Broadcaster and writer Muriel Gray gritted her teeth and climbed her first mountain as a teenager so she could impress her boyfriend. From that day she was hooked, going on to become an unlikely proselytizer for one of the country’s most distinctive sports and obsessions, climbing mountains above 3,000 feet. This pursuit is known as Munro-bagging.
Sometimes even the easiest of mountains can defeat you. There is nothing particularly difficult about Creag Meagaidh, unless it comes up in a spelling test, yet it took me three attempts to get to the top of the damned thing.
It’s only in recent years that I’ve learned to use the weather forecast before contemplating a hill-walk. Millions of pounds spent on satellite technology is wasted when people like me ignore Michael Fish yelling on television from behind some sandbags, ‘For God’s sake take cover!’ as we set off to claim a Munro with a song in our hearts.
It was just such foolhardy behaviour that enabled me continually to miss the summit of Creag Meagaidh. The first attempt was in winter, precisely at that dark, depressing period when the sun can barely be bothered rising for more than 20 minutes before it packs in and hands over to nightfall. The weather on this occasion seemed ideal. A heavy snowfall left the hills deliciously inviting and the sky was clear and bright.
Two of us set off up the long path from Aberarder at the mind-bogglingly stupid time of 11.30 a.m…. We reached Lochan a’ Choire at 3 p.m. when the sun was starting to remember it was needed elsewhere. Simple arithmetic told us that even if we gained the summit we would be stumbling back down in the dark like late cinema-goers trying to find their seats.
As we sat at the loch eating a cold lunch, deciding who could first pin the blame on the other for messing up the day, we heard voices from the cliffs surrounding the lochan. A third of the way up a vicious-looking ice-climb were two men, slowly hacking an unenviable route with axes and crampons. By this time it was past 3.30, the light was fading fast, and the blizzard that the ignored weatherman had warned would sweep the Highlands was whipping into action. That’s odd, we thought. Perhaps they’re going to spend the night on the mountain. Maybe they’re top mountaineers training for a Himalayan expedition that requires constant overnight bivvying on icy rock faces. So we ignored them and went home. Unfortunately they turned out to be two fools who didn’t realize the time, and brought Mountain Rescue out combing the hill for them next morning. Luckily, they had survival gear and were found alive and well, albeit a trifle sheepish, at the top of the climb.
I felt rather guilty after that episode. When should you tell Mountain Rescue that you think there might be somebody in danger? After all, if those two boys had died, it would have been on our consciences that we saw them get into difficulty and did nothing. On the other hand, imagine the embarrassment of calling a full-scale search out for somebody who is not only not in peril, but is mightily cheesed off to be awoken from a deep sleep by an RAF Sea-King helicopter blowing the filling out of their sleeping-bag? … I live in fear of calling out the rescue team for a solitary figure glimpsed high on a darkening summit, only to find it’s Hamish McInnes nipping back up to fetch a dropped mitten.
That was the first attempt at Creag Meagaidh. The second, on a blustery Sunday in October, was more frustrating. Ignoring the weather forecast yet again, a number of us packed our rucksacks and headed up that interminable path to Coire Ardair. Meanwhile, canny Munroists who paid attention to satellite technology, which indicated a depression deeper than Christmas in Barlinnie, were sitting at home by the fire eating cheese on toast. This, however, was a determined pack and we were not going to be put off by small obstacles like being unable to stand up or walk forward. This time I at least got past the lochan and up on to the boulder field that leads to the window. The window is a coll neatly dividing Creag Meagaidh and another Munro, Stob Poite Coire Ardair but, more significantly, it acts as a highly efficient wind tunnel. As we lurched up the soaking, slimy boulders towards it, like a team of wet-look mime artists walking against the wind, one of our party stopped and said, ‘Let’s go back.’
At least we all hoped that’s what he said. In the gale it sounded like, ‘Ehh … oaaah … aaack.’ We were back in the car with the heater on before you could say ‘Who finished the soup?’ and another attempt was foiled.
The last failure was human. I made the mistake of telling two non-hillwalking friends that they could easily manage Creag Meagaidh. The day was perfect. A crisp winter morning greeted us with snow quilted in twinkling ice crystals. The time was 9 a.m., the sky was clear and blue, and nothing was going to stop me this time. What I failed to realize was that to those who never walk up mountains, visiting the bank, the post office and the dry cleaners on the same day is considered a triathlon. My friends had to have their first sit-down in sight of the car. I was heartbroken. By 12.30 we had just made the birch wood and had to admit defeat. Friendship is more important than mountaineering, and so for their sakes I told them they’d done very well and we turned back to the prospect of a more leisurely Sunday afternoon, with colour supplements, cats, coffee and carpets to lie on. I cast one longing glance up at the cliffs of Coire Ardair, where the sun was glancing off the icy tips of gleaming rock, and I knew that next time I’d get the sucker.