Balanced precariously on a greasy rock mid-river I weighed my options. Only a few feet to the other bank, a skip and a jump to clear the torrent. But my bag was heavy, my footing desperately uncertain. I could backtrack across the gravel, find a slack or shallow stretch to try instead to preserve my boots. Or I could throw caution to wind and go for it.

The bothy was in sight. So close and lit by the last of the sun swiftly setting behind Stob Bán. I wanted to be by its welcoming door and finally rest. I swung my backpack decisively around and lobbed with all the heft I dared without losing my perilous grip on the rock and watched as it tumbled through the air, optimism rising with it, only to watch as it bounced ingloriously off the grassy bank and splashed noisily into the current. I launched after it, abandoning my perch to accept the cold wet fate of rushing knee-deep through the river to retrieve it and haul us both to the far bank.

Having survived the rest of the day’s lightly frozen bogs and snow slopes, two rounded Munros and a wildly steep rocky descent from Stob Coire Easain I was frustrated with myself for such an error late in the day. Even more so when I saw Joe and Kate had both braved a shallower section and got across far drier in their gaiters. Thankfully I knew the bothy had a fireplace and we had plenty of fuel, so a late dip in the Allt na Lairige wasn’t the end of the world.
Leacach Bothy by Dave Brown, on Flickr

We already knew we’d have company at the bothy. A couple of hours earlier we had crossed paths with our evening’s bothy-mates at the bealach between Stob a’ Choire Mheadhoin and Stob Coire Easain (in shape and size they were reminiscent of the Red Cuillin to me) – they told us they were there for a few nights and had gone to bag the two summits we were traversing before heading back.

We had started our day far to the north east, walking out from Fersit in crystalline cold, a perfectly still day with feathers of cloud hanging above Loch Treig and a thick coat of frost shrouding every branch and blade.
Loch Treig by Dave Brown, on Flickr

Packs loaded with coal, wood and wine slowed our usual pace as we wound our way across the summits, with views at every elevation delaying us further. A few wide patches of hardened snow encouraged cramponing near the summits, but generally we made easy going of a beautiful walk.
Stob Coire Easain by Dave Brown, on Flickr

At the Leacach bothy we re-joined the older gentlemen we had met earlier in the day. They were greatly amused by my novel river crossing approach, and even more so at my clumsy attempts with the axe to split firewood from a log left by the door. Still, they were happy to share some single malt with me in recognition of my efforts, regardless of my lack of practise or efficiency.

Warmed by malt and exertions I walked to where the Allt a’Chuil Choirean met the Allt na Lairinge and arranged two boulders into a seat facing west, absorbing the last pale rays of the winter sun and enjoying my coffee while the icy river bubbled beneath my feet.

Sunset came to the valley floor too soon, and while the sky was still brightly lit all warmth was quickly gone. Before long admiring the scene became an unpleasant luxury. Before darkness fell we were all ensconced within the Leacach bothy with the fire lit, smoke puffing from the small chimney and candles lit in the window making for a comforting yet eery scene.

Our evening passed in one of the most pleasurable bothy nights I’ve had the privilege to enjoy. Our housemates for the evening were extraordinarily fascinating characters; both pinnacles of Scottish (and international) mountaineering experience with a generosity of knowledge shared unselfishly and without pretence. It’s a characteristic enjoyed only by the most experienced that they lack the need to boast of their incredible achievements! Tales rotated around the small fireplace as the five of us took turns to cook, pour drinks, reposition a wet boot by the grate, share another anecdote and listen keenly to whoever was assuming that moment’s mantle of narrator.

I could recount the finer of the tales they told, but my retelling would lose everything of the evening’s aether. To tell another’s story separate from the moment it was told is to exclude from the reader everything that emanated with it; the sensations, the imagery and the moment. The breath of each story hung in the damp of the bothy air giving the words substance. The flicker of flame lit the storyteller lending atmosphere, while the smell of burning coal and steam rising from wet socks are inseparable from my memory of each one.

By morning the embers of the fire still gave a faint warmth to the bothy while outside it was fiercely cold. A light snow had glazed everything beyond the door in a film of white. The air was perfectly still and the slender river which had seemed so peaceful the night before was now roaring with all other sound deadened around us.

The sun was hidden to the east by the previous days’ summits which towered above us. Looking north the valley slid away with the bulks of Stob Bán and Stob Coire Easain standing guard either side. To the south the valley gently curved away slicing between the massive grey corries to my left and the diminutive but intriguing looking twin Innses to the right (two small hills one of which had all the hallmarks at this distance of hiding some fascinating-looking rock climbs). In the still morning it was easy to imagine the valley in the long distant past when it was a cattle drover’s route, packed with grazing ruminants being encouraged onwards and driven down from the meadows those hills take their names from.

Stob Bán has a particularly alluring appeal from the valley floor, taking the idealised shape of a pyramidal summit but simultaneously dwarfed by its neighbours, making it seem unlikely it could really be a Munro yet deceptively long in approach. The contrast is all the more marked by being sat next to the highest peak in the Grey Corries.

Our day was due to be around 10 miles with at least another two Munros planned so we tiptoed around the bothy before dawn so as not to disturb our sleeping friends, and the three of us crept away before the sun had found its way into the frosted valley.

The ground remained ice-covered and a light haze clung to the sky as we made for Stob Bán. Ascending through the valley we followed the deep scar of a river course towards steep, intimidating grey slabs of rock, winding back and forth sometimes on a vague path and at others looping around vast patches of solid ice.

We stopped a while upon hearing the croaking grunt of a ptarmigan and watched as two of them fought ferociously for the right to call a particular snow slope home. As we approached, they held still and we lost sight of their perfectly cloaked forms as between grey rock and white ice, only visible again when they shifted or ran.

While the ascent of Stob Bán was unremarkable (if perilous on the frozen stone) as we reached the summit we were momentarily above the clouds, and the sun rising behind us revealed my first ever glimpse of the infamous Brocken spectre, a dark and solitary figure encased within a halo prism of colour.
Brocken Spectre by Dave Brown, on Flickr

While my excitement was palpable for this first ever sighting, I was to be treated throughout the day with many more as this phantom followed us across the airy ridge between Stob Choire Claurigh and Stob A’ Choire Leith.

At the summit of Stob Choire Claurigh we had decided to tag a further Munro onto our day – Stob Coire An Laoigh. We had taken a break at the first summit to marvel at the phenomenal views we were greeted with (and well deserved after the lengthy ascent). All around us was an ocean of cloud lingering or slowly blowing through the valleys, with only the highest tops and ridges standing proudly above, the sun inviting the eye to every pinnacle screaming out to be climbed, driving the desire stay above the cloud forever in this blissful elevated oasis.

No doubt that’s why we unanimously decided we should add the extra distance to our walk. The ridge before us looked outstanding with imposing black crags overhung with smears of snow and ice, set at an angle that looked to make for easy walking and consistently hovering above the billowing cloud rolling beneath.
Grey Corries Ridge 3 by Dave Brown, on Flickr

The walking from peak to peak was truly exceptional. Here the spectre joined us and became each person’s silent companion for a mile or more, always skirting the hillside just below and to our right. While I walked ahead near Caisteal with my head figuratively in the clouds Joe and Kate were lucky enough to spot a golden eagle land on a perch overlooking the valleys to the north.

At Coire An Laoigh we were finally caught by the ascending cloud, drifting in light waves up the northern slopes of the grey corries, across the ridge and floating away in the sun to the south. The views of Aonach Mor were becoming increasingly obscured and we were saddened to know we had to dive into the murk, leaving behind the dramatic contrasts of deep blue sky and pearlescent snow.