Glenshiel

Glen Shiel

Week-long backpacking trip

Sunset over the Western Isles

Best Laid

Plans David Lintern attempted one of Scotland’s most ambitious Munro bagging routes, and took a newcomer to Scotland along for the ride. Initially, all did not go according to plan

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Glen Shiel backpacking Looking to Sgùrr a’ Bhealaich Dheirg

Inside Camban Bothy emorial to Philip Tranter and M friend inside Camban Bothy

The most magnificent ridge in Scotland? If not, then it’s a close second

Camban bothy Tablet extra See more photos in our digital edition

Given the chance to change the weather forecast, I would have, of course I would.

Failing that, normally I might have postponed for a few days. This is easy to do when you live in Edinburgh, and much harder if you have holiday booked and you are travelling from London. My good friend Andy was up for his first ‘proper’ trip to the Highlands, and so come hell or high water (in our case, a little of both) I had a train to meet at Aviemore.

But while this was his first trip, Andy is no stranger to hard days. We first met on the Haute Route Pyrenees, and he has all the stubbornness and experience required in spades. In the end, we’d walked the final week of the HRP together and made a relaxed and confident team. I had enticed him north with a 28-Munro blockbuster in a hillwalking mecca.

Our ‘suggested’ itinerary was a fell running route known as the Broxap Round, named after the record holder for the most Munros run in 24 hours, Jon Broxap. It takes in the hills on both sides of Glen Shiel, before popping over Ben Fhada to take in a few tops around Glen Affric. We’d decided to do the route in reverse.

This kind of multi-day epic always seems a good idea on the map to me, but perhaps less so in the flesh, especially after reaching the Cluanie Inn in time for food, a few beers and possibly one too many from their excellent

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dram selection. It was good to catch up with my old friend, and with the anticipation of a full week in the hills just outside the door.

In good spirits, we fell out of the pub at closing time into heavy rain, promptly missing our turning into the glen. Doubling back, we found a place to pitch under torchlight, in what turned out in the morning to be an inch of groundwater. Beggars can’t be choosers, especially when a little inebriated.

A damp and comedic beginning.

Not entirely recovered from the evening’s libations, our climb the next morning took us onto the hills above An Caorann Mòr. With a pack full of food and a slightly fuzzy head, the going was slow and uncomfortable. The full brunt of the weather lay in wait at the top of the ridge – a subzero, gale force southwesterly, replete with freezing rain. We pulled faces at each other, dumped our bags, donned full body armour and hurried north to the first two tops in heavy clag – A’ Chràileag, then Mullach Froach Choire. By the time we returned to our packs we were bitterly cold and chilling down fast. Only two Munros in, we made a difficult decision to come off at the bealach and onto the stalker’s path towards Affric.

Initially the descent was rough and steep but the coire provided some refuge from the rawness of the weather above, and lower down

stags growled and prowled. Andy, a keen ecologist, was spellbound – this was the first time he had heard this otherworldly sound as it bounced around the crags above. We walked towards the scrubby birch signifying the start of Glen Affric, spying voles among the grasses. Finally, long after dark and well into the glen itself, we found a pitch in a sea of tussocks. It had not been an ideal first day.

The following morning, with a brief break in the rain and a new layer of snow adorning the tops, we met the head stalker. He was dressed head to foot in tweed – the original camouflage soft-shell – and was contracted to the Forestry Commission on behalf of the National Trust for Scotland. Andy asked to see the two kills, stashed in the back of the 4x4. Such stunningly beautiful animals, and such a shame that at current levels they’re the locusts of the Highlands. One had a mouth full of grass from a quick and clear chest shot, eyes still clear as marbles. The stalker happily answered our many questions on the whys and wherefores of culling and regeneration, the fruits of which we were camped in – young woodland halfway to becoming established.

The weather deteriorated once again, and we gave up all pretence of regaining the Broxap.

The plan now was to head towards Beinn Fhada and then the Glen Shiel round. As a team we

This place of refuge has more than one link to fell running. The bothy was reconstructed in 1969, partly in memory of Philip Tranter.

Charlie Ramsay used Tranter’s Round – a circuit of the Mamores, the Grey Corries, the Aonachs and Ben Nevis – as the basis of his own extension to include the Loch Trieg Munros. This in turn provided the impetus for Broxap’s incredible achievement.

Philip, the son of author and historian Nigel, grew to love the area when working nearby as a civil engineer. After his death in a car accident in 1966, the Corriemulzie Mountaineering Club clubbed together with the MBA to restore Camban. It’s likely that the original building was not a shieling, being too high and too remote. Instead, it was probably built to house a shepherd caring for flocks imported after the clearances, and was sited on the cattle drover’s road from Skye. It now has two rooms, both with sleeping platforms and working fireplaces, although you’re advised to bring your own fuel. It’s in a simply stunning location.

It’s with good reason that bothy culture is strong north of the border – these are places not just of pleasant refuge, but sometimes sheer necessity 33

Glen Shiel backpacking

The Forcan Ridge

A view of Nevis in the distance from Sgùrr Fhuaran

were still flexible, and becoming more realistic by the hour! However, the walk west in heavy wind and rain was plain unamusing, and by the time we reached Allt Beithe, it became apparent that Andy was feeling the cold more than both he or I were happy about. Out of season, there’s a bunkhouse at the back of the remotest youth hostel in the UK that’s kept unlocked.

I insisted we go in, drink soup and assess the situation. Andy’s waterproof had completely failed, and he was well on the way to wet through. Occasionally, he shuddered with the cold. I was peripherally concerned. A blustery, unsettled Highlands, miles from rescue, with fresh wet snow on the tops is no place to be with a dud jacket. We discussed his reduced clothing choices, and considered our options.

The bunkhouse was dry, but uncomfortable.

Camban bothy, just two or three kilometres away, would allow us to get a little further, and I hoped might have a fireplace with a little fuel. As the rain stopped we made our dash,

keeping the pace up to stay warm and arriving quickly to find a beautiful, welcoming, empty building cradled in the forearms of Beinn Fhada. It took two hours to get a few scraps of damp wood to light, but as we dried out our soaked kit and sucked on single malt our little world came right. Camban bothy was, without a doubt, the turning point of the trip. It’s with good reason that bothy culture is strong north of the border – these are places not just of pleasant refuge, but sometimes sheer necessity.

By the following morning, our kit was (mostly) dry and there were chinks of blue sky to be seen! Tackling the North Glen Shiel ridge was a gamble – it would still commit us to a full day high and exposed, but I knew we could abort at the Bealach an Làpain if needed.

We took on the steady grind up the grassy slopes of Ciste Dhubh to gain the ridgeline with a renewed sense of purpose. The wind was bitingly cold, but Andy maintained our pace and we were soon sitting in a foot of

The Broxap Round You may have heard of the Bob Graham Round in Cumbria, the Paddy Buckley in Snowdonia or the Charlie Ramsay in Lochaber, but the Broxap Round pushes the 24-hour fell runners hill tally past mere fitness and into the realms of experimental pain management. Jon Broxap successfully completed his 28-Munro record in 1988.

Beginning at the Cluanie Inn in Glen Shiel, he circuited Glen

Shiel via the south Cluanie ridge and the Five Sisters of Kintail before running north to Beinn Fhada and onto the tops north of Glen Affric. This was a staggering 78 miles and over 33,000 foot of ascent.

Attempts to move beyond this record have so far been unsuccessful, but not for want of trying. In 1997 Adrian Belton bolted on an additional four to Ramsay’s 24 while in 2008 the legendary Steve

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Pyke tried for a mind boggling 31 Munros in the Glen Shiel area by including the hills south of Loch Mullardoch.

Sadly, he ‘only’ managed 20 before foul weather forced him to seek shelter in Camban bothy and abort his attempt.

The reclassification of Munros has since increased the Broxap record to 29 and reduced Belton’s to 27 without either of them running the routes again!

snow on Sgùrr an Fhuarail, eating lunch and chatting to a Glaswegian in camouflage gear.

From here, the going eased and while the descent was slippery without winter equipment, the remainder of the crest rose and fell magnificently. As the day crept to its end, the weather cleared. We stopped at the bealach before the Sgurr nan Spainteach, a peak named in honour of Spanish troops who fought in the Battle of Glen Shiel. Water vapour froze on the bivi bags, shooting stars chased the dusk and winds blew so high we were forced to re-pitch. I got up before dawn and watched bands of purple and pink delicate as heather emerge from the blackness. Not much sleep was had that night, but the sunrise was as breathtaking as the crystalline air.

Those final two days were reward for our early persistence, and it remained cold and dry with gin-clear air. From Sgùrr nan Fhuaran, views of ages – out to the Cuillin, Rum and Eigg, and across to Knoydart and the Nevis range. We followed a line straight west, steeply down on a spur used only by

deer and fell runners, and a route that will never, ever appear in a guidebook! Exhausted by our descent we hitched back to the car, the pub and fortified ourselves for our final day.

Full of anticipation, we took daypacks on the Forcan ridge to the Saddle, regarded as one of the classics of Scottish scrambling. Not withstanding a good deal of unfinished business banked for next time, I’d go along with WH Murray: “The best mountain of the region both in distant shape and close acquaintance”, although Sgùrr na Ciste Duibe – the ‘Peak of the Black Chest’ – came a close second. The scrambling is more airy than tricky, and Andy gulped it all down and wanted just one more, as you do when it’s the last day of your first trip north and it takes a full day of travel to get to the start. I played the more cautious naysayer, but was eventually persuaded to clamber up Sgùrr na Sgine to watch the sun go down in a blaze of glory over the Western Isles, before stumbling down in the dark under headlamps for 1,000 metres to the road. Was it worth it? Absolutely.

Thirsty and footsore, we brewed up coffee

A freezing camp on the ridge

and couscous in the passenger foot well before the long drive back to Edinburgh. We were older, for sure, but were we any wiser? Andy went back to London and bought a new coat, and I reflected on the nuances of dynamics when walking with others in challenging

terrain. Despite our eyes being bigger than our tummies and failing to achieve our original goal, it had still been a great collaboration.

We had stayed safe, adapted our plans to meet the conditions, and enjoyed a very memorable week in the mountains indeed.

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