Leaving the front door open on Beinn Resipol

[old danensian]

I began to plan my emergency evacuation at 3.00am.

I’d already come close to every wild-camper’s nightmare, and wasn’t planning on repeating the experience.

I lay there, meticulously planning every move, ensuring everything would be safe.

I’d not bargained for this.


But, let’s start earlier the previous day.

It’s been a slow start to 2019. An annual a pilgrimage up Galloway’s The Merrick in January and an early April Perthshire potter up Ben Vrackie have sandwiched a couple of summitless forays onto other Corbetts. One had seen both enthusiasm and energy disappear in bottomless drifts of unconsolidated snow. I needed a mountain adventure to kick-start my year. Another Corbett would do, preferably in an area I had yet to visit, and with an angle.

The prospect of a coastal sunset from a summit camp on the edge of Ardnamurchan would suffice.

The description of the views up and down the west coast islands from Beinn Resipol tantalised. An afternoon start meant there was no need for an early rise and departure to beat the Glasgow traffic. Time could be taken carrying the heavier load of overnight gear. The forecasts were bolt-on good. Ducks were sitting in their proverbial row.

Sun-kissed gorse-lined lanes greeted me off the Corran ferry and the convoy of cars gradually diminished as I drove west. Although still connected to the mainland, there was a definite island feel to the surroundings; cottages and communities all looked self-sufficient, the contrast with the bustling A82 was stark. It was the first time I’d ventured out towards Ardnamurchan and I was already taking to it’s charm.

Once at the caravan site at Resipole, on the northern shore of Loch Sunart, an early afternoon breeze was taking the edge off the earlier welcome warmth. Helpful site staff showed me where to park without causing any overnight anxiety and, still positive about the prospects, I shouldered my belongings for the night.

Out through the back gate of the campsite at Resiploe and onto the hills

The first third of the walk was a delight. In the car I’d been listening to a broadcast of nature writer Jim Crumley’s new book The Nature of Spring, and marvelled at his intimate knowledge of the surroundings in which he walks. As I wandered up the glen, past gnarled and lichen-encrusted oaks and through glades of birches, I felt embarrassingly ignorant. I’ve been lucky enough to spend an evening with him, talking about nature writing and the importance of observation: I can’t imagine what I missed by simply carrying on in the direction of my objective. We miss so much by not stopping, sitting and looking.

Beinn Resipol peeps over the skyline at last

With the tree-line left below, the ground got steeper and the pyramid profile of Beinn Resipol was now in view. Guidebooks and reports had warned of boggy ground over the next stretch. However, the recent dry spell has made most patches softly cushioned rather than boot-graspingly gloopy.

As the Allt Mhic Chiarain follows a gorge, the path rises above its southern bank and looking down into its nooks, crannies and corners distracted from a lurking weariness. It had been a long time since I’d carried this much up a hill and my legs were already starting to feel it.

Beinn Resipol looks down as the path rises alongside the ravine

Behind me Loch Sunart shimmered in the haze

Stopping for a breather before tackling the even steeper slope up the Clac Garbh and to Beinn Resipol’s west ridge, I sensed the breeze below had turned to something stiffer, and it carried a definite bite. Had I misread a forecast?

Weaving in and out of the outcrops on the final summit slopes of Beinn Resipol

Movement being one of the best guards against an incipient chill, I simply adjusted the Velcro on my cap and pressed on upwards. Again the threatened bog below had failed to materialise and, although rocky for most of the way, the suggested need for a scramble to the very top was similarly absent. As the sky-line was broached my first view was of Beinn Resipol’s lower eastern top, a few hundred metres away. Briefly confused, I turned and saw the huge squat summit cairn about fifty metres behind me. Accuracy in both the first and final few metres of a walk has never been my strong point.

What was strong though was the wind. Incipient had now matured. I found myself teetering on the cairn while taking a photograph, buffeted by gusts that were far stronger than I had expected.

Loch Sunart from the top of Beinn Resipol

Across to the eastern top of Beinn Resipol - the burden finally laid down

Late afternoon was now turning into early evening and a few gloveless minutes taking photographs showed how much chill was being carried by the strengthening wind. The potential camping spots I’d seen in photographs also now seemed less secure. The grassy platform just a few metres from the cairn was clearly an ideal site from which to launch a hang-glider. Spots on the saddles between the sloping geology of the summit were equally unsuitable. Fortunately, the rocky outcrops also offered a number of more sheltered niches which, when I lay down in them, appeared to be less exposed.

So, one was chosen and, still close to the summit cairn, the wee green hotel popped up and dinner was cooked. That sounds a simpler task than it was given the conditions.

A sheltered niche - or so I hoped

Finishing dinner, I heard a strangely out-of-place sound. Surely not. But it was. And absolutely all the way to the top as well. The wind had carried away the approaching noise until it was just a few metres away.

The curious arrival of an unexpected companion

I wandered over, surprising him as he took out his phone and set his mount in a pose for posterity.

“Do you want me to take one of you both together?” I asked sarcastically, surprising my new neighbour.

“Oh,” he replied, startled. “Have I spoilt your evening?”

“No, just surprised it.”

After having his photo taken alongside his pride and by now very muddy joy, the rider asked where I’d come from.

“Over there,” I said, pointing to my tent.

At that stage I don’t know which of us thought the other the madder of the two.

Then off he went, back down to Strontian. It had taken him just half an hour apparently.


I was left alone again, accompanied by the still increasingly strong gusts of wind.

By now, having thought the excitement over, I settled, sat on a rock fifteen or twenty metres away from the tent for the hoped-for sunset. With fingers warmed by a mug of hot chocolate, I searched for the views from Mull in the south to Skye in the north and over to Rhum and Eigg. But, un-noticed, clouds had gathered, only Rhum and Eigg were visible as hazy blurs and the east was lost in mists and haze.

And then … (apologies for lack of photographic coverage at this point - but hopefully you'll understand why)

I was suddenly pushed off-balance by a particularly strong gust. I stood, staggered, and turned back towards my tent.

I’d foolishly left the tent door open while wandering around, now it was rising slowly, it’s black underside lifting, lifting, lifting One of those slow-motion incidents was about to unfold. Hands clasped round my precious mug of hot chocolate were helpless.

The bright orange survival bag I use to keep the damp at bay was now exposed and caught by the wind it launched upwards like a kite, The tent continued to rise until, tethered by one guy line and another peg that had resisted the force of the latest gust, it hung there and pirouetted on one end.

“My tent,” I recall screaming, to anyone, someone, no-one in particular. Irrational in the extreme.

The tent continued to spiral on its end until I threw myself on it and began to wrestle it to the ground. Fortunately, the contents - mat, sleeping bag, jacket and assorted dry bags with food and spare clothes - got twisted in the fabric as it span, weighing it down.

Adrenalin pumped for twenty minutes to keep me warm as I untangled the wreckage, found as many jettisoned pegs as I could and re-pitched the tent. With the door tightly zipped and the tent weighed down, I then went in search of the tangerine sheet of flying polythene. Splayed against a rock by the distant east summit was a flash of bright orange: thankfully close enough to retrieve.

After all the excitement, at 8.00pm a thin band of open sky finally revealed the long-awaited sunset. I could scuttle around for a chilly twenty minutes then relax, sat, huddled in the lee of rocks, wrapped and perched watching the glistening Loch Sunart, and trying to take photos while still being buffeted - all the while casting anxious glances back to my tent to make sure nothing was coming loose.

At last, the hoped-for shimmering seas and light show ...

… as the colours change and the sun gets lower ...

… and lower

With the sun gone and the final hues of sunset faded, I finally retreated to the warm cocoon of my sleeping bag. Normally I can tolerate the gentle rustling of fabric and let it ease me to sleep. I’m sure I am not alone in not being quite as tolerant of angry flapping and the frequent press of cold nylon as the fly-sheet takes the strain.

It was a night of disturbed fitful dozing, and wondering if I would dare leave the tent in the early hours as the wind continued its unrelenting battering. If nature called, I didn’t want to turn round and embarrassingly find my bedroom gone.

And that’s when, at 3.00am, I started to plan how to leave nothing to chance when I got up - even how I would take down and roll up the tent without exposing anything to the snatch of the wind. I decided to give a sunrise photo-foray a miss.

So, as the conditions outside seemed even worse, breakfast was slow and methodical - even extracting frozen milk from the carton for my muesli . Everything had been brought into the tent the night before, nothing was sheltering under the fly-sheet - adding weight rather than saving clutter. Trying to stuff a four-season sleeping bag, pack an entire rucksack and get boots and gaiters on while still inside the inner of a tiny one-person Terra Nova Comp is an exercise in contortion. What I did learn is that wriggling and twisting keeps you warm.

No gloves were lost to the wind, I didn’t have to fight to regain control of a recalcitrant sleeve, and no cords or straps flapped violently in my face. I simply unzipped the tent, rolled out of it and zipped it up again - quickly. While still on the ground I crawled round the tent, taking out pegs and laying my rucksack on each collapsed section as I progressed until it was safely rolled and fixed securely to the rucksack.

Early morning bright and breezy from the top - having safely negotiated the night in one piece

Then I tried to stand up.

My niche in the rocks had clearly been more sheltered than I thought.

Trying to maintain balance, I briefly revisited the summit cairn, enjoyed the early morning views that had now opened up and then, the only way was down - hopefully while still in control.

The sun-kissed, wind-blasted summit cairn of Beinn Resipol

Heading back down and looking towards Loch Shiel

Mercifully, as I retreated down the west ridge and towards the Clac Garbh the wind dropped and conditions eased. Much of the ground was still held in the frost from the night before and I had to be careful on icy patches that would linger until the sun struck them.

On the way back down just lazily following the way up

I watched a handful of skittering deer in the distance. I shed layers as I emerged from the shadows. I sauntered across the open ground, revelling in that sense of satisfaction that the day was still young. Re-entering the glades of birch and oak I knew I should slow down, sit and watch, do the Jim Crumley thing and simply sit quietly and look, watch, see.

Over the stile and it's nearly home

But of course, I didn’t.

Maybe next time.

And next time I’ll check the weather forecast in more detail - and make sure I shut the front door.

A stiff breeze whips the tips from the waves back by Loch Sunart

[LeithySuburbs]

Sounds like a future Carry On film, Nigel .

[Avocetboy]

Enjoyable read that.

[Alteknacker]

Sorry, I couldn't help laughing; but in sympathy too. I too have experienced some seriously gusty nights with the tent - though none so bad that the tent headed skywards!

[mrssanta]

Well, you did say you wanted an adventure!

[Klaasloopt]

Enjoyable read, containing very very familiar fears, acrobatics and comic moves.

[PeteR]

Another excellent and entertaining report Nigel.

I've only wild camped twice so far and neither time quite delivered on the romantic notions I'd had in mind at the time. I certainly recall a wild and cold night on the Arran Corbetts last year, where warm sunshine of the day had been replaced with strong winds and snow as I sought out a suitable spot to pitch the tent. Thankfully not the sort of adventure you experienced on Resipol by any means, but certainly one of the worst nights sleep I have ever had

[Mountainlove]

OMG I have images of a flying tent on my mind now...glad it did not lift off and you had a lucky escape...what a evening and night. For sure one you won't forget for a long time