Outer Edge Magazine

Taking the high road in Scotland can become a bit of an obsession, particularly when you’re a committed Munro fan.

Story and Images Dave Cauldwell

WithIn an instant the mountain has vanished. Cloud swirls like a phantom and merges with the snow. I’m somewhere near the summit of Ben Lawers in the southern Scottish Highlands, although encapsulated inside this white void I could be anywhere.

Only able to see a footstep ahead, I eventually stumble to the summit where wind gusts of 120km/hr force me to cling onto rocks. Standing up straight is near impossible. When I try, the wind yanks off my hood and whisks my beanie away. It dances on the edge of a cornice and coaxes me over to retrieve it, but within a blustery moment it’s gone forever.

My walking partner, Mike, beckons me off the summit and down a path of icy rock. We reach a plateau. The weather clears slightly (visibility’s around 10 metres now) and we trailblaze through shin-high snow. To our right, the mountain rises steeply. One false step to our left and it’s a long, bone-breaking tumble below. Mike’s leg disappears into a snow-hole and for a moment he’s stuck. If I’ve only learnt one thing about the Scottish Highlands, it’s this: they’re full of surprises.

With glistening lochs, brooding moors and enigmatic peaks, it’s easy to see how hikers become obsessed with Munro-bagging in the Highlands. This may sound like the senseless kidnapping of Scottish people, but a Munro is a peak over 3000ft (915metres) and in climbing to the top of one you are said to have ‘bagged’ it.

The peaks are named after surveyor Hugh Munro who, in 1891, published a table listing some 284 peaks (although one has recently been demoted). Once hikers have bagged all 283, they are said to have ‘compleated’ (from the archaic spelling of the word) a round.

You could say Steven Fallon has Munro mania. Ever since his parents bought him a book about them he’s been hooked. After 20 years of climbing he’s currently on his 14th round (and he only has two peaks left before he’s compleated that), during which time he’s ascended the height of Everest 224 times. Unsurprisingly, Fallon holds the record for the most number of rounds. More of a shock: he’s only in his mid-40s.

Weather permitting, the sturdy-kneed Scot ventures out whenever he’s not bound by his full-time job of developing IT systems. “I’m not the nicest person on Monday morning if I haven’t managed to bag a Munro or 10 over the weekend,” he says.

The average time for mere mortals to compleat a round is eight years; Steven’s eleventh round took under ten months.

But that’s nothing compared to peerless postman Charlie Campbell. In 2000 he climbed, cycled and ran his way around all 283 peaks in 48 days and 12 hours. Towards the end of his Herculean feat (which saw him run 1430km, cycle 1220km and swim the offshore sections) Campbell was so exhausted that he started hallucinating.

“I saw sheep dancing about,” he recalls. Magnanimously, the previous record holders stashed a bottle of whiskey on Campbell’s final summit to acknowledge the fall of their record. No wonder the sheep were dancing.
There’s no dancing up Sgurr Dearg on Skye. Dubbed the Inaccessible Pinnacle because it involves a 50-metre rope-assisted climb to the top, Steven says it’s the most difficult Munro
to bag.
“It’s a vertical blade of rock with huge drops on either side. In climbing grades the ascent is a tricky scramble, but the sense of exposure can be terrifying, particularly if, like me, you suffer from vertigo!”

What makes this pinnacle doubly dicey is its basalt texture, which makes it very slippery when wet.

Wild rain had pounded Killin, my base for four days of Munro-bagging, just a week before I arrived. ‘How wet can it get?’ asked the Killin News, as the river Dochart, which gushes through the town centre, burst its banks and washed out the streets.

As Mike and I drive to our first Munro the road is free of water, although hidden under a blanket of thin snow is black ice. The temperature hovers just above zero and the sky is blue.

Today’s walk is a 12km hike over Tarmachan Ridge, a series of undulating tops that preside over the Killin township. These eventually lead to Meall nan Tarmachan (3,420ft). Just before the start we meet an elderly Scotsman dressed like Rupert Bear. His car has skidded into a ditch and his back wheels are sinking in boggy ground. Tyre marks on the snow-covered road make it look like he’s been drag racing. We push him out and watch him slide gently down the hill.

The going for us isn’t so easy. One minute we’re happily crunching along in the snow, the next we’re up to our waists in it. With such an unpredictable surface and the onslaught of a blustery headwind, progress up Meall nan Tarmachan (‘round hill’) is slow.

Just before the summit we encounter a particularly steep section. Mike unsheathes his ice axe, suspecting the innocuous-looking stretch is a prime suspect for an avalanche. Digging a snow pit to check the stability of the slope, he discovers several inches of surface snow that hasn’t yet compacted; it’s too unstable to risk it. Instead we detour up a rocky crag, affixing our cramp-ons and digging in with our ice-axes.

A rasping wind announces our arrival at the summit. I have to lean strongly into it just to stay upright. Ahead, hills of powdery white roll in every direction and Loch Tay glimmers distantly below, snaking its way to the outskirts of Killin. Underfoot, the wind has sculpted crispy snow patterns and it’s like we’re walking on a giant meringue.

Despite the sunshine it’s incredibly cold (-17 with wind chill, as we later discover). Mike’s lips have gone numb and the mechanics in my camera have frozen. He puts on his balaclava and wanders off in front with spindrift (windswept snow) spiralling around him. He looks like an Arctic explorer venturing into an unknown world where peaks rise like ancient turrets. This is nature’s castle and we clamber along its ramparts trying desperately to keep our balance against the wind.

After three peaks of the Tarmachan Ridge rollercoaster, the track veers down into an old quarry and back out onto an access road. With sunburnt faces and blood flowing in our extremities once again, we enjoy a cloudless sunset over Loch Tay and hope the weather gods will continue to smile on us.

“Severe wind chills forecast this morning,” says Mike, cutting into his black pudding. “Although it’ll only be -13 on the hills today.”

Outside the dawn is perilously dark.

Today’s walk takes us up into the white-out on Ben Lawers, one of the Tarmachan Ridge’s neighbouring peaks. Literally translated it means ‘speaking hill’, named after the many streams that trickle down the hillside with a sound like voices.

Early mapmakers in the mid-19th century estimated Ben Lawers was in excess of 4,000ft. This figure was eventually discounted; it was 18ft shorter. So, in 1878, a group of disgruntled locals, including two masons, erected an 18ft-high cairn on the summit in order to take Ben Lawers to the magic height. Their monument has long since crumbled, and in any case the Ordnance Survey refused to acknowledge the artificial peak.

There are two ways to tackle this summit, one of which passes a secluded mountain lochan (tarn) that resembles a sitting cat. Cats aren’t the only animals you’ll find on the Munros; a handful of dogs have bagged all 283 peaks. Recently a boxer called Kerry became the latest canine conqueror. On some peaks, in particular the tricky ascent of the Inaccessible Pinnacle on Skye, Kerry made it to the top by being strapped into a special harness and pulled up. Apparently she was docile throughout, from fear or exhilaration only Kerry will know.

One thing Mike and I are painfully aware of is that the weather is getting worse. It’s day three and ferocious gusts are ravaging the whole of Scotland. Just off the east coast, a Spanish trawler has run aground on the UK’s highest sea cliffs on Hirta Island.

As we begin our ascent of Cruach Ardrain (3,430ft) there is more evidence of the wind’s devastation. The walk, around 30km west of Killin, begins in a forestry plantation where an 11-year-old pine tree lies uprooted across the road. After doing the limbo, we tramp over boggy ground towards drizzle-dusted hills. The train to Fort William chugs away in the distance, off to the foot of Ben Nevis, Scotland’s highest peak.

Cruach Ardrain (‘Stack of the High Region’) is a Munro characterised by rocky outcrops and long twisting ridges. Under heavy cloud and with serious winds to contend with, we battle up to the first of two tops. On reaching the second one, sunshine peeks through a fierce-looking bunch of navy blue and dark grey clouds and creates a pre-eclipse atmosphere.

After negotiating several rocky ridges – some extremely narrow in places – a steep ascent to the summit has our pulses racing. Sunshine pierces the darkness at irregular intervals, its rays moving across the valley and reflecting distant lochans which resemble buttons of gold.

Nearing the summit, a thick band of cloud clobbers us with rain and, as we peak, visibility is dangerously low. This isn’t good for the next part of the walk which involves a steep descent. It’s challenging at the best of times, not to mention when you can’t see the track.

Sky and snowline merge once more, and icy rocks and waist-high snow lead us to the verge of steep drops. In some sections we have to go down backwards, stretching from rock to rock. Halfway into the descent the cloud lifts and gorgeous valley views appear: streaky sunshine on yellowy-green slopes and faraway snowy peaks.

We ride the back of a grassy ridge before tracking down a steep hill and passing a dead sheep with its horn stuck in a fence. A tightly-nit pine forest smothers us. Sharp branches poke and scratch our faces and the ground squelches underfoot. Eventually we’re spewed onto the banks of a river and have to use our walking poles to cross slippery rocks before rejoining the plantation road.

What with the weather, our 13km loop takes the best part of six hours. I can almost hear Steven Fallon scoffing. On a good day he can cover over 64km and climb 17,000ft.

One of his regular bagging routes is the Mullardoch Round, which involves tackling 12 Munros in a single day so as to, “avoid revisits that involve approaches over rough and boggy terrain. It normally takes 13 to 14 hours.” The route record is held by Alec Keith, who strapped rocket boosters to his boots to fly around in 10 hours 41 minutes.

“Last year I bagged 15 Munros in one day,” says Steven. He was on a reconnaissance mission checking out Ramsay’s Round, a mountain marathon route in the Ben Nevis area.

“The aim is to bag 28 Munros in less than 24 hours. I was on to complete the lot until the weather came in and it started to snow, even though it was midsummer.” The route is named after Charlie Ramsay who set the benchmark back in 1978 when he scrambled over 90km and 28,500ft in 23 hours 58 minutes. 

Despite his pace, Steven discourages rushing. “Don’t do it!” he says. “I know that sounds rich coming from me, but you really want time to enjoy the mountains; the hills are great for clearing your mind and straightening out your thoughts.”

“Somebody needs to straighten out this weather,” says Mike. It’s our last day of Munro-bagging, but the sky is still littered with cloud.

Around 10km northwest of Crianlarich (a short drive from Killin), stands Stob Ghabhar (3,564ft), or Peak of the Goats. Red deer graze on the plains and gnarly Caledonian pines mark the start, next to a seemingly deserted forest lodge.

A gentle ascent along a stalker’s track takes us into a gigantic bowl, where a rim of mountains tower around us. A misty veil impedes a rock scramble up the scree slopes of…ahem, pass the phlegm…Aonach Eagach.

After losing the path several times, we soldier on to the summit in deteriorating conditions and disappear into yet another white out. Three walkers emerge from the nothingness before turning invisible after a few footsteps. Mike’s orienteering skills get us out, and like a pantomime curtain, the cloud parts to reveal a boggy moor and a steep and slippery track that skirts a large waterfall.

Even though the mountains have been elusive for Mike and me, it’s easy to see why people like Steven Fallon adore the Munros. It’s not something easily put into words, although some of the mysterious mountain monikers do a good job in conveying the atmosphere. You can almost hear the laments in the distant birdcalls on the slopes Meall Corranaich (‘Mountain of a Mournful Cry’), over which dead people were transported to burial grounds in neighbouring glens.

“When I die,” says Steven, “I’d like my ashes scattered on Ladhar Bheinn [the most westerly Munro on the Scottish mainland]. On my epitaph it will say: ‘He came, he saw, he conquered ... again and again and again’”.

Steven has just released a new book, ‘Classic Hill Races and Runs in Scotland’. For more information log onto www.amazon.co.uk

Other baggers
With God at his side, the Reverend AE Robertson was believed to be the first person to bag all Munros back in 1901. However, doubts remain whether he climbed the Inaccessible Pinnacle on Skye. If he didn’t, then the first compleatist was Ronald Burn who bagged the lot in 1923.

As well as being the first person to climb all Munros with his pet dogs, Hamish Brown completed the first continuous round in 1974. Over 112 days he walked 2638km, cycled 241km and ascended 449,000ft.

In 1996, Chris Townsend became the first person to complete a round plus all the subsidiary tops in one continuous expedition. He spent 118 days walking 2,849km, cycling 386km and ascending 575,000ft.

The first person to bag a round in the treacherous throes of winter was Martin Moran in 1984/85. He used a campervan to get between Munros and was out in the snow for 83 days.