Scotland 2022 - Part 7 - Beaten by an Old Man

After an absolutely bonkers day of scrambling in the Black Cuillins, you'd think a bit of relaxation would be in order.

Tank certainly hoped you'd be right, but Scotland doesn't truly show her beauty without putting in a bit of work

I actually awoke at 5:50am and couldn't get back to sleep, so I did some research and plotting for yet another adventure for us later in the week, but went back to sleep for a bit before waking Tank around 8am, asking him almost immediately if he was down for the additional fun I'd been found for us. He was, despite being very sore - he panicked a bit when he thought the pain he'd been having in his quads had migrated to his hip, until I reminded him he'd landed on his bum a couple of times coming down the scree in the corrie yesterday. He slathered on some Voltarol to try to get himself moving, and made coffee for us while I went over the plan for the day. It wasn't exactly restful. but I did draw a bit of a line in the sand: whatever I'd do today, I'd bloody well do in a dress.

Starting with a making us a good breakfast!

It was actually predicted to be a really beautiful day - sunny and quite hot by Scottish standards at 22c/72f - and the morning shone bright through the open campervan door as I cooked and we ate.

I honestly loved having the little kitchen in the van so we could just stock up on groceries and make our own meals!

With our bellies full and a couple of cups of coffee in us, we stowed everything away and said goodbye to Sligachan Campsite - where we'd spent the last two nights - around 10:45am, heading up through Portree and onto Trotternish, the most northerly of Skye's peninsulae. Heading through town after departing from the A87 got a bit dicey: the narrow roads, coupled with some lorries parked on the side of them making deliveries (as this was Monday after all), led to a motorhome coming the other way scraping past one of our wing mirrors! Fortunately it folded up with no harm done, and the other driver (to their credit) did stop to make sure all was ok before carrying on, but it was a bit stressful! The singletrack with passing places of the A855 that led us up the east side of the peninsula actually felt wide open by comparison, with very little traffic either in front or behind us.

What it did have, though, was an amazing view of our destination.

Skirting 'round Loch Fada

Now here's the thing: we were still miles off from the Old Man of Storr, but could already see it quite clearly. I was beginning to grasp that it might be - like every other thing in Scotland - a wee bit bigger than expected. We pulled into the car park overlooking the Sound of Raasay, eventually found a spot for Mindy in the throngs of vehicles, and hopped out to get ready.

We noticed a lot of people sporting full-on hiking boots, daypacks, and trekking poles.
I opted for my trailrunners and sticking an extra bottle of water plus a wind jackets for each of us in my tote bag

There's a proper bathroom at the base, so we hit that first before heading toward the path, stopping to read an informational plaque placed by the Druim nan Linntean - the Skye Eco Museum - before commencing our hike.

"The Old Man of Storr, or Bodach an Stoir, was once part of the Trotternish Ridge, a 9-mile inland cliff created about 11,500 years ago which stretches north of here. The ridge is made from layers of rock - harder volcanic basalt on top and softer sandstone below. The hard rock presses down on the soft rock, making it collapse and move. Thousands of years ago a major part of the Ridge detached from the cliff and is moving a few millimetres a year towards the sea. The Old Man of Storr is hard basalt rock which was once part of the cliff. This is the most dramatic and active landslip in Britain. Further north, near the Quiraing, the moving land is damaging the road. We expect the landscape will look very different in 5,000 years."

So, we began to climb up the dirt path, passing through the gate (to keep the sheep where they ought to be) and gaining a lot of elevation in a hurry.

Looking back toward Portree over Loch Leathan - note the specks of people on the path at the lower left corner

The path was well maintained dirt and gravel, but also steep and loose. 

I mean, not Coire a Bhasteir loose, but still a bit gravelly and washed out in places

There were a number of switchbacks, but the climbing was still very challenging for our weary legs.

It had only been 6 days since we'd climbed Ben Nevis, and less than 24hrs since Am Basteir!

Tank was less than enthusiastic about all the up, especially as the day began to heat up significantly. The wind was incredible, whipping 'round us, but the combination of the air temperature and the exertion was making him unpleasantly warm.

He'd had to ditch his sunglasses as they kept fogging up on him

We didn't even have a real view of the Old Man or Needle Rock yet!
(The white things past the dude in jeans are the weathered stumps of a pine forest that was logged off)

The switchbacks gave an incredible view of our dramatic surroundings, though.

The Sound of Raasay shining like chrome in the distance at left, with Loch Leathan and Loch Fada visible past the foreground grassy bits

The path flattened out at a windswept plateau just at the point that the Old Man and Needle Rock began to distinguish themselves from the ridge behind.

I can spot them - can you?

This was where Tank decided he'd had enough, and I couldn't blame him. I did, however, want to press on to get a better look, so he took his wind jacket and water bottle from my bag, and said he'd hang out and admire the view from there until I was done. I gave him a smooch, then off I went.

As the path turned upward once more

I was finally starting to see the giant basalt column clearly

It's still deceptively far off...and up.

At this point the path turns into the same rock steps we'd seen on the Ben Nevis mountain track, which meant it was probably a really good thing Tank had declined to continue.

He hadn't much enjoyed them.
Neither had I - on the way back down - so I knew I was probably going to regret trekking onward

Still, the pull of the Old Man - rumoured to be the thumb of a giant buried there still sticking out of the ground - was strong enough that I continued.

There was another path - pictured here - but I figured I'd take my chances with the steps rather than that jumble of broken rock!

I reached a split in the path at the top of the steps as Needle Rock rose before me.

It's the big pointy flake-like rock structure dead centre - still a few hundred metres away

Looking back, I couldn't see Tank on the plateau anymore, but I had an amazing view over the Sound.

With the isles of Rona and Raasay in the distance

Turning back to the task at hand, I continued to climb, until I ran out of anything that could properly be considered a path

I could have crawled up it, but I didn't want to have to butt slide back down in my dress

I'd already climbed 275m/902ft according to my watch, in about 2km/1.25mi. I decided that was enough - there were few people I saw who ventured further, and I was tired and had nothing to prove to anyone.

A kind hiker offered to take a photo for me, which I gladly accepted

So, then it was a matter of getting myself back down again...preferably safely.

Just as the sun started to break through the overcast!

I made my way carefully down to the steps again, then began the process of descending them with complaining legs and a steady stream of foot traffic in the other direction.

I'd also occasionally look back at the rocky grandeur above me

These photos really convey nothing of the sheer scale of these enormous features

As I passed below it with an unobstructed view, I took one last shot of the Old Man himself before descending past the point I'd be able to see him.

Maybe someday I'll come back and introduce myself properly

I wasn't much quicker on the way down than the way up, and I was now sweating freely in the hot sun.

It was proper summer weather, which we hadn't expected at all!
(The average July temperature is 16c/61f)

I eventually made it down to the windy plateau where Tank awaited, and we each had a snack and some water before continuing down together.

 

The Old Man already blending back in to the Trotternish Ridge

The loose washed-out sections of path felt very sketchy under my fatigued legs, and I was grateful when we made it back down to the car park safely. Total distance for me was less than 4km/2.5mi.

The whole round trip took me an hour and a half

One more stop at the excellent washrooms, then it was back in the van with her nose pointed south. We stopped in Portree to visit an excellent outfitter named Inside Out where we were able to pick up a couple of souvenirs of Skye (a tubular gaiter, a postcard of the Cuillin Ridge, and a pin with the Skye Mountain Rescue logo - the proceeds from the pin support the magnificent volunteer efforts of this truly incredible team!), and pick up a few grocery items from the Co-op and a lovely little shop amusingly named Jacksons Wholefoods. We also hit up Isle of Skye Soap Company, and I'm not sure I've ever been in a better smelling place! We bought a bar of their myrtle & heather soap for my mum, then wandered back to the van. It was kind of hilarious: it had reached 24c with blazing sun, and the locals had no idea how to proceed - everyone we saw looked ready to melt into a puddle, and there wasn't an air conditioned building to be found! 

I'm actually quite ashamed that I took no photos in Portree, as it's a beautiful town with some lovely classic architecture to it. I guess it means I'll just have to go back! Speaking of which, we were now retracing our steps down the A87 toward Sligachan, with the imposing Cuillin Ridge rising before us.

It was impossible for us to fathom that we'd been up on the ridge the day before.
It just didn't make any sense no matter which way we turned the thought 'round to try to make it fit in our brains.

Pressing onward, we passed Sligachan Campsite under the enormous mound of Glamaig of the Red Cuillins.

That's her on the right - there's actually a foot race up it!

A mirthful moment just outside Sliga - a flock of sheep had wandered into the road, rather blocking our way. I rolled down my window and gave a great BAAAAAAAA at them, imitating the sheep that were a constant soundtrack to our days in Glen Nevis. To both our surprise, they immediately turned and ran off the road!

Apparently I learned to speak sheep, though I suspect my accent is atrocious

We made good time down the A87, with no stops along the way this time.

I just managed to snap a shot of Eas a' Bhradain (Blackhills Waterfall) as we rolled past

Soon we were crossing the great bridge to Kyle of Lochalsh, leaving Skye behind us.

Not without some heartache - it had been so spectacular!

By 4pm we were hankering for some lunch, and decided to have it with a bit of class...so we stopped by to visit a friend.

The dedicated car park off A87 is a paid lot, but certainly gives a lovely view of stunning Eilean Donan Castle!

We actually tried going for the tour of the castle which had been our overnight companion a few days earlier, but they wanted £10 per person on top of the parking fee, plus another £5 for me to check my bag. NOPE. We ate sandwiches in the car park, then continued east, diverting from the A87 to the A887 toward Inverness.

Still loving the road signs in both English and Gaelic

If you can believe it, when I was booking everything for this trip I had actually completely forgotten about Loch Ness! However, we wouldn't miss out on this iconic lake as our route - after winding through beautiful forests on the - led us back to the A82 at Invermoriston, which runs along the eastern shore of this beautiful body of water for most of its impressive length.

Upon seeing it, it's not difficult to believe that a giant creature could hide for millenia in its vast waters!

It's seriously 36km/22.5mi long, and 226m/740ft deep

As we rolled along we saw some signage for Urquhart Castle, so we decided to stop and have a look. After trekking down to the actual entrance (which is a ticket booth with a staircase to a tunnel out to the castle itself), we discovered that a) they were closed, with last entry at 5:15pm, and b) they wanted even more for entry than Eilean Donan Castle did!

Which made no sense to us, particularly since at least half of it seemed to be missing.
Heck castles!

We continued east, now just trying to find ourselves a place to stop for the night. We wanted to be close to Inverness for some exciting plans we had for the following day, and I'd found something that looked promising on google maps: Lochend Beach, at the north end of mighty Loch Ness.

Whose waters seemed very inviting at the end of a long, hot day

After a bit of a mix up - you mean THAT is a road, and not someone's tiny, ill-kempt driveway? - we found the way down to the beautiful beach. 

Unfortunately, there were some issues.

If there's one thing worse to a North American driver's mind in Scotland than the roads, it's the parking - there isn't any. One would think such an expansive beach would have a car park, but instead we found only the end of a gated-off laneway with space for maybe 4 small cars, and 5 cars already crammed in! 

There was also the matter of the midgies. I had hopped out of the van to scout and see if there was any other way we might be able to park up for the night, and was immediately swarmed by the tiny biting hordes. With no obvious solution but to press onward, I scurried back to the van and after a multiple-point turn to get us out of there, we headed east once more.

A real pity as it was such a beautiful spot, but note the dark smudge of a photobombing midgie at top left of the above!

I looked through our options: there was a caravan park on the west end of Inverness, but I read some less than stellar reviews, and we had really wanted to do some more wild camping. In the end, we decided to choose utility and frugality over scenery (and possibly driving around for ages with a big day planned for Tuesday), and spent a whopping £4 to park up in the car park beside the Torvean Roundabout.

We were far from the only campervan to choose this option!

While it wasn't exactly Glen Coe, we were directly across from pretty Torvean Park

It was a nice place to go for a bit of a walk after dinner

If our surroundings were a bit dull compared with the views we'd enjoyed so far on our holiday, that was accompanied by a much deeper feeling of loss at having left the Western Highlands behind us. Our whole trip so far - after departing Stirling and Robert the Bruce proudly astride his steed - had taken us through mind-bogglingly huge vistas of giant mountains all around us. While Inverness is known as the Capital of the Highlands, the muted, rolling hills that surround the city and that seemed very typical of the Central Highlands utterly failed to capture our hearts after the rugged majesty of the Great Glen and Skye. 

We'd just have to hope the next day's adventure would make up for the sorrow we felt at leaving what we thought of as the true Highlands..

..which would definitely take something special!

Scotland 2022 - Part 6 - The Executioner

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.

I have a tendency to do something that scares the pants off me for my birthday. This would be no exception.

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.

I'd already made us a pair of Great Glen venison salami sandwiches for lunch on the mountain

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. 

From the Scottish Mountaineering Club guidebook

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

In a country where everything is hard, the Black Cuillins have a reputation as the most challenging of peaks in the UK to ascend. The rock - primarily gabbro and basalt, the result of ancient volcanic activity that created the Isle of Skye - is fickle and fragile, and will betray your trust should you be foolish enough to offer it.

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

So as you make your way along from east to west on Am Basteir, there's a feature known as the Bad Step. This was a relatively easy downclimb until rockfall in the early 2000's removed some key holds, and it's now a rock climb graded "severe" and according to one gent "needs a rope to descend unless you have eyes in your boots."

That's it dead centre in the foreground

Doesn't look so big and scary, does it?

How about with some climbers for scale?
(Photo from Steven Fallon's Mountain Adventures page)

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?

..right?