Sunday dawned, and it dawned very fine. Despite two kind of crowded bike days, and a
spot of alcohol (damn that Bombay Sapphire), I woke up with the sun. The van has that effect. Trundled into breakfast and listened in to
see what other folk were doing that day.
Vaguely expressed my earnest desire to do something on foot that day,
further defining it by saying there should be a hill, perhaps a ridge and my
vision was of a day somewhere between four and six hours in length. Definitely not longer than six, and
definitely not on the bike.
Half an hour later, the mountain bike was on the back of
someone else’s car and an incongruous outfit had been selected. The kind of outfit suited to a 7K ride to the
start of a walk followed by achieving summits of two Munros. Hmm.
That took a little doing in fairness.
Lost count at the number of times I’ve
smiled at the ludicrous wearing of B1 winter boots on the mountain bike,
followed by walking up two Munros with cycling padded shorts on underneath the
alpine pants. Cycling shorts provided a
surprisingly comfortable additional layer of clothing.
Today for the first time as well, I took the surprise step
of taking out the walking poles at the start of the walk. They normally stay on the rucksack to be
brought out in case of knee trembling descents.
I remember when the words knee trembling had another meaning. But then again, I also remember when sleeping
in the buff didn’t refer to having an extra snugly neck and ear warming layer
on to defend from the cold. The funny
thing about having the poles out was that somehow it made it possible once snow
slopes were reached to not have to put on crampons or get out the axe. That in between kind of conditions where all
you need is a little more reliable stability and the thing can be done in
slightly sticky soled boots. Delicate
layer of snow on ice, perfect conditions indeed for the clothing.
The 7K ride in was interesting. In the way that it would be
when you take a wrong turn at the very start and with a bit of retracing of
steps end up doing a 12K before the walk can begin. The previous two days bike riding made me
make every effort to do as much as possible of it out of saddle. We’ll say no
more.
The walk up was fab.
The first hill being one with an “indistinct” path. For which read no path at all, just a load of
streamlets, marsh land, heather and rocks.
We picked our way zig sagging up the slope to the snow line, passing a
snowy white mountain hare on the way and hearing the ptarm things shriek as we
went. First summit arrived as snow
started to blow in, and of course blow it really did, enforcing a rapid descent
down towards the next hill. More snowy
slopes, blizzard conditions and the three of us walking carefully together as a
group. My water was the first to freeze,
followed by Lilian’s squash until we were sharing Alan’s small bottle of
Lucozade between us. Pork Pies don’t
freeze though, so all was well. Funny
experience of map-gate, with the guide blowing away and coming to rest behind a
rock from where I retrieved it. Later
on, the return route was much aided by the recognition of the same rock. The bastard summit term was coined for those
false summits you keep getting out on the hills, just as you think you’ve made
it, the next top appears until you feel you’ve been encouraged by the end point
a dozen times.
At the top more snow, more wind, a cairn and two guys
strapping on their skis. Routes were
discussed, and a gentle return down the valley took us back to the bikes in
their not so well hidden river bank position, all cosily chained together and
ready for the flit right back down the
hill. Beautiful. Simply beautiful.
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