Four Days in the Cairngorm Mountains

Thursday night it was decided. I was off to the Cairngorms for 4 days in the wilderness. Life was getting too much, my head had clogged up with too many things, and I needed escape. I wasn’t sure how I’d cope. I felt mentally drained and emotionally weak. I wasn’t sure whether this trip was a good idea, whether it would sort me out or make me worse, but the beautiful invention of the ML Logbook, gave me a motive to go, so I did. This time I made the effort to pack well. My experience in wild camping is that your day is made much better by being comfortable at night. Alongside the essentials my rucksack consisted of stuff like, an iPod, a book (The Plague Dogs), coffee, tea, and milk powder, all the things I would often leave behind in order to move that extra bit quicker and go that extra bit further. 

The journey up felt long. I didn’t think the weather was going to be good for the next few days, but I didn’t bother checking the forecast. I was going regardless and wind and rain is good for the soul. The 6 cd changer in my car was playing its usual tracks. Tracks that I hadn’t changed for the last couple of months, tracks that I would listen to, when I felt down and in return would get some comfort from them. But then the problem wass, these tracks had now become associated with those negative feelings. They’d become worn out and ruined and the sound of them was sparking of bad memories and pitiful feelings. My mind span, the music only making it more bearable.

It was 4pm by the time I arrived at the Ski Station. I wrote a quick note to leave in my car window and then shouldered my rucksack before heading off into the cairngorms for what lay ahead. A slog up windy ridge on the way up to the Ptarmigan (top ski station) allowed for time to get used to the weight of a heavy pack again. When arriving at the Ptarmigan I then continued onto Cairngorm, passing a couple on the way up to the summit. These would be the last people I saw for the next 2 days. I took a bearing and slogged down through the mist towards the saddle that connects Cairngorm to Bynack More. It was at this point I had entered the heart of the mountain range. Loch Avon and its mighty river that journeys along the uninhabited Avon valley for miles on end, lay below me. This was what I had come for. It was these massive long valleys unscarred by man that make the cairngorms look so attractive on an OS 1:50 000 Landranger map, but when you’re actually there, something special connects with you. Nothing in the world effects you and the land in front of you. No problems. Not world problems, not money problems, not relationship problems. At this point I could feel my head clearing. I and a similar feeling to that when the automatic car wash lifts its mechanical arms and away from your windscreen letting you once again see the daylight you’d been missing since entering the booth. I journey further onto Bynack Mor in thick fog. I soon found my first introduction to the granite pinnacles which seem to be iconic of this area. They were like the gritstone outcrops of the Peak District, similar in formation, beaten into submission by years of weathering, yet somehow still standing strong, proudly towering above the rest of the landscape - refusing to except defeat. 

Just before the summit, loneliness started to hit. The wind and rain had picked up, and I could feel my hands slightly numbing. Out here your head is effected only too easily by your body. Warmth is of vital importance on a trip like this. When you subject yourself to four days in this environment, there are no prizes for being uncomfortable. It isn’t like at home, where you walk the dog for 20 minutes in a t-shirt despite the winter temps. That is training. That is feeling that uncomfortableness because it’s wanted after a day in a centrally heated home. Out here uncomfortableness is given in bagfuls. And you definitely don’t want it in bagfuls. 

After working my way onto the summit, I dropped down towards the valley below. As I lost height I lost the fog. I started to see further. I saw the tarns below me and the lesser hills of the national park rolling on for miles on end. I also saw the track. This track would take me back to Glenmore, from where a quick hitch would get me back up to my car the next day. I had probably experienced my lowest point on this trip right now. I decided then and there, that I would do the planned route. I remembered once again about the drops and climbs in moral levels I always experience on trips out into the hill like this. It’s all about knowing when and where your moral is likely to dive down, and being prepared for it. This was amplified on the final section. On the way to camp, in the rain. Knowing that despite being alone in this place and all its cruelty that I would be feeling comfort and dryness within the next hour. I started talking to myself. Something I admittedly do quite often when no one’s around. I’m pretty good at it. I generally talk to myself about climbing, and goings on in my personal life. Sometimes even my troubles. But when you’re at a point that talking doesn’t help, you need to sort this out. I was now at a thorough high right now. The hills can perhaps give a similar (though less harsh) experience of bipolar. Sudden lows and sudden highs are given out here - but rarely anything in between. 

Camp 1

I pitched my tent and followed the routine I had planned for myself over the next 3 nights. The first litre of water I fetched would be enough for a cup of tea and some pasta, whilst the second would do for semolina and an additional cup after for pudding. Then I would need to refill in the morning for coffee and breakfast, that was three trips to my water source. By the end of these 3 days I had cut this down to only 2 trips per camp. I hung my head torch from the top of my tent. It lit up the place. The rain tapped in different strengths throughout the night as I read further about the gap in the pens of Snitter and Rowf, and the error of their careless kennel hand that evening when he left one of the gates unlocked. 

I awoke that morning having slept like a log. I’d spent so many nights in this sleeping bag over the last 3 years that it was practically like my bed. The planned day wasn’t a massive one and the rain was hitting hard outside. I decided to wait and see if it dropped at all. Also I was enjoying this tent. It was bigger than my others, yet still lightweight. It had a colour to it that allowed light to enter more easily. I left at 1:30pm. And ventured off passing the Avon refuge and the river, before venturing up the Avon Valley and all it’s emptiness of human life. I realised at this point that it was all in my head. If Morale can dip from high to low and back again that easily, surely I could keep it at the same level. I predicted that potentially the worst point in the day for my morale would be on the summit of North Top. Where wind, rain and fog were likely to hit the hardest. I knew perhaps my highest point would be when I pitched camp. I then had a new outlook. My tent was my permanent home. As far as it mattered I didn’t have another home made of bricks and mortar back in Cumbria, but just this one of lightweight siliconised nylon and titanium pegs. Morale wasn’t an issue. This was now my life, a new one and I liked it. A lot. After all I had a motive for being out here. 

On the North Top

I continued up the valley until I came to my turn off, a series of streams running along a drop in slope angle. I followed this up and made my way onto the plateaux where from there I could see my summits for the day, partly cloud covered. I had already been walking for over 3 hours, but it didn’t matter. I hadn’t had to work too hard on nav, things were obvious, I let my mind wonder. It wondered about my future, where I had come from, the first step I ever took on a fell at 14 and the first step I took on a rock face at 16. I then linked back to the problems that had filled my head right up until stepping out of my car at the ski centre. But they were in a new light. An almost irrelevance. As if watching a soap opera, where all kinds of shit goes on, but all it takes is a glance to the edge of your TV screen to remember it’s not reality. I was out in the mountains making proper decisions that actually do effect your day. That’s as real as it can get! I summited North Top on Beinn A’ Bhuird, with very little in the way of views to write home about. I had felt the cold in my hands again as the wind hit them, this time though I stopped it at my body, and didn’t let it effect my head. I had dealt with it, and I was now perhaps at my most remote point on the trip. Paths didn’t exist here, despite what the map might say, but that didn’t matter I felt bombproof, I could cope with anything out here. I continued down along the long plateaux on the way to Beinn a’ Chaorainn. The cloud wasn’t low enough to effect me and I could see right across to the cloud on Ben Macdui, the king of the range and the second highest mountain in the UK. I had stood on it about a month before. I continued, only thinking about getting to camp and summiting some hills along the way.  I let out a whoop - just because no-one was around and I could do whatever I liked. I then heard a whooping reply about a second later. The initial noise had bounced around the hill side and travelled back to me. That somehow was a moment I knew would stick in my head when I got back. I continued on and after a water stop by the stream I topped out on Beinn a’ Chaorainn Bheag, before dropping down onto the col between that and the main summit and then heading up for the last bit of ascent for the day. On which the wind picked up and the clag went thick. I continued through it to the main summit, and then took a bearing off down into Lairig an Laoigh my camp for the night. And when arriving I felt the heart of the Cairngorms beneath my feet. This was true UK hillwalking. 

I followed the same routine as the night before, eating my pasta and pesto, having a couple of brews and semolina whilst continuing to read about Rowf and Snitter as they broke there way through the building and journeyed out into Coniston, unfamiliar with the world around them - wondering what kind of a man could destroy all the buildings and leave the natural landscape looking how it was supposed to be. No doubt a similar approach many school kids from the heart of the city have when they come up to the Lakes for the first time in their lives. Morning came before I knew it. I decided to lie in until 12, I had the feeling that the weather would clear, and I felt that actually a clear, dry day would be quite nice. A day off from constant pacing and the taking of bearings. I set of up Beinn Mheadhoin, at a leisurely pace. 

Stob Coire Etchachan

Beinn Mheadhoin summit

And then stopped for bite to eat and some water on the top above Stob Coire Etchachan, looking down onto the amazing rock faces in the coire below. After that I strolled up to the summit of Mheadhoin, a 12 metre high granite outcrop. It reminded me of Higgar Tor in the Peak District, where I’m sure I’ll make the effort to climb at one day. Clearly some good quality climbs lay on the front of it, but an easier approach can be made from the northern side for the hillwalker looking to ‘claim’ the summit. It was here I saw my first person since leaving the Ski Station at Cairngorm. And I was actually a bit upset. I knew it would happen, and in fact at the start of the first day I was almost looking forward to it but now it just seemed a shame. I’d actually enjoyed my own company over the past 40 hours. After a few lines with the fellow Englishman about not having a clue how to pronounce the name of the munro we were on, I set off down the hill towards the Loch. The weather still glorious with views all around - everywhere looked amazing. Cairngorm Derry would be my final summit of the day, and at a laid back pace I made my way onto it, before dropping down its western side into the valley below. It was here I began to flag. I had probably been burning more calories than I was consuming over the past few days and now I could feel my body eating into my reserves. Camp was another 7km away but it was all down hill or flat ground. I just needed to keep going and resist the temptation to took into tomorrow food, after all tomorrow I’d need it and today I didn’t really. And on realising that I actually had an extra meal of pasta left over that I could have for seconds that night, I found a new drive on getting to my proposed camp near the Corrour bothy just below the Devil’s Point on Cairn Toul.

I arrived by River Dee to see a group further up the valley by the bothy. It was strange how when first setting out on this mini adventure I would have liked nothing better than to go into a packed bothy on the first night and engage in the company and comfort of like minded people. This time however it was the last thing I wanted. I deliberately camped half a kilometre away from anyone else. I wanted to be alone, I was now in my element out here and I didn’t need anyone else. After two helpings of pasta and some semolina the adventures of Snitter and Rowf were continued, as they found their way onto the open fell and in a bit of bother with the farmer and his sheep dogs. It was soon time to go to sleep however. It would be a long day tomorrow. I wanted to be at the car by 4pm, and I had the third highest mountain in the british isles to ascend in the morning.

Camp 3

I awoke in my own time at 6am, keen to get up. Porridge and two cups of coffee were consumed whilst listening to my iPod. I was away by 7:30am ready for the day ahead. I past the morning campers outside the bothy and made my way up to the top of Coire Odhar in good time, where I found three bivouacers cooking breakfast, all well into there 60s. I was most impressed by this effort, and if I’m getting out like they are at their age then I’ll be a happy man. After a few friendly words I continued up into the 1200 metre zone. The flag was thick and it would be throughout the day. I timed, paced

The Cairngorm Reindeer

and took bearings from one summit to the next and in this manner made my way onto Carn Toul, and Sgor an Lochain Uaine. The Cliff edge constantly below me giving the route an airy atmosphere as the cloud filled void lingered below. I worked my across the plateaux and two minor summits on the way to Braeriach the second highest mountain in the range and as I said third in the UK. I was busy sticking to a bearing and timing through the mist when I heard a rumble coming through the ground. It was then I looked round to see the Cairngorm Reindeer running through the clouds right next to me. They stopped and stared and I looked back at them. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen something so beautiful. There eyes were huge and inviting and there fur-lined antlers stood proud and mighty, though they seemed so humble about the fact they were there, as if they’d never seen there reflection before and therefor didn’t have all the arrogance that would be sure to come with it. We spent a couple of minutes just staring at each other, I even took a couple of photos and then apologetically put my camera back in my pack, before picking it up and moving on up to my final summit of the trip. I stood on top and howled into the mist like I sometimes feel compelled to do when experiencing magical moments I know will turn into magical memories. I felt free. I slogged off the hill and back below the cloud. Heading down to Lairig Grhu. I sat by the river, finishing of my large bag of dry roasted peanuts I’d rationed over the trip. I took my top off and sunk my tired head into the stream, water running up my nose instantly connected my brain with feeling of rolling a kayak, which I’d been perfecting over the last few weeks. After a quick wash - a vein attempt to get rid of the stench of body odour that had accumulated over the last few days, I picked up my rucksack and put in a final push to get back to the Ski Station where I had left my car 4 days earlier. And on arriving I crashed out next to my car. 

Gave myself an extra day just in case

To be honest I wasn’t sure why I came to the Cairngorms. I didn’t really need the days for my ML Logbook, and to be honest I didn’t go because I particularly wanted to. Perhaps I felt I needed it. Maybe as consolidation for the nights of navigation I’d been doing on the hills over the last few months, maybe just to feel the cold and rain and the contrast of a warm dry sleeping bag at the end of the day, maybe I went because I needed an escape. In a way I got all of them. 4 quality mountain days in the Cairngorms looks great in any ML Logbook. It creates a good story to speak of after. It requires good nav skills, an ability to cope with hours subject to wind and rain and a strong passion for the landscape around you. But most of all 4 days in the Cairngorms requires Mental Robustness. I’m not sure I had that driving up in the car, but I found it out on the hill. And in return for all this I came back with the foundations to success and happiness essential to anything worth having in this life - a clear head.

I drove back down south. The four and a half hour drive spent yet again listening to those CD’s I’d grown to resent, the ones that provoked sadness, and gave great opportunity to dwell. Only I didn’t think of anything along those lines this time. In fact I was enjoying them once more. I’d lost my troubles, they’d been buried under the mist, wind, rain and rock that lies deep in the heart of the Cairngorms. Now all I could think of whilst listening to that music was how lucky I was to have experiences like this. All I could feel was a burning desire to get back out and do it all again somewhere else. And that is the best thing the Cairngorms could have given me.