The
sky was grey as I pulled up at the North Face car park a little after 8am. There were a few other cars and a couple of
camper vans already there. Some lads by
one of the vans were getting suited up then taking selfies before their
walk. I got my gear ready and set off
after them, noting the helmets dangling from their bags and wondering if they
were going somewhere serious, though they didn’t seem to be carrying ropes.
The
forecast had deteriorated that morning, showing it to be cooler and windier
than previously predicted. Climbing up
the forest paths, however, it soon warmed up.
The lads in front stopped at a fork, debating over the way to go. With my walkhighlands.co.uk printout in my
hand, I walked up to and past them, wondering if they were going to ask me the
way. As if I were to know. The excellent path continued to climb,
sometimes steeply. The chatter of the
blokes behind me slowly faded away and the path came to the edge of the woods,
giving views down to Loch Linnhe and Fort William below, and to the hills up
ahead, Carn Mòr Dearg (Big Red Rocky Hill) on the left, Ben Nevis with its head
in the clouds on the right. One
suggested meaning for ‘Nevis’ is ‘old man with his head in the clouds’. The old man was certainly living up to that
name. With the wind coming in from the
west over the sea, I worried whether I would find myself in the murk all day on
the top. It was too late to change
anything now.
Beyond
the deer fence at the forest edge, an excellent path followed the course of the
Allt a Mhuilinn (Mill Beck), thanks to the John Muir Trust. It was a steady rise, easy going, starting to
feel warm. The path continues up to the
Charles Inglis Clark (CIC) hut at the foot of the North Face, but I was
branching off left to climb Carn Mòr Dearg, a fine Munro but the junior partner
in the pair of monsters in the distance.
At the fork in the path I sat on a rock to take on a bit of fuel and,
just as I was going to set off again, the blokes from the car park arrived, as
did three others. It was getting crowded
so I was glad to be off.
From
here on the path was sketchier and boggier.
It was also steepening so I kept myself to a gentle pace, trying to make
sure I could keep it up all day. As I
climbed, the wind grew stronger and it started to feel colder. I put on more clothes as I went and soon
found the path crossing patches of snow.
Over one of these I lost the path altogether and just made my own way up
towards the ridgeline between Carn Beag Dearg (Little Red Rocky Hill) and Carn
Dearg Meadhonach (Middle Red Rocky Hill – how do they come up with these names?). The climb was hard work, despite the steady
pace, a real slog, and I felt I could do with something to eat but I knew I was
getting near the top. As is always the
way, the top took an age to actually arrive and there were four lads occupying
the shelter where I was hoping to huddle away from the wind. I said hi, wandered around a bit and then
dropped down behind a large cairn, with the valley across to Aonach Beag in
front of me. The cloud had been steadily
breaking up for the past hour and the tops were finally clearing. In the opposite direction, the full majesty
of the North Face was revealed, from the miniscule hut at the bottom through
pillars and buttresses, interspersed with long streaks of snow, marked with the
fall of collapsed cornices, up to the white-capped summit plateau. The top of the north-east buttress jutted up
like a black spire pointing heavenwards.
To its left was the climb I would have to make to the summit. And it looked horrendously steep. The views also opened up to the south and
west, revealing a sea of peaks stretching out in ripples and waves, right the
way, it seemed, to the horizon.
The
lads were still in the shelter, so I walked past to make the short final trip
to the top of Carn Mòr Dearg, the red rocks at the top covered in snow. There was a little scramble down to get to
the start of the fearsome, fabled CMD arête, a knife-edge, boulder-topped ridge
running over a kilometre south-east, all over 1000m high with 500m drops either
side. It looked insane and
magnificent. On my own and well aware of
the dangers, I repeated as a mantra to myself Edward Whymper’s famous words,
‘Look well to each step.’ For most of
the route I stuck to the top, stepping over and round the boulders,
occasionally taking the bypass route for some respite. It required the use of hands a lot of the
way, if not always for movement then at least for reassurance, but there were
some flat, easy-going bits rather like the ridge on Arkle. The drops, as usual, slipped from my mind as
I concentrated fully on each foothold and the route forwards (look well to each
step, look well to each step). The wind
was a constant, buffeting presence, insistent but not dangerous. The going was hard work, mentally and
physically, but what a stunning place to be.
The corries lurching away to either side, the red bulk of Carn Mòr Dearg
behind, the snow-streaked hills all around, and that monstrous beast, the Ben,
ahead.
Eventually,
the effort, the danger, the thrill came to an end. I felt tired from the crossing, which
surprised me as there was no more than 100m height gain or loss. It must have been to do with having to
control everything so carefully, to step in the right way and keep your balance
perfectly. I wouldn’t say that I had
exactly found it enjoyable for all that, but it was thoroughly invigorating and
it made me feel like jogging across Sharp Edge with my eyes closed.
What
I wanted to do was sit down and rest my legs. However, the ridge had ended in a great
snowfield so I had to content myself with standing up, bag off, and scoffing a
handful of Tangfastics while contemplating the climb ahead. It wasn’t all snow, I was grateful to note,
but there was quite a bit of it. A small
group were moving up the slope, and the lads from before were coming across the
ridge behind me. There was nothing to do
but keep buggering on (as Winston Churchill would say).
The
200m climb was over a mix of snow, scree and boulders. And it was steep (I may have mentioned this
already, but it bears repeating). I met
a bloke trotting down, wearing shorts and a cycling cap. He had an ice axe and a dog, and said that
the wind was worse down here than on the summit. Then off he jogged. I carried on struggling up, moving between
boulder fields and snow, trying to follow the steps kicked by the party
ahead. For reassurance I took my ice axe
out, though the snow was quite soft.
The
final bit of the climb onto the plateau was all soft snow. I knew the top was somewhere ahead of me, but
having stared at the peak of the north-east buttress all morning I had to go
and visit it, which was slow going in the snow.
At the top I took pictures down Coire Leis to the outskirts of Fort
William and across the plateau at the top of the North Face. From there I pushed on to the summit and
joined the thronging crowds around the various bits of broken walls and debris
in the snow. I was feeling slightly
sick, perhaps from a lack of food compared to the effort I had made, and put on
my sunglasses as the occasional momentary sun glared off the white ground. The plinth where the trig point was located
was fully occupied by people hogging it, taking their bags off and taking
photos. I shoved my way in to touch the
top and retreated, only to be stopped by a couple with a Rottweiler asking me
to take their picture by the trig. It
seemed like they had only just arrived and they left as soon as I had done as
requested.
I
wandered around a while, like most of the others not really knowing what to do
to mark the occasion. A number were
smoking, the smell of dope wafted my way.
Some had whisky. A lot sheltered
behind the tall mound of the observatory, hiding from the wind. I had to make do with dropping into the
wind-scoured pit surrounding the mound.
I put more clothes on – there were a perhaps unsurprising number of
people in shorts, given the warmth at sea level – and ate. The crowd ebbed and flowed, a whole mix of
ethnicities and emotions on show, groups of lads, couples of all ages. I knew I shouldn’t hang around in the cold
too long, so I packed up and set off again.
One
of the big things they warn you about is the difficulty of navigating the
summit and the dangers of straying too near the North Face. There were certainly a lot of dodgy-looking
cornices there but the route down was patently obvious from the stream of
people struggling up. I set off through
soft, slippery snow, skidding as much as walking. It must have been a nightmare to climb
up. One bulky black lad stopped a little
in front of me, did about three steps as I approached and then stopped
again. Oof. A young couple, talking a southern European
language, were a little ahead. He had no
backpack, though his girlfriend did, and was wearing socks for gloves.
On
the steep descent I slowly passed people I had seen at the top, like the
Rottweilers, and people who had bounded ahead of me in a fit of energy after
their summit rest. The ‘tourist’ or pony
track is steep going. After the initial,
snow-covered section, it was loose, small rocks which were almost as
slippery. There were good sections of
rock steps, and some eroded rocky bits too.
At a couple of points in shaded gullies the path was obscured again by
snow. Some people rather baulked at
these – but having gorged heavily on danger that morning, I just marched
casually over them – and some Asian lads glissaded down one snow bank to cut a
corner on one of the many switchbacks.
There were great views down Loch Linnhe and Loch Eil, and across to the
hills of Ardgour and Glen Coe.
I
left the pony track at one corner and headed off to the ‘halfway’ lochan,
hoping no one heading to Glen Nevis accidentally followed me. No one did.
A good path took me all the way to the lochan before coming to a dead
stop. It had warmed up again, having
lost 800m in height, so I took off some layers, took a bearing and set off
across the pathless boggy terrain back to the start. Despite a little bit of dampness under foot,
it was easy going and a painless descent.
On arriving at Allt a Mhuilinn, which the guide said was impassable in
spate, I was left a bit stuck. It wasn’t
exactly in spate, but it didn’t look like a very easy crossing. I wandered up and down for a bit, trying to
work out if one spot was better than another.
It didn’t look like it was, so I heaved off my boots and socks – which
were already wet, so it was probably unnecessary – and splashed into the
stream. It went well for about two steps
before my right foot slipped sideways, my walking pole being on the left to
brace against the stream’s flow, and sat briefly down on a submerged rock
behind me. The cool water was
momentarily refreshing, however I worried about the contents of my bag, so
bounced straight back up and in two steps was on a dry rock again. No harm done, it seemed, a damp bum, a wet
sleeve where I had caught myself, and a little damp on my bag. It was only later that I found my watch, on
my underwater hand, died a death from its baptism. Oh well, the battery was probably on its last
legs anyway.
The
final stroll back through the woods were a delight of easy walking and I found
my pace was pretty good too, even if I was feeling tired. At the car park a pretty girl was sunning
herself, bike at her feet, waiting for her boyfriend. She said ‘hi’ and I felt like jumping up and
down in joy screaming, ‘Do you know what I’ve done? Do you know what I’ve done?’ At the car a wave of emotion came over me and
tears started forming. Did I know what
I’d done? What I’d achieved? What an amazing day, the challenge, the
fatigue, the utter, ineffable glory of it, the sheer brilliance. You could say I had become a fan of the Ben.
