Days 135-136: The Wild and Unforgiving Scottish Highlands

The Wild and Unforgiving Scottish Highlands

Days 135 – 136

May 12 – 13

Glencoe, Scotland

“Being at a great height on the mountain, we sate down, and heard, as if from the heart of the earth, the sound of torrents ascending out of the long hollow glen.  To the eye all was motionless, a perfect stillness.  The noise of waters did not appear to come this way or that, from any particular quarter, it was everywhere: almost, one might say, as if exhaled from the whole surface of the green earth.”

– Dorothy Wordsworth, 1803

Glencoe is Scotland’s most famous highland glen and the home of Scottish mountaineering.  From a near sea level elevation of the lightly-wooded strath, the dramatic mountains domineer overhead.  Save for the treacherous and winding road leading through the region, the area is kept wild by its inhabitability; snow covers much of the region for most of the year.  As I strapped my backpack in the parking lot and stared back at the Three Sisters before me, I recalled the warning I was given last night during my last hot meal for the next two days: “Don’t underestimate these mountains.  They may not be tall, but we have some of the best mountain-rescue teams in the world for a reason.”

Across the first glacial valley, the Three Sisters here, as they are called, are the
gatekeepers to the trail. Hiding behind them are the peaks of Stob Coire nan
Lochan (3,658 ft), Stob Coire Sgreamhach (3,517 ft) and Bidean nam Bian
(3,773 ft), the highest peak in Argyll. My route is set to bag all three of them.

The path ascended quickly, climbing between the central and western (right) sisters.  I chose my footing carefully, avoiding rocks still wet from last night’s rain.  I crossed my first river, about a meter deep and three meters wide, using the footbridge graciously placed there by the Scottish people.  From the bridge, I could see clear to the bottom of the river, making out the details of the rocks below.  It was a good sign: the water here was drinkable.  But I wouldn’t expect anything less from the infrequently-trekked Scottish Highlands. 

Once I crested the draw between the sisters, I stepped onto a tabletop patched with snow and void of any walking trails.  I felt my stomach sink at the thought of navigating this terrain.  The squishy tundra soil gave way and the first bit of water seeped into my boots.  So much for all those repairs I did in Glasgow.  I spent an evening gluing all of the holes and laying many coats of “re-waterproofing” spray that I bought at an outdoors store.  In my thickheaded pride and desire to go “lightweight,” I left my third pair of socks in the car, thinking that it was impossible for both pairs of socks to get wet. 

The peak of Stob Coire nan Lochan came into full view on the table top.

From this point onward, I was carving my own path.  And with the rediscovery that my boots still aren’t waterproof, I took measures to avoid as much of the snow as possible.  Unfortunately, up here, it was impossible to avoid all of it, and what wasn’t covered in snow risked being soaked with the melted runoff. 

I stuck to crossings that were recently cut by other hikers, walking in their entrenched footsteps and praying that I weighed no more than them.  I was able to maneuver to the southwestern edge of the buttress leading up to the first peak, Stob Coire nan Lochan.  Now on the mountain’s south face there was far less snow to risk slipping, but far more shattered boulders to risk a landslide.  I had to scramble up the boulders to climb the buttress.   

At the base of the buttress leading to the summit.  Stob Coire nan Lochan's peak
is on the left, Bidean nam Bian's peak is on the right.

The higher I climbed, the view of the valley to the north grew wider, and I looked down with pride at how far I had come this morning.  The peak of this mountain was becoming an increasing possibility.   

The snow-covered table top is easily seen here.

Towards the summit, I could see deep into the low valley where I started.

As the clouds cleared, I could see to my south the northern face of Bidean nam Bian.  It was still heavily packed with snow, with trails carved by the skiers and snowboarders who flew down the treacherous hillsides, dodging the intermittent rocks in the paths.  These highland Scots are crazy; I guess nothing much has changed over the centuries. 

The north face of Bidean nam Bian.  The path on the ridge is seen here.

At the peak of Stob Coire nan Lochan, the 360 degree panorama gave me an appreciation of how many mountains are in Glencoe.  With still winds and not a soul in sight, I realize for the first time how much noise my camera makes when it is running. 

First peak down, two to go.

From where I stood, the path along the ridgeline to Bidean nam Bian was obvious.  It was, as I feared, covered in snow.  I met two backpackers who were coming the opposite direction.  They told me that the snow went halfway up their shins, and there was a narrow ridge with steep sides that scared them enough to turn around.  I was hesitant to continue, but encouraged myself by saying that I should at least see it for myself before turning back. 

The daunting climb up the ridge was steep and covered in snow.

This view is halfway up the ridge looking back at Stob Coire nam Lochan.

I had to cross a saddle and climb up a steep, snow-covered buttress to get to the ridge.  Once I reached that ridge, I gained a new appreciation of the fear instinct.  At one portion, the walkway was no wider than my hips.  On both sides, steep slopes of untouched snow fed into steep slopes of rocks, all leading far below.  An image flashed into my head: losing my footing and falling to my death.  I let instinct win; I turned around.   

On the ridge, the terrain became dangerous.  In front of me was a narrow
walkway with steep slopes leading far down the mountain.

The climb down was much harder than the climb up, especially on the snow-covered parts of the mountain (i.e. most of it).  A layer of clouds moved in to block the sun, and I lost all contrast in the powder white.  I couldn’t see any of the footholds anymore. 

I shrugged it off at first: “Could be worse.  Could be raining.” 

Nature showed her humor; an armada of grey low-lying clouds engulfed the ridgeline.  My visibility disappeared.  I found myself in a peculiar place: climbing backwards down a steep snowbank on my hands and knees in complete isolation made more apparent by the dense fog surrounding me.  I turned around, sat on the snow, and let myself breathe.  It's not safe to be doing this unless I am calm.  Once I took the first deep inhale through my nose, an olfactory sensation grasped my mind; the fog brought all of the smells of the mountain with it. 

I checked my map again once I reached the bottom of the saddle.  Feeling defeated by the mountain range, I didn’t want the day to be a total loss.  And I still wanted to spend the night in the Lost Valley, a hidden oasis in the area that is mostly visited by locals.  I now had two options to get to there: the first route backtracked all the way to the parking lot and followed the regular route into the Lost Valley, and the second route was blazed by me by heading east down the mountain side.  From my vantage point, it looked daunting, rife with rocks, snowpack, rivers created by the snowmelt, and wet spongy tundra flora.  By the time I finished the descent, “daunting” was not the word to describe it; “treacherous” was more appropriate.  I had many close calls stepping on rocks that gave way, stepping on wet plants that gave no traction, and sliding down some of the unavoidable snowpack on surfaces too steep for my boots to handle.  And with the many gorges in the valley carved by eons of erosion, sliding downhill was the last thing I wanted to be doing in the wilderness by myself. 

This was the "good" terrain on the descent.

One of the many river crossings I had to make.

As I approached the bottom of the valley, to my relief, a defined trail came into view.  The trail paralleled the river gorge at a slight downhill slope and came to a final relief at a wide, dried up river bed with patches of dirt just deep enough to sink my tent stakes.  I set up camp, ate my dinner, and, although it was only 7:00 PM, I crawled inside my tent and laid in my sleeping bag.  Today was a long day; I was happy to be out of my wet boots and off my weary legs.  

I reached the bottom of the valley and had a nice trail cut for me.

The sun caught this waterfall just right and a rainbow appeared in it.

Waking up in the middle of the night sometimes has its benefits.

The next morning, I stretched my somnolent legs and navigated out of the valley.  On my way out, I can see how the valley gained its “lost” description; the trail dares the edges of the river gorge and climbs up the side of a mountain before the valley is revealed.  The only indication of a way was the path cut by people’s feet.  

The path out of the Lost Valley followed the major river made of melted snow.