Taking on Foinaven

Over the previous night’s dinner, a plan to climb Foinaven had been mooted.  Jesper and I had been circling around it the last three days, admiring its grey bulk and steep flanks, and, despite the efforts of the last three days' hard walking, we couldn’t resist coming along too.  I fuelled myself with granola and waited for Dave C, our transport man, to arrive.  He was there on cue so we drove down to Keoldale to meet Heather and Dave W.  The forecast warned us of rain later but for the time being it was dry, albeit with low cloud shrouding the summits.  If the weather stuck to the forecast, that cloud should lift later in the day.

The first part of the walk was a long, if easy, slog along an estate path.  The sun was threatening to appear and, anxious to avoid making my shiny red nose any redder, I slapped some cream on.  A Land Rover passed us on the track and I noticed a cage in the back, inside which perched a serene-looking raven.  I could only think it was an injured bird they were intending to release somewhere, but it seemed a long way to go just to find somewhere to set it free.  A little while later the car came back the other way.  The raven was still in its cage in the back.  Perhaps it was a pet they were taking out for a scenic tour.

After the level track, we finally turned off uphill.  Dave W led the way, doing his best to find a route despite there not being much of a path to speak of.  We climbed steadily up to one corrie, Coire Duaill, then more steeply up to a second, Glas Coire Granda.  The going got even steeper, and more rocky, as we then made our way onto the ridge at Bealach nan Carn.  Amongst the boulders and not much below the cloud base – stubbornly unlifted – we waited a short while for a struggling Jesper to join us.  He admitted he was finding it hard work and that, with the low cloud, his motivation wasn’t that high.  Nevertheless, we pushed on.

The next section showed us what steep really meant.  It was wet and grassy, with rocks and boulders sticking out here and there.  You didn’t have to lean very far forward to find yourself with your nose to the slope.  It was precarious with dodgy footholds and a long drop behind.  Heather found it very trying, especially with her particular bugbear of misty ascents, and Dave W had to keep up a constant litany of encouragement to keep her going.  Dave C helped with distraction tactics, talking of life in York and how planning for the future is all hot air when you don’t really know what’s coming next.  Jesper, somewhere below us, had to fend for himself.

Just below the first summit, Ceann Garbh, we paused again amongst rocks to let Jesper catch us – in the mist it would have been crazy to split up.  As a full party, we climbed onto the main ridge and felt the full blast of the wind.  It battered me like a like a heavyweight, pushing my feet and legs around as I tried to step through the boulder field.  As we started the ascent to the main summit I could feel my fingers going numb in the wind-chill so I stopped to get some thicker gloves out, frantically fiddling at zips and buckles with frozen fingers.  Material flapped about, straps whipped my face, Velcro attached itself to everything except the surface it should.  It took an age to achieve this simple task, all the while being ripped into by the murderously chilling gale.

Strapped up and better insulated than before, I continued the march uphill, slightly behind the others.  It wasn’t a long climb and we were soon together at the top.  We tried to pose for summit photos while staggering around in the unrelenting tempest then decided it wasn’t a place to stop long, although there was a tiny area behind a big cairn that gave a surprising amount of shelter.

The route we were following was from the Walk Highlands website.  The return journey wasn’t the same as the outward one, so we could avoid the precipitous route we took upwards, but didn’t present a very easy descent.  It dropped off the side of the ridge at a seemingly arbitrary point and turned down through large, unstable boulders, before a jink left to avoid some crags.  Jesper wasn’t very impressed with the route though we all made it off the steep bits safely.  The final section was another long walk, this time over pathless moorland, studded with bogs and lochans.  The advertised rain arrived here, first as drizzle, then imperceptibly heavier.  Around the far side of one lochan we found a hind staring at our approach, not particularly bothered about us but wary.  She moved a little further away before standing her ground and watching us pass.

By the time we regained the road we were dripping wet in the remorseless rain.  I didn’t exactly question my sanity but I wondered how I would answer the question, ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’  It would be hard to say it was enjoyable, exactly – with the steepness, the cloud, the wind and the rain – but I would hesitate to say I didn’t enjoy myself.  You could say it was a challenge overcome or another Corbett ticked off, but those pretexts don’t seem to do.  There’s something about being involved with the mountain, in whatever mood it’s in, perhaps to do with Nan Shepherd’s (via Rob Macfarlane) walking ‘into’ the mountain (as opposed to ‘onto’).  The other day on Arkle, when the stormy weather had cleared and we were given a glorious day, again I didn’t think about having ‘conquered’ the hill, but that we had been allowed our time on it in comfort and safety by some sort of grace.  We didn’t come to claim the hill as ours, we were just granted our time there, to experience it, to get to know it, to bear witness to its gravity, its geology and its beauty.