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I had plans, back in 2017, when I'd semi-retired, to do the CWT on my own. I never did get it together, though Allison and I had an enjoyable fortnight walking the Trail in May 2022. I remained curious about how it would feel to walk the route alone and how I might cope with the additional challenges that winter would bring to the experience. These days the CWT is done by all sorts of folk including those that have never camped before and have no real hiking experience. But few folk do it during the winter months. Of course, "winter" is a flexible concept in these days of climate change - Alex Roddie set off in February 2019 to do a winter outing and got nothing but mild and wet weather, as documented in his book "The Farthest Shore", which I've referenced in my own title. It's only guaranteed you will have short daylight hours - a maximum of 8 hours at this time of year. And that more gear - including winter kit - would be needed. Was I seeking extra hardship? Did I want kudos from doing it at a time of year that generally folk didn't? What was I actually trying to test out?
The timing of my attempt was chosen primarily because Allison had other commitments for two consecutive weekends. I had arranged with someone I know in Kinlochewe to hold a re-supply package for me - this lady had also offered a night to stay in her vacant holiday cottage when I got there, which I thought would give me an opportunity to dry off/recharge electrics etc - a little oasis of tranquillity in my journey. I wasn't sure how long it would take me with the reduced time for walking in the light and the possibility of snow to tramp through. I'd read somewhere online about it being unlikely that you'd get more than 20km done per day, which unsettled me. How much food should I take? How much food could I actually carry? When I packaged up my supplies and sent them off a fortnight before my intended departure date it suddenly started to feel real - I was actually going to try and do this! I slowly assembled the kit I'd use. Two items caused me most worry - tent and boots. I had the choice of my Hilleberg Enan, which is basically the 3 season version of the Akto, or I could borrow my son's Akto which would give greater confidence in bad, snowy weather but at the cost of increased bulk and weight. I opted for the Enan. I had virtually decided to wear my Veggie Trekkers, which are my first choice for non-technical winter boots anyway, being warm and waterproof but their more rigid soles might be painful on long days on road/track. Or a new pair of Inov8 GTX boots, very comfortable and supposed to be fully waterproof? That choice was made 10 minutes before I set off when I opted for the Inov8s...
Setting off, Greenock West Station
41DA0E43-E7E4-44C7-872C-3DFE3DFBD5D7_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
I had been going to set off on Monday 20th November but ruined plans for the weekend caused by pothole damage to my tyres in Ettrick meant I could set off on the Saturday instead. I'd decided to begin from Glenfinnan, which is a reasonable choice in winter. Setting off from the house to get the train I was several hundred yards down the street before I realised - no poles! Had to race back to the house, get them out of the car, then run down to the train station with my big pack on - must have looked a sight! It wasn't the calm, confident beginning I'd hoped for. The day was dire - pouring rain and clouds concealing the mountains all the way up to Fort William, rivers crested with white horses. All seems sodden, sullen, subdued. Greens have been replaced by duns and browns. A journey into the dying year. Leaving Rannoch station, a stag runs from the train, and eagle flies low overhead. All the flowers in the station display are long dead. Past Corrour, the setting for our first adventure at Easter 2013, stepping off the last train into pitch darkness for a frozen circuit of the Ben Alder hills when we'd never camped properly before. It's 3.30 and almost dark already, rain spattering the windows. Then darkness and heavy rain as the train is headed towards Glenfinnan. I disembark and walk along the road for a bit to the viaduct then set off up the track to Corryhully. What is this trip going to be like, walking in darkness, rain, clag; how accurate will my timings and estimations of each day's journey end point be? I check my phone and see there's an email from my Kinlochewe contact saying the holiday cottage is going to be in use from Tuesday til Saturday now - as I'd intended to get there on Friday that's a new problem, I'll need to delay by a day on this first part of the route. One of the things I'm hoping to learn on this trip is to cope better with things outwith my control.
The bothy is empty, with the glowing embers of a dying fire. I know that Alasdair from the estate often drops in with wood in the morning and evening but he doesn't show up in the rain and the fire slowly dies. I slept fitfully with anxious dreams and struggled to get up at 6.20. As it's still pitch black outside I decide to have a relaxed breakfast and re-arrange my pack, leave when it's first light. The rain is depressing me, thinking ahead to multiple nights camping in the cold wet darkness with everything soggy inside the tent. Today's destination is Sourlies so I know the route well. Up and over Bealach a'Chaorainn poses no problems despite the continued rain, but as I'm descending towards Strathan I can feel water coming into both of my new boots. This is not something I expected. I call into A'Chuil bothy for lunch - there are a couple of guys of the wood/coal/whisky sort there just getting ready to leave. One of them offers me a tin of beer, but I pass on that. On the boggy path to Sourlies I pass no-one, only deer, ravens and a frog. The weather felt positively balmy and I stop to take a layer off.
F4A2A27E-43A3-4FEE-A9E0-CC5248492190_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Soggy Sourlies
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Al, on Flickr
62FE7E02-B619-4D75-B7EA-2646DF91CC95_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Arriving at Sourlies around 3.30 as the light is fading. All day I've been aware of feeling vulnerable, conscious of the risk of trips/falls when I'm alone.As I walked past the lochans I have an almost dissociative episode, seeing my self from above, a tiny speck alone in the landscape. The bothy is tidy but cold - there’s no fuel. I get into bed immediately after I’ve eaten, listen to the intermittent foraging of bothy mice, don’t really sleep. In the middle of the night I roll off the sleeping platform onto the concrete floor, landing on my back. Fortunately unhurt. I waken to the sound of more rain which dampens my spirits. My wet socks haven’t really dried off much and I fish in my bag for goretex liners to wear inside my leaky boots. Today is going to be quite tough, with the ascent from the River Carnach to Mam Unndalain and I’m planning on making it to Kinlochhourn.
The day is a s grim and gruelling as expected. The tide’s in at Sourlies so I have to cut over the headland, then weave my way past horror bogs to get to the Carnach Bridge. A stalker comes past on a quad. I stupidly don’t follow the track by the river’s edge and have to navigate even more bogs and channels before rejoining it. Then the depressing steep climb up pathless hillside to Mam Unndalain, although I reached the stalkers path somewhat earlier than expected. After I reach the highest point the dreary drizzle dries up and the walk downhill to Barisdale is almost pleasant. I stop at Barisdale bothy for a coffee and think about what to do with my boots. I know the liners won’t hold out for another 200 miles - I could get more pairs sent up to Kinlochewe. Or I could get my other boots sent up…But as there’s no signal I can’t do anything at present about it, so I accept my lot and press on up the side of Loch Hourn. We’d been on this stretch of track only a few weeks ago and I’m pleased to make the camping field at Kinlochhourn by 5pm. Another 25k knocked off the total. It’s a little odd to be pitching the tent after bothies the last two nights, and again I find myself thinking ahead to having to pitch in the dark, in the middle of nowhere in a blizzard and bits of the tent getting blown away. I reflect that my anxiety is significantly higher than it usually is as I turn in for the night.
Up by the River Carnach
96253A21-BAE1-41DF-978D-DAE61B986600_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Ladhar Bheinn
380DD06A-BD89-4BF7-9B06-03156DE31D0F_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Loch Hourn
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Al, on Flickr
D68A38C4-6195-4872-B1EC-10C0C54AA35B_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
It’s a dry night, although condensation is significant. I’m delighted that my goretex sleeping bag liner seems to work effectively. The sky is pastel pink as I pack up, an owl lets out a last hoot before its bed. I’m planning on getting to Morvich tonight and will have opportunity to phone home about my boot situation. I’m annoyed that external issues like that are intruding on my thinking - I wanted to shut out the outside world as much as I could on this trip. Tramping up the steep hill past the estate buildings there are good views down the loch and over to Ladhar Bheinn. A long slog up to Bealach Mhalagain, a real lung-busting effort near the top, collarbones chafing under my pack straps. I descend over to the Kintail side and phone home - I have decided to get my other boots sent up and tell my wife what I need done. Decision made, I can put further thoughts of boots aside. I also check the weather, noting that the next two days have to be gales and heavy rain, perhaps with snow. It would make sense to get to Mail Bhuidhe tomorrow then have a short day to Ben Droniaig bothy where I know there will be fuel for the fire. Dropping down to the path on the west of Biod Nam Fhithich I pause for a protein bar, enjoying the views and the lack of rain. Past Shiel Bridge campsite which I thought was closed, but has one tent and one caravan parked in it. I walk along to the Kintail Lodge - no chance of a tasty meal at this time of year. My back and shoulders are smarting a bit by now, but Morvich isn’t that far to go…except when I get there it’s closed. For some reason I thought Morvich was open all year, but clearly not. Damn. I decide to press on for another few kilometres to the footbridge at Dorusduain wood where I remember there being campy spots. The best of these are under trees, and with very strong winds forecast for overnight I don’t want to risk these, so I find a semi-ok spot away from the risk of falling timber.
The Saddle
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
65643823-D8C8-4A63-BBBB-05977B630BED_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
I managed to get my tea outside of the tent, then snuggled into my sleeping bag at 5pm. I’m feeling quite positive about the progress made so far. Maybe I can do this after all. The forecast beyond the next 2 day s seems more settled too. An hour or so later I get stomach pains and have to hasten outside a couple of times. What’s going on? Did I drink some unclean water? What I’ve eaten? I hadn’t considered illness and lie awake worrying about having E-Coli poisoning. Or typhoid. Or cholera. You never know…I take some codeine which seems to help and fall into an uneasy slumber. The wind howls away, but my pitch is sheltered. Its incredibly warm - the weather app says 11 degrees overnight and although it has been raining quite heavily overnight my tent is basically dry in the morning. I have a herbal tea and half of an oat bar for breakfast - my guts seem more settled and I set off again.
It’s uphill all the way for the next coupe of hours although the gale is at my back, urging me along. I’m feeling tired and sluggish but I make the top of the path to the Glomach falls before 10am. I’m a bit worried about descending past the falls in the wet, although rather that than icy conditions The thunderous roar of the falls drowns out all thought as I walk past and I take my time descending the narrow way. At the bottom, the River Elchaig is in spate and almost touching the bottom of the footbridge across. The three miles to Iron Bridge take a while - I pop some fruit pastilles to help me through the desolate, wet landscape - the only thing that seems alive is the white crested waters. A sole buzzard flies from a tree near Iron Lodge - nothing else is out in this weather. The building at Carnach appears to be abandoned to ruin, Iron Lodge looks deserted too. It’s another gruelling 8km to Mail Bhuidhe from here, uphill again. I manage half a lunchtime sandwich without ill effects. God it’s wet. Every tributary is swollen to a river, every gusher across the path an obstacle, in fact the path is more often than not a river itself as I head downhill from the highest point of the pass. Anxiety rises again about crossing the Allt a’Chreachaill Mhor to Mail Bhuidhe - I remember that being quite bad last time we were here. I don’t even want to think about crossing the outflow from Loch Cruoshie tomorrow. I manage to cross to the south of the bothy, where the river is wider. Not surprisingly the bothy is empty - I leave a wet trail as I hang my stuff up. I decide to sleep upstairs , a gale coming down the chimney in the main room and no fuel for a fire. I curl up into my sleeping bag and listen to music for a while then drift off to sleep for a few hours. I wake to the buttery light from the moon peering in the window, the voice of the gale tearing round the eaves and wave after wave of rain hitting the roof. Glad not to be in the tent tonight.
Approaching Glomach
91BF23C3-2EE4-44FC-8DB5-F33DBBE20985_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
C6BE2B10-1CBE-4B73-97F4-7256081F04C9_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Because today is to be a short day I stay in bed til it is properly light and read some Charlotte Brönte after exhausting the bothy book. I know I have the river crossing to do and hope to put this off til the rain stops. But by 10am I am chafing to be off and get it over with. I’ve crossed here before in wet weather, it’ll be alright…I walk down to the crossing point which has a clear path trodden through the vegetation. I have my trousers off and tucked under my jacket, my boots tied around my neck, my water shoes on. I step in - deeper and faster flowing than last time. I find the submerged tussocks I stepped on before - up to my knees then, up to mid thigh now. I’m about 2/3 of the way across. But the last 8 feet or so are into fast flowing rapids and I can’t see the bottom. I know it only came up to mid-thigh last time, I can do this. Step into the watery abyss. It’s chest high. I wade across to the bank, but the current is getting stronger and as I get almost to the bank it sweeps my feet from under me. I scrabble in terror for the grasses on the edge of the bank and, literally clutching at straws, manage to haul myself ashore. I’m seriously shaken, realising how close I was to being swept away. But I haven’t lost anything in the submergence - I worried my trousers would have come out from under my jacket, but they were still there and - amazingly - still dry. I scrabbled up the hillside for about 200m from the deadly waters before daring to get dressed. By this time the rain has started again and a chill wind is making me shiver. I dry myself best as I can with a flat sponge, get trousers, socks and boots on. A mix of shock and relief. Cursing at the world, I squelch across more swollen streams until I find the soggy ATV track that takes me to the metal bridge at the east end of Loch Calavie and then onto track. The wind is in my face now, the rain sluices heavily down. I feel that the elements are deliberately testing me.
Morning
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Al, on Flickr
After the crossing
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Al, on Flickr
Wet, shaken
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Salvation!
C3162E0A-3141-401D-8999-CE01E977054A_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Leaden skies, sodden landscape but in all this an occasional glimpse of golden sun before the next shower comes. I glimpse the lone pine tree and the estate buildings of Bendronaig long before I reach their safety. The bothy is empty, I get to work cutting up wet fence posts left outside to try and get the fire going. I’d been dreaming of a roaring blaze but only manage a slow smoulder until I work out how to use the stove’s heat to dry off split sections of post before putting them into the stove. I hang up various bits of sopping wet kit around the room, listening to the gale gusting outside, blue sky one moment, dark rain the next. I have dinner by candlelight and read my novel. What is tomorrow going to bring? Still a bit shaken I notice there’s 1/3 of a bottle of Grouse on the mantel. I haven’t had alcohol for 6 months. I’m not having one tonight no matter how tempting.
Civilised
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Al, on Flickr
Friday morning’s much cooler - I was chilly overnight. Leaving the bothy at 8 I notice there’s snow on the hills. My spirits are low as I leave the track and head over tussocks towards Bealach Bhearnais. I found the footpath earlier than expected , which lifted me a bit, then lost it again in Coire Beithe. It’s funny how a little, sketchy wet path can make such a difference to spirits. The snow starts to fall again. On my right the bleak ashen cliffs of Beinn Tharsuinn - no salvation there, I’m just a small blue speck alone in the landscape. At the bealach I have phone signal and message Allison, check the weather. It’s to get very cold but stay mostly dry for the next few days at least. That should cheer me up, but it doesn’t - can I manage to cope with -8 to -10 degree temperatures? I continue down to Pollan Buidhe, noting the wire bridge has been replaced although the river level is low enough not to need it. Walking up the side of Sgurr nan Ceannaichean I almost **** myself when a rifle cracks very near by, amplified by the cliffs. Coming to the high point before the descent to Craig the sky is suddenly lit by a golden flash of sunshine, shining resplendent on the snow capped south Torridon mountains and I can feel my mood lift again. Really aware of how sensitive I am to little weather changes at present. I continue down the track, aware of the weight of my rucksack and dreading what it will be like after re-supply tomorrow. I walk past the hostel previously known as Gerry’s, which would have been another option to consider , then up the forestry track to the Coulin Pass. From here I have sight of Beinn Eighe snowy beneath the summit clouds. The ice mountain. I pitch for the night near the old bridge at Leathad Doire Beithe - fairly sheltered if soggy spot by the river. I sit outside to have my Huel then am forced inside by unexpected and unwanted rain. It’s suddenly very cold.
First sight of snow
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Al, on Flickr
Bealach Bhearnais
00671520-C575-4F1D-8CD2-478A20EC2BC7_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
South Torridon mountains
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Al, on Flickr
BCB39158-CC87-4C07-A5B6-886F5917014E_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
I awake to a lovely morning, crisp and clear, clouds tinged with the pink of dawn. The inside of the tent is cased in ice. I pack up and head off to Kinlochewe - a mere 10k. I’ll get there before lunchtime, which means that I can get the breakfast menu in the cafe - a roll on vegan sausage! In fact I can have two rolls on sausage. And I’ll be able to get to the shop. Beinn Eighe and Liathach are much whiter than they were yesterday, and as I crest the pass I can see over to the Fisherfields where there seems to be even more snow. I get into KLE at 11am and head for the garage cafe, salivating. It’s closed. I walked to the store, staffed by one of the least jolly men I’ve met, and purchase a few things including some rolls for the next week’s lunches. Fortunately I’d sent myself a meal for tonight in my supply package as there’s not much I’d eat in the store.
I call in at the house, say hi to Patricia and am let into the cottage. The sun continues to blaze away in the sky and I’m inside - I have a shower then start going over my route planning given the expected weather for the next few days. How many days? How many days food to take? I estimate I’ll need 11 days to get to the Cape and back to Kinlochbervie, but that gets me there on a Wednesday and the bus is on a Tuesday or Thursday. So I had better take 12 days’ food. I get my other boots from the parcel and decide to jettison some kit and food, mostly snacks, which Patricia can snd back home along with my leaky boots. I’m aware of being out of my usual routine tonight, feeling a bit lonely despite Patricia coming in for a chat in the evening. Despite having a warm and comfortable bed I barely sleep, my head birlng with route options.
Frosty morning
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
8190E190-563C-4812-9D04-3A2D8816B1A5_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
4300039D-DDA5-4E18-9E29-8A6FBD5BF7EB_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
On Sunday I leave the house at 8am into a crisp, frosty morning. I will be taking a diversion route today, one that will save 10k over the usual route to Shenavall. I really didn’t enjoy the walk from Shenavall to Inverlael and came up with this option, which depends on the existence of footbridges marked on the map… But I have humble expectations for today, just to Lochivron bothy, a mere 16k. The streets of Kinlochewe are deserted as I walk through with my laden pack - which doesn’t actually feel any heavier than the one I arrived there with despite the 12 days’ food inside. The sun rises as I start up Kinlochewe Heights, Fionn Bheinn looking glorious under snow, I take the right hand split of the paths and am dazzled by mighty Slioch. Down into lovely, lonely Gleann Tanagaidh where there are lovely riverside camp spots I head for the bealach between Groban and Bheinn Bheag which will take me to Loch a’Bhroain. The bogs are semi-frozen which helps progress and I’m pleased to see no significant snow at the level I’ll be walking at. The river is crossed easily and I make my way slowly up to the bealach, staying on the Groban side of the pass. Lots of deer tracks contouring round the hillside but height is slowly gained, even though it’s only 200m ascent from the glen floor to the bealach. Finally there I stop for a quick bite of lunch, basking in sunshine and glorious views to the Fisherfields.
Setting out from KLE
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Al, on Flickr
Slioch
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Al, on Flickr
Fishies
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Pass between Groban & Beinn Bheag
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Al, on Flickr
Loch a'Bhraoin
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Al, on Flickr
I reach Lochivroan bothy at 1.30. There’s no way I’m stopping this early. Why not continue along the loch side to the power station at Cuileig and camp there - looks promising on the map… The loch waters are mirror still, the ice crisply crunching under foot. To my surprise I meet people coming the other way, dog walking or whatever. At the road I have several kilometres to walk along the A832 although it’s all downhill and the road’s not too busy. There’s a locked gate with a walker’s entrance at the opening to the power station track, which then zigzags quite steeply downhill towards the Abhainn Cuileig. As I descended I could hear the river roar through the trees but couldn’t see it. A deer fence, the bridge should be just back there…ah there’s a stile, and there is a bridge! What a disappointment to find that the bridge is merely a skeleton with many missing planks over a gorge and very fast flowing river. For a moment I contemplated trying to cross on the iron side rail but then thought back to Mail Buidhe and reconsidered. There is another bridge marked on the map about 100m west, but it was in an even more decrepit state. To make matters worse, there wasn’t even anywhere decent to camp, all new tree plantations. I was going to have to walk back up the bloody zigzag path and cross at Corrieshalloch by the look of it - there was certainly no prospect of crossing the Abhainn Cuileig. Scrutiny of the map showed another “bridge” behind the power station…crossing the Abhainn Droma. After fighting my way through trees I found this too was an ex-bridge, but the river was fordable on very slippy stepping stones. A scrabble up a steep bank then onto woodland and fields behind Braemore Square - this would do for a camp spot, even though the main road was not far away. I had the tent up by 4.15 with 30k under my feet today. I’m annoyed that I didn’t stop and deal with a hotspot that’s developed under my right big toe as soon as I felt it - I was too keen to get on and see the bridge…now I apply a Compeed and hope that will settle it down. As soon as the sun dropped, frost began forming on the tent, but it felt good to be back going through the daily rhythm and routine of the Trail. That evening the rescue copter flew low overhead.
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Skeleton bridge
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Al, on Flickr
B84A68E8-BA06-446A-8D28-CB6FDF435174_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
If my original plan - the one involving the bridge had worked out - it would have taken me onto a path following the River Broom on the west side of Strath More up to join the “coffin road” that descends from Corrie Hallie and so to Inverlael. This would work alright if you were to stay the night at Forest Gate Hostel, not far from where I’ve ended up. I’m on the east side of the river. I have the option of walking up the main Ullapool road for several miles, or of taking a road across the river, joining my intended track and coming back across at Inverbroom Lodge. It adds maybe a kilometre but saves me having to joust with Artics passing by. One downside is that whilst the main road has been gritted and is easy walking, the riverside path has not, and I have a few slippy moments. Brisk walking gets me to Inverlael by 10am. By this time the drizzle has begun and the mist has come down. I set off on the track through the forest to the cut ff for Beinn Breac. I find I’m struggling with ascent here, having to count steps to keep me going to get to the top where the track levels out. Last time we summited the hill and came down the other side into Glen Douchary - this time I follow the “track” round the side of the hill at about 550m. It’s very boggy indeed, swampy to be more accurate. I find I’m following an ATV track which is going to head off south to Carn Mor while I want to head north. I briefly locate the stalkers path I want to be on, then lose it again in snow and mire. Sleet is falling briskly now and I’m miserable. It feels that every time I come to a high pass the weather deliberately tries to stall me, to send me back, to test my mettle. A bit like that scene in Lord of the Rings where the party can’t progress over the mountain pass and have to go through the mines of Moria. What Balrog awaits me in Glen Douchary?
I pause for a quick lunch. On this trip I’ve abandoned making coffee at lunchtime - too much faff - I just wolf down a roll and a snack bar and continue on my way. Onwards over more snowy tussocks, grim, determined, wretched. Eventually I have contoured enough of the hillside to be able to see down to the flat expanse of Glen Douchary with its ruins and winding river, and far off in the distance is Loch an Daimh, where I’m headed. Descending to the glen takes ages, over peat hags and little crags, and I’m happy when I get my feet on the flat grassy floor of the glen. Now I follow the east bank of the river on deer tracks. I remember this being a good day on our first trip, perhaps because it was sunny and new territory for us. Now it has at least dried up, but the trees, so lovely in their late spring foliage, are stripped bare for winter. I continue along the riverside path, reaching the deer fence at the end and knowing this time to just follow the fence round on its south side rather than using the gate and descending into rough ground. Loch an Dam looks miserable in the drizzle - a stark contrast to the beauty of Loch a’Bhroain in sunshine yesterday. I squelch around the head of the loch making for the track that will take me to Knockdamph bothy. It’s only about 3km from here but it seems to take forever before I finally see the chimney pots of the bothy peek out of the gathering gloom. Making it as far as Schoolhouse, another 7km, would have been good, but I don’t have the legs for it and it’s almost 4pm by the time I reach Knockdamph.
Glen Douchary
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Knochdamph
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Al, on Flickr
Tired, dejected, a bit lonely, I open the door and find half a bag of coal nuggets and 4 tiny bits of wood that might just make kindling…I’m no expert on lighting coal fires, but I decide to have a try as the glow of flames will not only warm me but lift my spirits. I smelt some candlvwax over an old paper sack and manage to get the fire going, through much use of blowing on embers. I get a sense of accomplishment when the fire has clearly taken, but it’s a tiny grate in a big cold room and there’s actually little benefit from the fire unless you sit right next to it. And the room is full of coal smoke. It is remarkable how the glow of a fire can lift the mood of a room, it’s as if there’s something else alive in there with you. I had my Huel and went out to look at the majestic full moon crossing the sky, shedding her silvery light on hill and loch. My constant companion since I began the trip. Despite my meagre fire, it’s a bitterly cold night in the bothy even with all my clothes on inside the sleeping bag. I don’t manage any sleep. Nights are the worst thing about this trip - such a long time to get through in cold darkness, especially in the small wet tent. I have thoughts about packing it in, walking out to Ullapool and just going home when I think my next 2 nights will be camps rather than bothies. Maybe tomorrow will be better. I know that will be an easy day of track from here to Glen Oykell. Just keep going…
Cold fire
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Al, on Flickr
I leave Knockdamph at 8am in quite good light, the moon setting to the west before the sun fully arises. The track is full of large deep puddles and there’s the river crossing over the Abhainn Dubhag, just before Schoolhouse, which I’d forgotten about. I manage it with boots on and stop briefly at Schoolhouse. Despite the absence of a fireplace, Schoolhouse feels much warmer than Knockdamph as it’s better insulated, and I kind wish I’d stayed here last night after all. Onwards to Bridge of Oykell, where I remember there being phone signal. I still don’t know if I can actually get to the Cape - the Firing Range schedule for December isn’t online despite this being the 28th November I decide to phone Range Control, where Sgt Walker makes my day by telling me that after tomorrow the range is closed for the remainder of the year. So even if the red flags have been left up, it will be fine. Past Oykell Bridge and onto the farm track to Caplich where I stop and watch a BBC video of weather for the week ahead. Very cold but dry! Yes!! I can see Conical and the tip of Canisp with white snow upon them. I meet an elderly farmer driving his tractor and we chat about my walk. He’s a hardy sort, 77 years old, not had a holiday for 35 years and used to being cut off over winter. Doesn't understand folk today with their food banks and lack of work ethic. I continue on - my intended stop for the day being along the riverbank before the ruins of Salachy, but once again I’m well ahead of schedule and decided to continue to Benmore Lodge. Having learned from last time, I turn up at the bridge to join the forest track, rather than fight through trees just before Salachy. There is a “path closed” sign due to forest operations, but I’m ignoring that. I can hear work going on way over to my left, but doubt there will be anything near this main route through the trees. There isn’t and I reach Loch Ailsh. 27k so far for the day - I need to continue for a few more to the spot I remember just after the footbridge. I get the tent up at 4pm, the sky darkening over the mountain pass further up the glen, mist coming down over the hills and a definite hint of snow to come.
99FFB51F-410A-4E48-93AE-6AC3A18F7880_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Benmore Lodge
9401681B-239C-4D1E-8D12-2AEB3C274430_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
24D11127-2948-4793-A359-34DE891527DB_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Snow is the one thing I’m concerned about now. I won’t be able to trudge distances in deep snow and I have a tent that isn’t designed to deal with snowfall. I reason that Bealach Tralagil is no higher than 550m so surely I should be ok? I might get to use axe and crampons after all. I lie in the tent feeling a bit more positive - only another 6 nights now if all goes to plan - I can handle that…If I stay warm enough and get some sleep I should be in a reasonable state for tomorrow - another short day ending just before Inchnadamph, only 16k. But as I lie there I hear a patter on the tent outside. What new devilment is this? Bloody snow! I’m at around 200m altitude. I did peg the tent out with extra guys, more to keep the outer and inner from touching, and I hope that will be able to hold any extra weight of snow. I batter what I can off the outside, but am too anxious to sleep, awaiting the fall of more snow. Options whizz through my mind and I check routes on my phone…if the way is impassible I can retreat back to Benmore and roadwork up the A837 to Inchnadamph - I could also walk along the road from there to Kylestrome, which is about the same distance and going via Glencoul/Glendhu. But once again I get the feeling that the weather is making a personal attack on me - coming to a high pass it sends snow and misery to keep me in check.
My anxieties of last night prove baseless - there’s only been about 2 inches of snow as I peer out into the darkness, my friend the moon casting her light on the frozen ground. I really don’t want another tent night tonight, worrying about snowfall again - could I make it to Glencoul - I’d then have both high passes behind me? It feels a big ask, but I leave around 7.30. It’s about 14km to Inchnadamph turn off, then another 14 to Glencoul, with two significant ascents. There’s just enough light to begin walking with and I’m music which line to take over Bealach Trallagil - the WH one we used last time or the simpler looking one that follows the source of the River Oykell up to Red Well as in the Harvey’s map? I press on, the day being fair at present, but by the time I reach the head of teh glen the mist is descending and the snow restarting as if it were simply waiting for me. I decide on the Harvey’s route - this does require that you cross the Allt an Dubh Loch Mhoir but is - I would say - an easier route to take. It’s slow going on deer paths up the side of the stream. I startle some stags near the bealach. Today Ive been using my GPS rather than my phone to navigate with, simply because of the adverse weather. I follow the route down the west side of Trallagil and once I’m over the worst, the sun breaks through the clag and shows me lovely snowy scenes of Canisp and Glas Bheinn. I get onto the track by the bone caves, feeling I must be making ok time. I reach the Inchnadamph turn off at noon - I have maybe 4 hours to reach Glencoul.
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
92DCB2DC-596F-409E-8ACE-98BA760903E7_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Bealach tralligil
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Al, on Flickr
Canisp
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Eat on the go, find the stalkers path that leads to Bealach na h-Uidhe. I think the only reason I managed this section was the quality of the stalkers path - heading up trackless hillside would have been too grim to contemplate. As soon as I gain any height on the path the weather turns again, with sleet and clag. The high point seems to take an eternity to reach - I’m almost crying with the unfairness of having to keep gaining more height to get there, when I’m going to lose it all on the other side. It’s just gone 2pm by the time I begin my snowy descent, the path clearly visible under its white coat. I need to get down to the waterfall before the light goes and manage this, even though that descent takes ages and I feel my hips complaining with all the rough stuff. Now I have to walk along the edge of the river and round the coastline - very rough paths here, but paths at least. I round the headland and see there is still about 3km to go, the light is failing and the ground becoming more of a morass. Can’t believe I still have to go round the coast of Loch Beag, but I do, and on increasingly shaky legs I continue towards the bothy. I need my head torch for the last 30 minutes and curse at the swampy ground that finally leads to the door. But I’ve made it - I head inside to sort out my kit and get my meal on. On the plus side there’s internet access, on the minus, there’s no fuel. But there are a couple of clean and new looking sleeping bags on the platform and I drape one over my shoulders as I read by head torch. This has been the toughest day physically but I feel that I can make it now, there isn’t really much further to go and the last remaining “dragon” of my quest, the crossing of the Garbh Allt, should be alright in this weather. I have my warmest night for a while, having pulled the extra sleeping bag over my own. If I stick to my plan I’ll have another 28k day tomorrow to Loch Stack then 1 more day to Sandwood Bay. I can manage to get back to Kinlochbervie for the bus on Tuesday morning, rather than Thursday.
4F48A03C-A7E6-415B-BFDA-6AEF6321D94E_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
6A777A8A-8BEA-452B-A13D-95105DC8FD2B_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Descent from Bealach na h-Uidhe
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Al, on Flickr
Eas a'chuill Aluainn
C51268A6-C230-41DD-B252-76DF74F3AEA8_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Still a long way to go
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Al, on Flickr
Glencoul!
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Al, on Flickr
The weather forecast tells me its to be sunny all day, but I don’t believe that when I walk out into more clag and drizzle. Despite being warm I struggled to sleep last night, having one of those “walking dreams” you can get after a long day, like you are in a video game and are just walking endlessly. By the time I’m heading round the coast to Glendhu the sun is shining brilliantly and I’m feeling in good form. I call into Glendhu for a nosey - empty, clean, then continue round to the path for Bealach nam Fiann. I’m hoping for an excellent view of Quinaig in the snow from the trackside, but as I get nearer cloud drops to cover it and the blue sky turns leaden again. I stop for a bite at the split in the track then continue uphill. Without good visibility this section is dull - I hope for views down to Arkle when I begin to descend on the northern side but seeing the sky turn black with more snow as I near the bealach I realise that isn’t going to happen. I take the easy track route down rather than trudging over Ben Dreavie, then it’s 5 miles of road walking to reach Loch Stack. The road is busier than I would have liked and I often have to pause and stand up on the verge to let traffic by. To make matters worse it starts to rain heavily when I still have about 40 minutes walking to go. Weather forecasts are utterly unreliable. I had the idea that there was good camping at the boat house but there’s only rubbishy wet tussocky ground. I should have stopped at the building on the road side of the loch. Mumping away to myself I get the tent up in the heavy rain, then it stops and I get my meal sitting by the loch side before the sky begins crying once again. Across from me Ben Stack glowers in the twilight. What will tonight bring?
5665B5BE-6454-4BEE-8832-44001DCA9CFC_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
EB838214-D712-49C2-8E3A-986B73D8C0DE_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Glendhu
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Quinaig
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Bealach nam Fiann
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Al, on Flickr
Arkle
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Al, on Flickr
Ben Stack
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Al, on Flickr
Once again the tent is encased in ice when I get out of bed. It’s another 30k day today - do I make for Sandwood Bay or Strathan bothy? I set off at 7.30 by head torch, stars pinpricking through the approaching dawn. There’s a promising rosy tinge to the sky as I trot along the track. Slowly Arkle takes shape, infused with the sweet colours of dawn. I get to the cairn marker and set off for Loch a’Garbh-bhaid Mor - after a few false starts in icy/boggy hell I manage to find a reliable deer path that takes me alongside the loch. It’s a perfect day now and I can see the long curve of Foinaven, sinuous and snow covered. If I’m honest, I’d really like to have gone up and traversed my favourite hill today, but with a big pack and far to go I am aware that’s not practical. At last I reach the Garbh Allt. Too deep to try with boots and gaiters, so I strip off once again and use my water shoes. It’s only knee deep and the water is strangely warmer than I’d been expecting. Almost deliriously happy I pull myself out the other side, let my legs dry in the warm sunshine and realise I am making it now, nothing is going to stop me! Behind me, Foinaven sits, white against a clear blue sky. One of the sights of my life. Elated to see “my mountain” in these conditions. I continue along a still very soggy path towards Rhiconich, reaching that hub of civilisation at 11.15. The toilets are closed off.
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
First glimpse of Foinaven
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Foinaven, Garbh Allt
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Al, on Flickr
A happy man
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Al, on Flickr
Now it’s road walking - up to London Stores where I shed my rucksack outside and am greeted by the local policeman, a youngish chap with a verging-on-hipster beard. He asks how it’s been going and tells me I should camp round at the old harbour when I return to KLB. Inside the Aladdin’s cave of a shop I look around for what to buy. Mr MacKay is a real old-fashioned gentleman and talks away to me about my trip, offering to fill up my water bottles, whilst an old woman in the shop goes on about how brave I am to be doing the walk in these conditions. I leave with some crisps, oatcakes and dip which will be appreciated when I get to Kearvaig. Back to road walking. I decided against Strathan bothy as I wasn’t sure how rough the route there would be and had heard that the bridge is on its last legs. Sandwood it would be then. I arrive at Blairmore about 2.30 and it took me another hour or so to reach the grassy spot above the dunes that I would camp on. The lochans were mirror still as I’d passed by, pink clouds of sunset gathering. My forecast told me it would be +3 degrees overnight. Yeah right! I sat and had my tea looking towards the lighthouse, counting the sequence of its flashes, until I became too cold.
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
25F13BCD-F0E9-4660-A4B2-07F2D68E5550_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
The gleam of the lighthouse
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Al, on Flickr
God it was a cold night! When I got out of my little frozen home, I noticed the sand around was solid. I walked through the marram grass to the beach which was as hard as concrete. I could make no impression upon it no matter how hard I slammed my pole tip against it. I reckon it must have been -10 last night. The outlet from Sandwood Loch was deeper and faster than I’d encountered it before - would have been better crossing nearer the sea. Slog across semi-frozen bog over the headland towards the edge of the firing range fence. Getting over the Amhainn Srath Cailleach was tricky as it was quite fast flowing and any stepping stones were glazed with ice - I had to walk along the bank quite a way before I found a suitable spot top cross. Then dreary ascent to the bealach before the long descent to the roadway. Everything was taking longer than I’d hoped for - havng set out at 8.30 I didn’t reach the lighthouse til almost 1pm. At least there were cars about - I spotted Angela humphing some sacks - she greeted me and said to go on into the Ozone cafe. All-day vegan breakfast and a hot mug of tea sounded just the thing after 2 weeks of dehydrated food. She told me there hadn’t been a visitor since the end of October. Feeling sated I set off for teh real end point of my trip, Kearvaig bothy. I moved quickly, wanting to get there before the sun had sunk completely. Beinn Spionnaidh and Cranstakie looked superb under snow - in fact there was even a coating of frosty snow on humble Sgribhis Bheinn. I turned down the track to the bothy - very treacherous with ice and thought how ironic it would be to slip and break a leg here right at the very end. Not to mention how quickly you would chill lying prone in these temperatures. I turned the last corner and saw the bothy at the same moment as I heard the crashing of the breakers along the shore. I was desperate to be alone in this place and indeed I was, the last entry in the bothy book being some three weeks earlier. Angela had suggested the annexe room would be the warmest. I collected some bits of charred fence post from the grate in the other room and got a small fire going. It didn’t last for long though, and I sat with my sleeping bag wrapped around me reading and nibbling at snacks. Before too long I wriggled into bed for another cold night. The sound of mice in the ceiling space, windows thickly iced on the inside when I got up.
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
C9113FAF-4D3C-490B-B2DB-E1B967392B69_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
64E59172-AE54-49A2-BDD3-A61C8EA4807E_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
2B0EB41F-4F15-4FBB-AFB8-6A200F21EB11_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Kearvaig
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
I went outside - another beautiful morning, another freezing one too. A couple of blackbirds were scavenging by the wall of the house and I went to fetch some oatcakes for them. Today was going to be a short one - over to Strathcailleach bothy where there would hopefully be a peat fire. I set off up the still-icy track and headed towards Cnoc a’Ghuibhais. I ended up going to the summit, partly to have climbed a hill and partly cos I reckoned there would be phone reception from the top, which there was. Great views down to Sandwood, and out to the Outer Hebrides. So isolated - other than John and Angela at the lighthouse I reckoned there would be no-one else in the 309 hectares of the Parch. Surely one of the least populated places in the country? The forecast had me in clag all day, but it’s glorious sunshine as I walk slowly towards Strathcailleach, arriving by 1.30. I sit outside in the sun, having spread my still wet tent out on the low roof to dry. Utter bliss. I enjoy the moment. Inside there’s a good amount of peat and I manage to get a blaze going, although the room quickly fills with peat smoke. I read through the bothy books and some tales about Sandy. It’s strange to think of sleeping in his decorated wee room. I had a peaceful, if chilly night. Monday morning brought showers, some heavy, which sadly dissuaded me from cutting more peat for the bothy. There was still plenty left inside. Over fully-iced bog I headed back towards Sandwood, having dismissed the idea to go round via Strathan once again. I slipped and fell on the frozen sand coming down to Sandwood and considered getting my crampons out. The idea seemed too surreal, plus they’d been relegated to the bottom of my pack, so I walked cautiously over the solid beach. The frozen footprints I’d seen on my way along here on Friday were still there 4 days late, despite a number of tides having washed over them. The track back to Blairmore was very icy too - large puddles and lochan edges would bear my weight. I sat outside the toilets at Blairmore having lunch of couscous and then a coffee, watching rainbows form then disperse over the sea. An uneventful walk back to KLB followed - I had a look at possible camp spots by Loch Innes (there is one, by the bench) but decided I’d just do as the policeman said and find a spot by the old harbour - that way I could get some more snacks from the Spar. Ended up pitching the tent on chuckles by picnic tables on the south side of Loch Clash pier before noticing a grassy spot with picnic tables on the north side. Well I wasn’t moving now. Had a long night, lit by the glare of street lamps and intermittent music/singing from the pub or Mission.
C9D6903D-12CE-4476-92CC-4BDBFCBAF8C5_1_201_a by
Al, on Flickr
Solitude
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
Strathcailleach
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
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Al, on Flickr
A serious moment
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Al, on Flickr
My final frosty pitch
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Al, on Flickr
In the morning I packed up for the last time, thinking about the plight of people who only have a tent for a home at this time of year, or don’t even have that. Walking past the Spar as the manager arrived he chatted about the route, having done it himself some years ago and then offered me a free coffee inside. After that I headed round to wait for the bus which arrived towing a bike trailer - two cyclists from Aberfoyle had set out to do a trip up to Durness and back but had found the road cconditions increasingly awful and decided to get the bus back. One was a vegan vet and we had a good chat on the way down. The roads were awful, icy/snowy then freezing for as we drove from Loch Merkland to Lairg. The lady driver was superb. A twenty minute changeover in Inverness then the long dull journey down to Glasgow. Lots of snow near Aviemore, less further south. The final change to train back home and I’m in the house at half past five. Adventure over. Mission completed.
Sitting writing about it, the bits that stick out are the long cold nights, that crossing at Loch Cruoshie, the utter beauty of the snowy far north mountains, the physical buzz I started getting in the last week, the absence of hunger despite eating less than usual (I found I’d lost a stone over the time away), the solitude. I had been very aware of my mood being affected at times, particularly in the first 10 days in a way I wouldn’t have felt had I had my usual companion along, but I’d felt much brighter in the last week once I realised I could make it and once conditions for walking improved. Sunshine, blue skies even with icy cold terrain make a big difference. The feeling of vulnerability, of insignificance that I encountered strongly at certain points will stay with me, but overall I feel I made good decisions on the trail. Glad to have done it? You bet!
