Caspar as he watched my slow, halting progress.
Most likely asking himself what the heck this daft girl was doing
Apparently we were something of an anomaly: Caspar explained that almost all of the people who hire guides to come climb in the Cuillins are from the UK, with a handful from Europe (though - having the Alps more readily at hand - even those are few and far between). He'd never actually met any Canadians who'd come to Skye to go up into the mountains, and I dare say that after seeing my rather pathetic attempt at scrambling on Am Basteir he probably thinks it unlikely he'll see another - I'm afraid I've not done my country much credit there!
..though I did manage not to scream, cry, or fall off.
I was even having fun, when I could find something remotely solid and flat to stand on (That's Sgurr nan Gillean behind me, along the ridge)
The lads also showed lots of patience and good humour with me
I was the first one to try my luck at descending, and let me tell you that the "eyes in your boots" comment is correct - the footholds are there, but you think you can bloody find them while dangling from chunks of rock with a whole lot of fresh air on either side of you?
News flash: that cloud won't catch you
Tank and I making our timid way while Caspar looks on from above, probably shaking his head and wondering how two people could possibly be so awkward yet still want to go traipsing around in the mountains
We eventually got ourselves sorted out - fortunately without pulling Caspar off the top as he belayed us - and then we sat and had a drink of water while Tank and I tried to calm down a touch.
One of these days I'll learn to have the kind of fun that doesn't make my heart leap into my throat
Caspar playing show and tell with the mountains - honestly he was an amazing tour guide, and kept up interesting and informative conversation throughout the day!
Then, it was off again across the ridge, scrambling over the dramatic dikes of gabbro and basalt, putting in our final push to the summit.
By which I mean "pull" because it was definitely hands-on movement
Seriously - I'm not sure there was any point as we neared the peak that I was not in contact by at least three points.
Can you blame me?
My gloves actually gave very reassuring grip on the grainy gabbro
At times it was nearly 5 points, as I pulled a strange sort of crab walk along the ridge.
Listen: butt sliding is ALWAYS an option
Tank - having spent a great deal of time in his life meandering around in the Rocky Mountains, moving on their jagged faces - was handling everything a bit better than I was. He tends to be a little more sure on his feet than I am when things get sketchy, despite all the work I've put in over the years training my balance and coordination through trailrunning and wobble/balance board work. I'm just clumsy and timid, and it's kept me alive so far, so I go with it.
I love his "Can you believe what I have to put up with?" look here
Eventually - with pots of patience from both Tank and Caspar, who were both very kind about hiding their incredulity at how long I was taking - I made it to the summit!
I even stood up eventually!
At the cairn - this peak has no trig point
Achievement unlocked!
The view down Lota Corrie was stunning - bits of cloud just skimming the tops of the peaks with the sun shining down into the bowl surrounded by peaks and ridges.
You'd never believe the wind up there, though - the gusts were bonkers!
The corrie we'd come up, though? It had disappeared..
As Caspar said "it's getting a bit atmospheric up here" - he pointed out that anyone looking up at the ridge from Sliga would think we were having an awful time, buried in cloud with no views at all. The vista of Lota Corrie was like our little secret! The roiling clouds were fascinating to me, though: the inversion as viewed from the mountain ridge was incredibly dramatic.
I'd never seen anything like it
We sat and ate our sandwiches - which were amazing - and then we started to prepare for the rest of the traverse. In fact it was actually my time to show I wasn't completely hopeless: there are two abseils (rappells) past the summit as you head west toward the Basteir Tooth. Caspar decided that - after he rigged gear and headed down himself - I'd take the lead on this, as I had on the Bad Step. I've known how to rappel for decades (I did some climbing back in highschool), and while I don't go terribly quickly I also don't have any fear of it - I trust the rope, I trust my harness, and I like being in control of my own speed just by changing my hand position in relation to the descender or belay device. I bopped down without any real difficulty, but Tank seemed to have some more trepidations until he got into it and realized it wasn't far off the rappelling he'd done in the military.
Sorting out belay devices for the abseil
Those are my legs visible as I sit in a little notch, clipped into an anchor while I wait for Tank to come down
I love this photo that I was able to snap with my phone from my little perch
Another bit of "stimulating" traversing, and we came to the second, much longer abseil - this time down King's Cave Chimney, which divides Am Basteir from the Tooth.
Please forgive me - it's been 4 months since I found this photo, and I cannot now recall its provenance
Tanker - now fully on board with abseiling - was to go first this time, after Caspar got himself set up.
Tank heading into the cave while I sit in the Bhasteir Nick
The cave in question is a tiny pass-through that essentially gets you from the south side of the ridge to the north side to access the anchor.
You can see daylight right through it - that's the anchor rope dangling beyond. Hardly a cave at all!
..which is a good thing, because our intrepid guide said if you couldn't, he would not go through it! Apparently Caspar doesn't like caves
Say cheese!
All set
I needed to keep well back to give Tank access to begin his descent, so I didn't get any photos of him on the big rappel, but he and Caspar both got some of me.
Which means you get to have a look at my big backside as I sit into my harness
Think King's Cave Chimney looks a bit tiny in the reference photo up there?
How about now?
Tank actually shot some video of my descent, so have a look at my slow-but-steady progress off of The Executioner, down a slime-covered wall.
It's not nearly as amazing as the Danny MacAskill video
What was wild was that he and Caspar tried to clear some of the broken rock from the bottom to make a solid landing platform, and as they'd hurl chunks of stone they'd hit other pieces and just shatter. Fragility is not something we associate with eons-old rock, but there was the evidence scattered all around us.
So, it's all over now, right?
Yeah, we made it!
WOO YEAH GO US!
There were a couple of small matters left, though:
Taking off our harnesses, and then call it about 6km of hiking, plus maybe 900m of vertical?
Caspar actually offered that we could go back via a different route than the corrie we'd come up (at the head of which we now stood), but it would have been a bit longer and we had already been about 7 hours. I'm not ashamed to say I was getting tired, both from the effort and from the constant wash of adrenaline while scrambling across the ridge. Not that matters improved much initially, anyway.
See the scree slope Caspar is standing at the top of? Yeah, that again.
The loose, soft, gravel that had been an aerobic challenge on the way up became a much trickier one on the descent: the surface would just shear away as you stepped down, almost like you could just glissade your way down it...assuming you didn't care what sort of shape you were in when you reached the bottom. Tank and I both ended up falling, while Caspar - in a pair of approach shoes, unlike us in our big, stiff hiking boots - just trucked on down without issue.
At least Tank was in a good humour about it
I also had another issue to deal with: remember how I'd needed to relieve myself as we hiked up to the corrie in the morning? Yeah, that still hadn't been dealt with. It hadn't been a problem while we were scrambling around on the ridge (I'm certain that I was in a semi-permanent state of clench for our hours spent roped together), but now that we were descending? If running has taught me anything, it's that whatever needs out of you will be infinitely more demanding on a downhill.
This would be the moment to scroll ahead to the next photo if you're squeamish
So, with no other choices available, I sent Tank and Caspar ahead and told them I'd catch up after I attended to something urgent. When they were occupied with getting further down the slope, I stepped to the side of the path, pulled out and opened the zipper baggie that had held our sandwiches, got my little bottle of hand sanitizer ready, dropped my trousers, and took aim..
..poorly. Containment was not 100%, and at this point a pack of wild dogs could not have induced me to disrespect this majestic mountain by leaving evidence of my passing. So, I hunted around in my pack until I found the baggie that still contained 2 delicious chocolate macaroons, both of which I slipped into my trouser cargo pocket. The now-empty baggie enveloped the disturbingly full first baggie, and I carefully zipped it shut, stashed it in an outside pocket of my pack, and - it has to be said - wiped my arse with a rock, in the absence of any paper products. Then I copiously and vigorously sanitized my hands, ditched my vest and wind jacket in my bag as the air now felt ridiculously warm, and pushed on to meet up with Tank and Caspar by the lovely little waterfall we'd stopped at on our way up. I gave Tank his macaroon from my pocket, ate my own, and then we were on our way.
Eventually making it out of the scree, mostly un-damaged (I am aware I am not an inspiring sight in that outfit, but comfort takes precedence over fashion in the mountains)
There was just one problem: I guess the zipper baggies were not impervious to odours, and we now had a bit of a following breeze, which meant that a certain stench would waft from my pack pocket and lead me down the trail. I'm sure Caspar could smell it too, as the ground leveled out a bit and the path became easier to hike, but he tactfully said nothing about it - instead, he continued to make entertaining and informative conversation about the local flora, identifying various species like sundew (a carnivorous plant similar to venus flytrap), delicate bog asphodel, bog myrtle (whose leaves give off a beautiful scent when crushed, and can be used as an insect repellent), and pretty little buttercup-like tormentil.
Now that I think about it, perhaps he was trying to focus on sweet-smelling things for a reason?
Tank was a trooper - the poor lad was still hurting from our adventure on Ben Nevis when we started the day, relying on a rub-down with the Voltarol (UK Voltaren) that we'd picked up the day before to try to ease his painful legs - but he made it through like a champ!
So proud of him!
I'm immensely grateful to have a partner who is willing to have fun-but-terrifying adventures with me
We finally made it back to the Sliga Hotel a full nine and a half hours after our departure, thanking Caspar profusely for his patience, knowledge, competence, and a thoroughly enjoyable day. We had lucked out by not having a single drop of rain, and very little wet rock thanks to the wind. We offered him a modest tip - just a few quid for a pint or two on us - and then went to head into the hotel for a drink, before realizing the bit of cash I'd just handed over to our guide was the only means of payment I'd brought with me.
It was also probably a good idea for me to go give my hands a solid wash, particularly after I made a stop at a handy dumpster to "leave no trace" (Also: that's Caspar at his van directly over my head)
Back to the campground to say hi to Mindy briefly (I never even used the lip balm I'd gone back for in the morning, either!), I had a good scrub up, changed out of my clunky boots - which had once again massacred my baby toe, with the moleskin having shifted and stuck to my sock - then we grabbed some cash before heading back over to the hotel for a well-earned drink.
The Sligachan Hotel boasts over 400 kinds of whisky, but Tank was more interested in the real ale from Cuillin Brewery, which is literally on the other side of the wall from the bar (I had a spiced rum & cola)
I actually had a couple of drinks after that - a big bottle Thistly Cross cider, and a pre-mixed can of rum & cola - in an effort to get drunk on my birthday, but it seems I was simply too completely worn out to feel more than slightly tipsy.
We did get rather a pretty sunset, though, after our most stimulating - the word Tank suggested, which tickled Caspar to no end - experience
This - while I had to eat it un-heated for lack of a microwave - made a delicious birthday dessert, too!
So there you have it - the story of how I pooped in a bag on a mountain on my birthday.
Oh, and bagged my second Munro in less than a week!
Massive thanks to Caspar McKeever of McKeever Mountain Guides, and Abacus Mountain Guides for facilitating this incredible day. We could not have asked for a more confidence-inspiring, friendly, patient, and personable guide, and I would highly recommend them for any mountain-based goals you may want to achieve!
You'll even get photos afterward you can treasure for a lifetime!
I will also say this: if you want to go swanning about in the mountains - unless you have already done a great deal of training and preferably some structured courses and/or certifications - please hire a qualified guide. The Black Cuillins can be particularly challenging due to the nature of the rock: not only is it subject to sudden breakage, the high iron content can cause compasses to give false readings, and the terrain can make route finding difficult even in good conditions. In any alpine environment, though, the weather can be subject to sudden changes that can render you unable to see past the end of your arm, become dangerously slippery, or bring on hypothermia that can easily kill you. A qualified guide (and Caspar is ridiculously over-qualified to babysit the likes of us, as a certified Winter Mountaineering Instructor - the highest level of guide qualification available) can help you ensure you have the correct kit to deal with changes in weather, and should have first-hand knowledge of the routes and challenges you may face. Your chances of having a wonderful time - just as we did - and in fact living to enjoy another day - are greatly improved by ensuring you have someone along who can help you achieve more than you could on your own, and do so safely. If you've lucked out with someone like Caspar, you'll also be treated to a wealth of knowledge about the environment through which you're traveling, to deepen and colour the experience! While the incredible volunteer force that is Skye Mountain Rescue may be there to assist those who find themselves in trouble, isn't it much nicer not to need them? Let's give them - and every other mountain rescue team out there, no matter where you're climbing or hiking - a boring day, by making sure your preparations include booking a guide for your adventure.
DIDN'T DIE
So after all that, it was time for some rest on this vacation, right?
