A Three Day Bonanza

The plan was simple: Day One would take us over the munros south of Loch Ossian to Ben Alder Cottage; Day Two would go over Ben Alder and Beinn Bheòil to Culra for a spot of winter camping; and Day Three would see us come all the way back to Loch Ossian over the Aonach Beag ridge. What could possibly go wrong?

As we (Ifan, Erik and Hugh) pitched up to London King’s Cross at 0530 on a cold Thursday morning, the foreboding weather forecast and reports of the first named storm of the season ‘Otto’ hitting the Scottish coast that evening, could do little to dampen our spirits. Only the realisation that Ifan had packed a 1-man tent for him and Erik to share could taint the start of this adventure.
A 9 hour journey, and a world away in landscape, we arrived alone at Corrour Station, accompanied by a light drizzle. A quick walk in to Corrour YHA (fantastic hostel, thank you Jan!) and we settled in for an evening of cards, carbs, and whisky.

Day One

The night was tempestuous, with Otto’s 90mph gusts ratting the fabric of the building and rain lashing the windows. We awoke to a power cut, an ominous sign of things to come. As we wolfed down our breakfast, accompanied by the still howling wind, we wondered why we had travelled 9 hours to be sat in a storm. I gazed with jealousy at those in the hostel who were staying put for the day.

A small break in the gale at 0930, and we set out with our packs heavy laden, heading for the lower slopes of Carn Dearg (941m) With the wind at our backs, you could have parachuted from the ground upwards with a large tarpaulin. Although the gusts were persistent, the rain was patchy, and cheered on by brief bursts of sunlight we began our boggy ascent.
1100 and we reached an unusually snowless but typically cloudy summit. This was Erik’s first munro (Ifan’s 8th, my 68th), an apt introduction in this vintage display of Scottish weather. A steep descent and ascent later, and we were on Sgòr Gaibhre (955m). The weather gods played nice, and we were gifted with sweeping vistas of Ben Alder, Loch Rannoch and Schiehallion. We spied a distant Ben Alder Cottage perched on the edge of Loch Ericht, our rustic home for the night.
The descent was fairly tortuous, firstly up and over an unnecessarily steep Sgòr Choinnich (938m), then a pathless extravaganza of bog and ankle twisting tufts as we skirted around Meall a Bheleaich. Erik’s ludicrously large pack was made lighter as his roll mat disappeared forever into the moss and heather. Two painful hours later, including a bog-induced separation of sock and shoe at one point, and we rolled into the bothy ready for a night by the fire.

Day Two

The freezing night dawned a landscape transformed. Blue skies had replaced grey clouds, and a fresh covering of snow carpeted the surrounding peaks.
We loaded our packs, still as depressingly heavy as the day before, and at 0930 set out into the winter wonderland, eyes set for Ben Alder. Perhaps camping in this weather wouldn’t be too bad after all? Our joy quickly translated into wet feet, as we attempted to follow a path lost beneath the soft snow blanket. Trudging upwards, we were greeted with extraordinary views of Loch Ericht, stretching out beneath the wispy cloud.
As we inched higher into Bealach Breabag, the cloud inched lower, and soon the faint ridge of Beinn Bheoil (today’s second objective) was hidden from view. At 833m we turned to face the slopes of Ben Alder, now shrouded in cloud and deep snow. With no footprints to follow, we broke new ground, tracing a faint line of rocks upwards to 1000m, feet sinking into the powder with every step. Huffing and puffing, we reached the vast summit plateau at 1100m, views confined to little more than a few metres with the whiteness of sky perfectly melding into the whiteness of ground.

The map revealed a short traverse to the summit so we set out into the mist, axes wielded, with only the huge cornices that plunged down into Garbh Coire providing any texture in the landscape. A finger-tingling 20 minutes later, and we reached the top just before 1300. The summit trig, now buried beneath several feet of snow, did little to offer shelter, but we gratefully tucked into caramel wafers and jelly babies nonetheless.

“Anyone fancy the bothy again?” said Erik. It took all of half a second for us to violently agree that camping was off the cards. Spurred on by the thought of a roaring fire, but cursing that we had lugged unnecessarily heavy bags up from the bothy, we raced back down, the soft snow now easing our descent to the Bealach.

Just before 1400 we reached 833m. The behemoth of Beinn Bheòil (1019m) lurked somewhere in the murk. Erik and Ifan sensibly decided to head back down to the bothy, while I decided to take a crack at this second munro, figuring that if I ditched the backpack I could still make it home before dark. Just over an hour later, I returned with tired feet to the same spot, one munro lighter. My reward was a terrible photo of the summit cairn and an inflated ego.

An evening of luxury awaited, and I tumbled down the Allt Bealach Breabaig to perch myself and my sodden boots in front of the bothy TV.

Day Three

Grey, drizzly, and windy, the morning’s weather provided vindication for yesterday’s camping decision. We reluctantly packed our bags and bid farewell to the palatial bothy. Dreams of a hot shower at the YHA now commanded our attention.

We set out up towards the Bealach Cumhann, magnificent in its snow shrouded state. A good path guided us up to 655m before disappearing East (the wrong direction) instead of West (the right direction). Faced with 200m of slushy bog, we sighed and resigned ourselves once more to wet feet.

A pathless mess later, and we were on the south bank (the wrong side) of the Uisge Labhair, needing to get to the north bank (the right side). With no bridge and two optimistically labelled ‘fords’ marked on the map, we reluctantly took off our shoes and plunged into the freezing water. Battling slippy rocks, a strong current and a still heavy backpack, we resembled a tightrope act that wouldn’t have been out of place in a budget circus. We hauled ourselves on to the north bank after what felt like a lifetime (probably 20 seconds), and rubbed our feet for warmth on my tiny travel towel.
The map made it seem like plain sailing from here to home, but instead we were faced with the ‘worst path in the world’, which winded its way through mud and bog, taking an unnecessarily circuitous route as it followed the meanders of the burn.
Another lifetime later, and we reached the sweet, smooth gravel track that led down to Corrour Shooting Lodge. Our tired legs propelled us along the blustery shore of Loch Ossian and soon the hostel came into view. We gratefully collapsed into its warm embrace.