Sgor A'Mhaim and Stob Ban
THE spirit of exploration plays a large part in Mountaineering, for mountaineers are for the most part travellers who find a fascination in discovering for themselves secluded valleys and unspoilt villages as well as a forcing routes up new peaks and unfamiliar glaciers.
But when in strange parts, most climbers are content to follow in the footsteps of their predecessors by using Maps and Climbing Guides: this they do as a precautionary measure, knowing that in districts which have been explored in detail, a climbing day can be better spent by obeying instructions than by trusting to Providence. With most of us, time is limited, and the interest of unaided route finding is not considered worth the risk of disappointment.
The Lakeland Fells are the easiest mountains for most of us to reach. These, unlike Alpine peaks, have little individuality as mountains, the great interest being in the rock faces. So climbers find themselves continually following the tracks to some half-dozen crags where the rocks are ’good and where the best routes are charted The time then soon comes when every changing view is familiar; one no longer feels that exquisite joy of breasting some new col to see a great panorama of new peaks burst into view. The rock-climber is thus apt to slip into that much criticised state of complete indifference to scenery, being interested only in the purely technical and gymnastic side of climbing.
We look also to the hills to give us contrast to the crowded places of the earth, and freedom from the company of all but the closest of friends. Here, alas, the Lakes suffer by reason of this very accessibility, and it is rarely, except in winter, that one can spend a day in the fells completely alone.
The remedy is to come at "off seasons" when the "Tourist" is blissfully ignorant that the Lakes have still some attractions. Happily the most crowded season is August, which, among the fells, is quite the least attractive month in the year. Come rather in the sun and snow of early Spring, and in the Autumn, when the fell sides are rich with the red-brown of dying bracken, and then in the sweltering haze of Summer one need not be interested in the dull-green hills; one can forget the crowded passes and the hotels by the lakes, and can live for the touch of warm dry rocks.
Some go rather to Wales – to the lonely cwms and the less exploited peaks, where there is peace: but in the valleys it is hard to escape the far-reaching charabanc, whose influence has ruined so many wayside inns.
Others go to Scotland – and here is a land where the explorer can find everything that makes the mountains of our own islands so fascinating: Rock peaks rising from the sea, or from great open moorland where no man comes; lakes set like gems among the birch and pine-woods, or running like Norwegian Fjords into the heart of snow- capped mountains. Here is a country which is for ever calling the climber back to explore some new district which he saw tempting him from the last peak of his previous visit.
Thus inspired, we determined that Glencoe and Lochaber must be explored in winter conditions. The perfect snow and sun of the Lakes at the Meet in March gave promise of wonderful things in the Highlands, so thither we travelled. I collected Manley at Bridge of Orchy Station, and took him on the back of the machine to Clachaig.
Clachaig is a well situated little inn for the climber; lying below the great wall of Aonach. Dubh which seems to bar the entrance to the deep and gloomy Glencoe. But it is far to Buchaille Etive, and here, as in most Scottish centres, a car or cycle is of enormous value.
Our first few days there were days of bitter disappointment. It snowed and rained almost incessantly: we never saw the peaks, and the valleys were less attractive than in summer, when the birch trees and green bracken form so delicate a foreground to mist-shrouded hills. The third morning was as hopeless as ever, but desperation drove us to attempt Bidean nam Bian (3,766 ft.), the highest of the Glencoe Peaks. We soon reached snow and mist, and a strong gusty wind. The mist grew denser, and the ridge narrowed down and steepened, we were soon groping our way over ice- caked rocks and little cols with huge cornices – how we longed for that rope we had scorned to bring! At last we reached the summit, and a world of whiteness, with mist blending into snow giving a strange sensation that one was poised in cloud, having no contact with the earth. We abandoned the traverse across to Stob Coire an Lochan, for this meant getting through the cornice – not a pleasant thought when nothing was visible below. So we came down the West side down snow gullies and steep grassy slopes below, into a wild and barren glen, and back to Clachaig. We came back with a very great respect for Scottish peaks, having made the mistake of treating Bidean as if it were a Lakeland peak, just a little higher.
Time being limited, this bad weather compelled us to abandon plans of looking at Skye in winter conditions, and feeling very disappointed, we moved to Fort William in hopes of better things.
The Meteorologist’s prophecies were correct. We drove to Achintee wild with delight at the prospect of a really good day, for the clouds were breaking up, and the wind was in the North. Ever cautious, though, we made a short detour to the top of Meall an’t Suidhe (2,322 ft.) to get the view lest it should cloud over again.
Every snow-capped peak as far as the eye could see glittered in the sun: the great brown valley lay below us, and Loch Linnhe stretched far away to distant Mull. The peaks of Ardgour especially looked most attractive.
We were soon rounding the corner into the Mhuillinn Glen, and the vast North face of Ben Nevis began to come into view. We lunched by the stream in deep soft snow, and contemplated the big slope before us. There was 2,000 ft. of step-kicking up hard steep snow – and most tiring it was, for the snow was so hard that three or four kicks were needed to make an adequate foot-hold. The view back across the , Corrie was of a grandeur unapproached by anything either of us had seen in Britain: two thousand feet of crags, and nearly two miles wide: ridges and gullies, all plastered in ice and snow glittering with a metallic sheen in the misty sun; plastered so thickly that no trace of dark rock showed through the icy covering. We decided there and then that all climbing on these crags was out of the question. How Van Noorden’s party fared is described elsewhere – four desperate days were spent in an attempt to force the Tower Ridge. We lunched on Carn Mor Dearg, our first Scottish 4,000 ft. peak, sheltering under the cairn from the drifting snow, while we viewed the ridge ahead. This ridge to Ben Nevis is surely the most attractive ridge in Britain; it is a ridge of perfect symmetry, starting from the shapely peak of Carn Mor Dearg, and curving up behind the huge pinnacle-like North East Buttress which merges into the summit plateau of Ben Nevis, while beyond are those great crags. From the ridge, .html goo ft. of hard steep snow brought us to the top: the highest point in Britain. We looked around for the observatory, but all was bare and smooth, except for two small hummocks of ice. Prolonged hacking at one of these with an ice-axe disclosed the stonework of a chimney! Life must have been hard for those who used to dwell here all the year round.
Ben Nevis is disappointing as a view point. One sees an incredible distance. I have seen Uist in the Outer Hebrides – nearly zoo miles, but the impression is of an endless sea of peaks receding away to infinity. The eye is bewildered and the outline of any one peak is marred by the distraction of the one beyond. The Mamore Forest peaks in particular, suffered: they had looked very fine from Meall an’t Suidhe, now far below. It was bitterly cold, with a strong North wind blowing: so cold that my boots were frozen stiff on my feet. In the gathering dusk we looked timidly over the fearsome cornices above the crags. There must have been 40 feet of vertical ice barring the finish to the Tower Ridge. Then we came down nearly 2,000 feet in sitting glissades – a delightful method of descending on Scottish snow, which is generally either very hard or too soft and powdery for standing glissades. We came down so quickly (aided along the road by the, motor cycle) that we arrived in Fort William still covered in snow, to the astonishment of the inhabitants, who had enjoyed a warm sunny day.
We drove up Glen Nevis on a superb morning. The snow- capped peaks gleamed in the sun, dazzling white against the pure blue sky, and the last cloud was rolling off Sgor a’ Mhaim. Glen Nevis is a fine valley: it has been described as "truly Alpine," and indeed with such snow on the tops, the comparison is almost justified, although the characteristic atmosphere of a Scottish glen is never lost. It is a perfect valley for a camp.
It was so wonderful in the valley that we lingered till past midday before we started leisurely up the broad ridge which leads to Mullach na Coirean, the last of the Mamore mountains, and a splendid viewpoint. The Glencoe peaks eight miles away were singularly fine, and we could trace the upper part of our recent route up Bidean.
We followed the ridge eastwards, on hard level snow at first, which steepened for the final cone of Stob Ban, where step-kicking was needed. Stob Ban is a striking little peak – ’ though little only by comparison with its loftier neighbours. In Summer its quartzite top is conspicuous from afar, but in Winter no rocks are visible, and the summit is just a sharp corniced peak. We stood there in the evening sun wishing we had left time to do that grand looking ridge to Sgor a’Mhaim. But we had learnt our lesson on Bidean, and had now sufficient respect for Scottish snow peaks to deter us from the unpleasant- ness of descending 3,500 feet in the dark. The Mamore Forest ridges are certainly worthy of thorough exploration - especially in snow conditions. More sitting glissades took us down into a fine rock-encirded corrie, and thence by a charming side valley back to Glen Nevis, and so to Fort William.
Our short spell of good weather was ended. We had hoped to try Binnein Mor, but now it would have meant a long day in wind and snow, so we went 18 miles along the Mallaig road to the head of Loch Shiel. This part of the High- lands, between Lochaber and Skye, contains probably some of the most beautiful valley scenery in Britain, and is full of charming lochs among wooded rocky hillsides. The peaks are not high, so by coming here we hoped for the best of the weather.
We walked up Glenfinnan, and up a bleak, slabby corrie to the top, and foun4 the summit of Sgor na Coireachan (3,133 ft.) in dense mist. There was a gale from the east driving the biting snow with such force that we could scarcely face it, so we came down on the west side, and down a strange long valley, with great smooth crags rising into the mist on either side. We came then upon a most beautiful lake – Loch Beoraid it is called – set amid steep slopes with birch woods and grassy glades, where we saw any number of deer. The rain was in our faces for eight miles back to the road, and we were cold and wet to the skin for the long drive home: a hot bath brought us back to life, and we thanked Heaven we were not camping that night.
’This is all that is worthy of note. One more wet day was spent in that fascinating gorge of Glen Nevis, and plans for Ben Lui on the way home were abandoned.
So we had only two fine days in nine – but some of the bad days were well spent, for there is intense satisfaction in getting up a strange peak in bad conditions – and those two days gave us something more wonderful than we had believed was possible in our own country.