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The Cuillin Fear
When I think of the Black Cuillin I do feel fear….it is a physical and slow growing fear that starts in the armchair with the SMC book and the OS map, builds with the journey through Glen Shiel and Sligachan, and approaches a scary crescendo as I begin walking up any of the Cuillin corries. A debilitating sensation through legs and groin and a weakness of will that stops adrenalin in its tracks. Not sure what vertigo is, but it sounds far too exotic a word for being scared s***less. So I just call it fear.
It is said in many sports that the game is played with the top inch of the body. So it is for me with heights, when perception rules. Even in photographs, a camera lens pointing anywhere other than downwards can be a fine photo, but if it includes any precipitous aspect, the physical sensations begin.
I wish I could settle for the large and beautiful plateau and corrie bites of the Cairngorms and the whalebacks of the Monadhliath. Truth be told I should spend my days among these easy leg stretching hills that contain many of my favoured walking areas. However, I still harbour a deep, though probably forlorn, wish to compleat and also have a sense of being a gutless mountain wimp unless I can dangle dangerously 3000 fresh air feet above something terminally hard.
With banal stereotypical prejudice, I have always viewed Weegies (‘Glaswegians’, for the uninitiated) and west coasters in general, as harder bitten, more street wise and with more of an ‘edge’ than their Scottish east coast counterparts. (I admit happily to being one of the latter.) Likewise with mountains, those rocky west coast Sgurrs and Ciches rising in steep walls from Coruisk, Hourn and Torridon leave me craving my cowardly Cairngorms. The Cuillin, the edgiest mountain range of all.
My good friend Malcolm has escorted me up Bruach Na Frithe which I trembled all the way up until I decided on the way down that it was actually quite easy. Likewise with Sgurr Na Banachdich, which I again thought was particularly easy as I descended, not to mention the blind terror all the way up. Malcolm is a munroist who is comfortable (and unknowingly smug) enough to refer to the Cuillin as ‘hills’, whilst I see them as serrated-knife-edge-plunge-inevitably-to-your-death-mountains. I love and hate him, and returned with him to the Cuillin on 25th May 2010 when we took on Sgurr a Mhadaidh and Sgurr a Ghreadaidh – hereafter known as Vati and Greta
Opposite the Glen Brittle Hostel is a nice start to any day out,
with pleasant walking up the Allt a Choire Greta into the higher reaches of the Corrie with An Dorus in view for most of the walk-in.
I warn Malcolm en route that I may cop out at any point, as I am already feeling quite fearful, indeed panicky. He retorts confidently ‘och its not as bad as you think – you’ll be absolutely fine’. The fear wants to scream out that “I want to decide what is fine and not fine!”, but I stay silent and increasingly fragile as we scrunch up the scree to An Dorus.
Reaching An Dorus I cuddle this protruding rock - not simply to be closer to nature, but more out of sheer terror (I have a habit of finding protruding rocks to cuddle as comfort blankets).
We consider the route of ascent from An Dorus up Vati. It is a slanting gully several yards past the crest of An Dorus, down which a gentleman (more elderly than me) and his partner (very much younger than all of us) are scrambling with all the agility of a one winged seagull. I was already thinking how to cop out, and the delay while they descended increased my sense of panic exponentially. Two courageous weegies joined us at An Dorus –they were obviously mountain-wise and helpful and, witnessing the laboured scrambling before them, offered the young partner the use of a ‘sling’ for her descent. In the event she did not need this aid, but somehow the notion of people needing ‘equipment’ on Vati just about finished it for me. Malcolm had not brought a sling, nor carabiners, nor ropes, nor indeed a microlight or other necessary accoutrement - sorry Malcolm, can’t do it, great experience getting this far, but quite enough for the day, don’t feel bad just because you have failed to adequately equip us for this complex mountaineering expedition. I was about to be effusive in acknowledging Malcolm’s shortcomings. However, Malcolm, by now echoed by the two weegies, cajoled, encouraged and nursed me up the gully, on to the slopes of Vati for easy scrambling to the summit, easy that is unless you are already terrified to the point of distraction and cannot focus on the fact that there is almost no chance of hurtling to one’s doom in any direction! Taking a couple of piccies at the top with my ‘cheap-and-cheerful-nikon-idiot-proof-point-and-shoot was awkward as I had to let go one of my hands from my new-found protruding rock comfort blanket. The achievement was as breathtaking as the view.
I have to say I thought I enjoyed scrambling down to An Dorus – my fear tempered by knowing I had already managed this bit. However, the picture tells more the story of a still traumatised scrambler.
Back at An Dorus, Malcolm and I celebrated the defeating of this particular day’s Cuillin demon. However, the adrenalin of Vati was not sufficient to persuade me up Greta, even on such a great walking day my emotions were spent. As we descended from An Dorus I knew I would always match the exhilaration of my victory over Vati with the regret over Greta, but I also know that I can manage Greta when I return – that is a reassuring feeling for a real mountain feartie. However, I think the best feeling of the day was that, for my friend Malcolm’s sake, I had not copped out
.
I’ll be back