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An Addendum to the 2017 Munro year
Never punch above your weight they tell us. ‘They’, presumably, are drawn from the boxing fraternity. Applying this adage to my Munro charity challenge had kept me grounded since I had put 18 in the bag, over two long weekends in June. Since then, a frustratingly frequent supply of Atlantic fronts has kept Scotland, particularly the west, swathed in cloud and populated by sky-diving cats and dogs, intent on scuppering my attempts to piece together a further two weekends, completing my plans for the year. By heading north and east I had somehow managed to squeeze in four days and a further 6 Munros in late August, but the final opportunity remained elusive.
- Typical view from a Scottish mountains in 2017
24 wasn’t bad but… it was just one short of my goal this year, creating an itch that wouldn’t be satisfied by any amount of scratching. Thus it was that, on 4th October – during a business meeting in Glasgow - I spent more time refreshing the sites for four different mountain weather forecasts on my phone, than attending to the cut and thrust of our departmental performance and strategic direction.
The contrasting predictions that illuminated my screen were equal to anything that had vexed me over the preceding three months. Juggling the possibility of wind speeds – atop Ben Vorlich – (ranging from 13mph – 55mph) and precipitation (that might require no particular protective clothing at all to a full on, top to tail, Gortex covering – necessitating a second mortgage) was akin to going like the clappers on a see-saw. Will I… won’t I; will I… won’t I. Trying to weigh up the punches that might be thrown at this featherweight, in a diminutive 5’ frame and with negligible navigational skills, I balanced safety against yearning and - in the end - brought the see-saw to rest in favour of reaching this year’s target.
And so, rather belatedly, to the walk report. I was set down by the Highland bus at Inveruglas, where my initial interest in the use of renewable energy – sparked by the pipes that ran down the hill beside Sloy power station – was quickly diverted by more alluring images. Looking across the Loch the iconic slopes of Ben Lomond captured my attention and – with the early morning light suggesting brilliance in the day ahead – I set off, with a spring in my step.
Navigation on the tarmac was a breeze as I managed to avoid tracks that went off right and left, sticking to the road heading for Loch Sloy. However, spotting the “small cairn and tiny bridge” that marked the start of the path onto the hill, proved to be beyond the observational powers of this would-be Munroist. Thus, just over half an hour after being deposited by the bus, I was hauling myself up the south flank of Ben Vorlich, having left the track by: an apology for a cairn, no bridge at all and, a ‘trod’ that owed more to the cloven hooves of sheep than any walkers boots. In my favour I was at least heading in the right direction i.e. up. Disappointingly the trod, just like all the others I had erroneously followed before, petered out in a morass of boggy hinterland. Looking west there was a possibility of a path on a shelf-like line of ascent, but this would require negotiating a boulder field further up. Looking east there was another potential route, to a substantial dip in the east – west ridge. However, I considered this to too much of a hike over rough, wet ground and in the wrong direction, just to see if there was, or wasn’t, a path.
By this time I had gained some height and, though searching for a path was a fruitless activity, my effort was rewarded when I looked around. To the south-east the sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, while the wind refereed this fast and furious game and the hills were illuminated by shafts of light, or cast in gloom, according to their position relative to the battle overhead. Meantime, acts of similar providence were exhibited on Loch Lomond, where the brighter waves engaged in a skittish dance of joyous frivolity. Then, looking to the south-west, onto Loch Sloy, my eye was attracted by the depth of blue as it soaked up the last gasp of radiating clarity, reflecting it back to contract with the shades of green that clothed the hills.
Having dismissed alternative routes, there was nothing for it but to press on regardless – up and over the shattered remains of the great evolutionary project, hoping that I wasn’t going to encounter something that punched well beyond the weight of this light-weight adventurer. Banks of cloud now swept across the heavens, obliterating the summits and threatening to send the worst of yesterday’s predictions in my direction at just the worst moment. I had so much done, yet had so far yet to go. Retreat is an ugly word, spoken only in extremis, reflected on hindsight and evaluation according to the outcome. I expunged it from my mind as an overreaction, though I did at least want to know where I was. Flopping down on a remnant of volcanic activity, I consulted the OS app on my phone and got a grid reference of 399110; pretty much where I had thought and – with the sudden increase in wind – apparently not far from the ridge. I was holding out for a clear path once I got there; this line of meandering ascent might be OK on the way up, but I definitely didn’t want to be slithering and sliding down it on my return.
It look a little longer than I thought, but there was no mistaking a wonderfully distinct trail once there. In one direction it struck a clear line through the rocks towards the summit and, in the other, snaked its way back down for as far as the eye could see. All I had to do now was conquer the next kilometre or so of uphill slog. Nevertheless, with a slightly less acute gradient, and a definite improvement in the terrain underfoot, I was passing the trig point on the way to the summit cairn before you could say, “Where’s the view then?”
As I returned, the wind finally found in favour of the sun and, as the cloud base began to lift and separate, the azure sky produced a spectacular panorama. Though it was boggy in parts, I was fleet of foot and euphoric in mood. Ben Vorlich may be a short walk, and a minimus among the Munro giants, but it was still another one in the bag. An increasingly heavy bag now, decorated with the number 47, after the first two years of my challenge.