We went to Glen Coe camping (me in my new wonderful tent - oh it's nice!!!). The idea was that we'd do a peak on Saturday with all of us and another couple that would meet us at the start of the walk, then on Sunday Tasha, Chris and myself might get another peak in. We met up in the car park, and I discovered a new part of Scotland. The Midges, (they deserve the capitol M). We were next to a river, which was bad enough but when the sun was heading down the sky filled with them. The little bastards were biting every bit of exposed skin available. Out came the Deet 50, with a warning to the others not to get it on synthetic materials, but it was the barbecue that drove them off until morning.
The hill we were planning on Saturday was Buachaille Etive Mor, or as Nicola put it as Tasha and her drove past it on the way in, "Oh My F***ing God!" Starts at 280 M and ends at 1022 M, with most of the ascent 2 1/2 KM. Or to put it another way, 920 ft to 3350 ft in a mile and a half. As the peak is over 3000 ft, it's a Munro. There's another three Munro tops on the peak, the plan was to do all of them and follow the route out but after the second one with the wind blowing strong as hell, the cloud below us and the rock wet and slick, we had to recalculate. Three of the group hadn't done any hills like this and had no ridge time. The ridge to the second peak was quite broad, and from Stob An Doire (second one) to Stob Coire Altruim it looked about the same.
It wasn't.
The ridge went from ten foot wide and gentle to about two foot wide and nasty looking. So we did the only thing we could in the circumstances. We binned it. Cue a back track to the saddle and a descent via scree, wet stones, wet grass and seating glissade (sitting on the wet grass and sliding down the hill - it was good enough for Shackleton!). By the time we got back to the cars my legs were sore as hell. Nicola and the other couple (whose names I can't spell I'm afraid, nice guys though) headed back to Glasgow, while Chris, Tasha and myself headed into Fort William for dinner. Our kit was sodden and we were all damaged in some way or other.
And then came the next morning. Tasha and Chris' knees were buggered, as were my thigh muscles, so we scrapped the idea of doing a hill and dispersed, planning another hill for the coming weekend. We did also find what could be the one of best pubs in the world, the Clachaig Inn. To say that it's a climbers pub is a bit of an understatement. Think I'll be back there at some point.
I think some of the sodding midges hitched a lift home with me, though, I've been itching like a bastard all day (from the midges! Nothing else).
The hill we were planning on Saturday was Buachaille Etive Mor, or as Nicola put it as Tasha and her drove past it on the way in, "Oh My F***ing God!" Starts at 280 M and ends at 1022 M, with most of the ascent 2 1/2 KM. Or to put it another way, 920 ft to 3350 ft in a mile and a half. As the peak is over 3000 ft, it's a Munro. There's another three Munro tops on the peak, the plan was to do all of them and follow the route out but after the second one with the wind blowing strong as hell, the cloud below us and the rock wet and slick, we had to recalculate. Three of the group hadn't done any hills like this and had no ridge time. The ridge to the second peak was quite broad, and from Stob An Doire (second one) to Stob Coire Altruim it looked about the same.
It wasn't.
The ridge went from ten foot wide and gentle to about two foot wide and nasty looking. So we did the only thing we could in the circumstances. We binned it. Cue a back track to the saddle and a descent via scree, wet stones, wet grass and seating glissade (sitting on the wet grass and sliding down the hill - it was good enough for Shackleton!). By the time we got back to the cars my legs were sore as hell. Nicola and the other couple (whose names I can't spell I'm afraid, nice guys though) headed back to Glasgow, while Chris, Tasha and myself headed into Fort William for dinner. Our kit was sodden and we were all damaged in some way or other.
And then came the next morning. Tasha and Chris' knees were buggered, as were my thigh muscles, so we scrapped the idea of doing a hill and dispersed, planning another hill for the coming weekend. We did also find what could be the one of best pubs in the world, the Clachaig Inn. To say that it's a climbers pub is a bit of an understatement. Think I'll be back there at some point.
I think some of the sodding midges hitched a lift home with me, though, I've been itching like a bastard all day (from the midges! Nothing else).
No comments:
Post a Comment