November 15th - 18th 2012
I've upgraded more kit, I've done more fitness training, research and route planning for this expedition than all of the others combined... I'm READY!
So read a text that I sent to our Lieutenant in command, the Rt. Hon Mr Thomas Bertins. Like many other texts that were being sent and received around this time, they bore a pragmatic tone that belied the fact that we meant business. Looking back on the expedition, I think we can all feel genuinely proud of ourselves, we pushed ourselves to the very limit of our physical and mental capabilities, well apart from Tom who has the incapacity of being super fit!
When one embarks on any field of endeavour it is only natural to expect to see signs of improvement. With regard to our kit alone, we have made great strides forward. A spot check on our itinerary now would reveal it is expedition standard, perhaps just shades of fine tuning. In times past, ironically, weight was never an issue, we wonder at what the blazes we were doing, endless tins of Stag Chili, cartons of UHT milk, crockery, bottles of wine, tins of beer and wonder of wonders, a two ringed stove! The ramifications of this were having to stop every five minutes and when you got going again, you had to get your mate to lift the sack up as it weighed a blinkin' tonne! On top of that we had the impudent cheek of blaming the problem on bad design on the part of the Rucksack manufacturer! "Yeah right, nothing to do with the fact that it weighed 63lb!" These days we are a lot more fastidious as to what we take and what we don't, hence our kit rarely exceeds 35lb. Experience is the greatest teacher and it has taught us well. We are the Loch Mullardoch Squad, not the Loch Mullardoch Prat's!
That brings me on to the subject of the 'Whipping Boy'. Many Blogfans the world over, just read the Blogs to find out who the 'Whipping Boy' was, well I'll tell you now, it was 'The Hess'! But to be fair to James, the whole fascination with the selection of the ripping, sorry, 'Whipping Boy' has become micro managed. Due to the fact that we have all got on top of our game, the prospects of one of the team doing something monumentally stupid is the exception rather than the rule. Commendably, since the horrors of Glen Pean, James has improved more than anyone else I know. Still, the Court of the Golden Crampon showed no mercy in nominating 'The Hess' for the dreaded award on several indictments including: ripping yarns, a cacophony of name calling, minor altercations with a tent peg, a window and Tom! Also failing to produce a Rucksack cover, in spite of repeated advice, a Rucksack cover never materialised resulting in a sleeping bag that was wet on the outside, though dry on the inside (or so we are led to believe). A sense of humour failure was also reported.
We arrived at the end of the minor road at the east end of Loch Mullardoch at dusk. After the initial buzz and excitement of getting kitted up, the Loch Mullardoch Squad were poised for their next adventure. We had a new member for this jaunt, Jason, a twelve year old, I beg your pardon, twenty six year old lad, who works in the same office as Tom, a phlegmatic character, not much gets under his skin. I would say he excelled, he kept going, never complained, yet he was thrown in at the deep end really, his first hike, there was no testing the water with his toes, it was straight into winter walking, bodes well for the future, he manifested all the qualifications, young, fit, willing and exhibited that slight unconventional behaviour and attitude that are an essential part of the course if you want to get the most out of these manic wilderness expeditions.
 |
| Jason meditating on his first winter expedition |
If we could have all posed for a photo, stood by the boot of the car, I think we could have passed for a Prog Rock band rather than a Hiking Quartet...
The Loch Mullardoch Squad: James Hesse- drums, webbing belt and percusives.
Tom Bertins- lead guitar, compass and vocal
Jason Coupland- bass, mellotron and malt whiskey.
Mark Ingram- keyboards, microspikes and effects.
I'm not the greatest fan of walking at night, with of course the necessity of a Head Torch, although I thoroughly acknowledge that due to short daylight hours in winter, at times it's unavoidable. Our Head Torches didn't prevent us all from falling down a big rabbit hole! If I didn't have the three keys to Wonderland we really would have been in trouble. En route to Carn nan Gobhar, we eventually found a flat section of short springy heather near the confluence of two burns, at an altitude of about 400m. We decided to camp the night there, where we knew we could get a viable pitch rather than listlessly trundle round in the dark and not find a suitable spot. I was amazed at how quickly and efficiently James and myself erected the tent. The wind picked up considerably during the night, yet the tent was as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar!
 |
| my tent was as firm as the Rock of Gibralter! |
 |
| The Hess, who qualified for Whipping Boy on this occassion |
I was on water duty that night, it was only a wee stravaig down to the Allt Taige, a volatile little burn, kind of reminded me of a Lapdog scurrying along to it's owner! But not only was it in spate, the water was surprisingly inaccessible, it was flanked by slippery rocks and a fierce waterfall at it's head wall. I followed the happily gurgling stream downhill as it chattered over a bed of pebbles and funnelled into an eddy. It seemed to mimic the human voice, it sounded like "yes Tom, yes Tom, yes Tom!" Now we are not fatalistic but I thought this must be the place to draw water! I remarked how I felt close to nature, sleeping near a waterfall, Tom said he felt like he was sleeping next to Heathrow! Never mind we were soon tucked up in our bags and with the familiar sound of staccato raindrops on the tent roof and the happily gurgling airport, I soon shimmered into sleep.
The following morning after breaking our fast on honey dew and drinking the milk of paradise, it was time to use the first key and open the door to Wonderland! I crawled out the tent, stood up and rubbed my eyes, wow! That elongated sheet of blue, known as Loch Mullardoch, punctuated the green, brown and grey hues of the undulated surroundings. A pall of mist droned seductively through the whole amphitheatre, giving it an ethereal quality. You couldn't just see this wilderness, you could feel it! You could hear it's silence, you could detect it's heartbeat. Such is the thrill of wild isolation. You can't believe it, one minute you're cleaning windows or writing wills down in an office, minding your own business, then the next thing you know, you drop down a rabbit hole and here you are, the antithesis of your daily routine, a break from the play we're all involved in. As I stood there taking it all in, swooning in and out of Schubert's String Quintet, I was aware of a hubbub of chatter behind me... oh yes, it was time to move on!
 |
| you couldn't just see the wilderness, you could feel it |
 |
| Early morning mist over Loch Mullardoch |
 |
| a pall of mist droned seductively through the whole ampitheatre |
Squalls of rain came and went. Progress was slow, although the 35lb rucksack fitted that well I didn't feel I had it on, it was unwittingly impeding my stride and speed, especially uphill. It goes without saying that energy output increased significantly, therefore I'm not going to even say it! At the bealach between Carn nan Gobhar and Sgurr na Lapaich, we made the logical tactical manoeuvre of shedding our kits, wow now I knew the kit did make a big difference, I skipped up the first Munro like a 'March Hare'. Equivecably putting the kit back on again for the pull up to Sgurr na Lapaich was a curt reminder of just how heavy it really was no matter how well it fitted. The leg cramps came back to haunt me pretty soon into the second Munro, I said out loud in a gruff manner "you can pack that up!" they never returned, sometimes you have to get tough with yourself.
 |
| James, Tom and Jason on the summit of Carn nan Gobhar |
 |
| Loch Tull Bhearnaich. 650 metres. |
The difference in fitness levels were now beginning to emerge, if Jason, James and myself were in the Blue square Premier, Tom was in the Barclay's Premier League. The sharp wind and driving sleet were making it a stertorous slog for me. I wasn't fooled either when Tom, strangely enough was occupying last place, a position generally held in reserve for my good self. Mind you, his ploy worked perfectly, I felt obliged to go that little bit quicker and stop less. To be honest I was grateful for this extra push, that is what it's all about, getting that extra push and being driven into areas where you can't get on your own steam. It must have worked, while Tom talked Jason through a moment of the shakes, I took an opportunity for a breather but couldn't catch my breath! That's charming I thought, knackered when your walking, knackered when you stop, I might as well carry on walking!
The final steep section was a sporting scramble to say the least, amidst Sgurr na Lapaich's fallen masonry. The unforgiving rigidity called for full mental exertion and concentration, putting hand to snow laden rock more than I would have liked as we finally conquered this rock strewn cataract. We felt a real sense of achievement to attain the summit, it was one of those day's when the Hill was not going to give up it's crown without a fight but fight we did and all shook hands as we bagged our quarry, the second Munro of the day.
The cloud was now beginning to break off the summits and in so doing it revealed long spurs that ranged to distant hills on the horizon, this enabled us to appreciate more, the character and architecture of the mountain we were on. Sgurr na Lapaich is a fine mountain, it presides with solid bulk over a scene of classical perspective, it is a shapely hill cradled in remoteness, it has twisting and undulating ridges, narrow in parts with exposure giving rise to some spectacular situations.
 |
| summit of Sgurr na Lapaich. Clouds starting to tear off the hills. |
 |
| Loch Beag, Loch Mor and the distant loch Monar |
 |
| ridges radiating from Sgurr na Lapaich, a fine Mountain indeed. |
There was a spectacular situation on the well won summit, James was studying the map, about to send us all into the wrong Glen! Tom had other ideas, "orient the map" asserted Tom, no answer, "orient the map" still no answer but now James couldn't pretend he hadn't heard him, "orient the map" still no answer. When James sensed Tom had stomped off, there was a moment of vintage Hess, "pass us the compass then" this was said with the Hess trademark acrimonious snidenes that we have come to know and love. Tom's retort was "the compass is in the map case", this was true and an effective way of concluding the conversation but as one of the 'Golden Crampon' Barristers pointed out, Tom had a compass attached to one of the appendages of his rucksack, was this the compass that James meant? Did Tom know that? If so it would seem to purport that young Thomas chose to win the argument rather than to acqui-hess. On a serious note though if that was the only wrong word there was, we must of engendered a fantastic team spirit that I would say is almost too good to be true.
As I looked over towards Loch Monar, from the summit, I thought of the words of Iain Thompson in his book ' Isolation Shepherd', ''Only very rarely did people arrive here without warning, the area being far too difficult to reach for the average Hiker". I appreciate that those words were penned in 1960 but this area has lost neither it's charm or it's wild soul since then. As the wind played tig between the rocky outcrops on the descent to the next col, it became unbearable to have your hands out of your gloves for more than a few seconds, due to the wind chill. Taking photographs was tantamount to invoking frost nip but I did it, in fact I did it several times and I did it for you my dear Blogfans!
We reached the Bealach at the foot of An Rabhachan at about 2:30 p.m, it's gates were open and all it's doors were unbolted but with the short winter days only providing a small window of opportunity, we concluded time was not on our side, so we thought it would be safer to leave the hill until tomorrow. Instead we found a perfect spot to pitch our tents but the weather was far from perfect, in fact the wind was savage. It seemed we were both experiencing the 'shivers' or commonly known as the classic first signs of exposure, hence popping the tent up was quite a frenetic affair but we did it and it was just as good as the previous night. All credit to Vango for designing a fully geodesic tent, again the wind picked up in the night, yet we felt completely secure, we didn't envisage getting blown off a precipice! The second sign of exposure is 'mental confusion' it was hard to say whether I had succumbed to this or not as I can be afflicted with this malady at any time of the year.
We had to dive straight into our bags to feel human again. Life was not good. James wanted to call it a day and just stay in his bag until morning but I strongly advised against this, we needed food and a hot drink inside us as the first part of the recovery process. Plain but wholesome fayre was our repast on that long mountain winters night, including a complete coffee package from James which I am certain had rejuvenating properties. James had already experienced one of my spiced tea bags but in a rather unusual way, you see the used tea bag had found it's way into James's boot somehow but in spite of the usual run of jokes throughout the day, James never twigged. Out of fifteen hours in our sleeping bags, I would say two at the most were spent in sleep, I think due to our core temperature being that low, we just couldn't generate any heat. There had also been a massive temperature drop, the staccato raindrops were replaced by the heavier thud of legato snowflakes! On the up side you could have a conversation at any time of night, "James are you awake" "yes" he would say, as if to say 'that's a daft question to ask!'
On awakening from my dreamily reposeful hour, in the morning, or rather becoming aware of the fact that I was conscious, we needed to communicate with 'tent two', not as straightforward as it might sound, a blizzard appeared to be in progress, we both had stonking wet boots and were recovering from exhaustion. We needed to get it straight, there was going to be no third Munro and positively no third night's camping. James and Myself had used up our meagre supply of spare clothes. It was to be a Youth Hostel tonight.
It was now time to open the second gate to Wonderland. The key seemed to stick, this equated to snow piling up at the hatch, needing a couple of good shoves before it would unzip! As I stood there being buffeted about by violent snowy gusts, my spirit soared. My sense of adventure returned, it was an atmospheric awakening to which all my senses became joyfully absorbent. There I stood on a mountain pass just below three thousand feet, just being able to make out two tents through the spindrift and constant pounding of snow. It was a scene indelibly etched on my Motherland heart forever. My only regret is that it wasn't practical to photograph it.
 |
| early morning looking over Loch Mullardoch towards Affric hills |
Packing the tent away and getting kitted up in a blizzard wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, those trial runs in our back gardens seemed to have paid off, the left hand knew what the right hand was doing. We informed the other half of our intentions, it didn't go down too bad, to attempt the third Munro would have been dangerous, both parties concurred on that but when all is said and done, I have to say that it wasn't a corporate decision. By way of recompense I offered Tom the chance to have the map, just in case he wasn't capable of following a river downhill to the track. He declined!
On the way down to the track, you could see the first proper snowfall of the year had mollified all the rough ridges and black corries, all the ugly edges had been rounded, smoothed and filled and now had the presence of mind to be illuminated by life's ascending sun. The track along Loch Mullardoch was the most irksome, annoying, frustratingly boggy, infuriatingly ankle twisting splodge bound effort of a path I've ever come across! I might as well of walked in the Loch! It was dangerous too, the erosion was that ferocious, parts of the track were actually corniced! By far the redeeming feature, the environs of Loch Mullardoch can only be described as exceptionally beautiful.
 |
| interesting contrasts |
 |
| Allt Socrach. We followed this stream down to the track |
 |
| morning colours of Glen Cannich |
It soon became evident that James and myself were paying the price for exhaustion but the lads soon caught us up, next thing you knew we were swapping humorous stories and sharing jokes and anecdotes. The psychology of this is that we managed to rise above our self pity and wallowing in the self realisation that we had about had it! The power of the mind never fails to amaze me. Good news for me, the 'Court of the Golden Crampon' have introduced a new Trophy, it is the 'Blue Lip Award' and is to be awarded to the one who has exerted himself the most and endured the most cold and deprivation and I won it! It now stands in my trophy cabinet alongside three Whipping Boy shields, a pool trophy and a Junior School sports day Cup, running the 100m for the House of Greyfriars.
 |
| islet in Loch Mullardoch |
 |
| a very frustrating path, just a good job we didn't do it in the dark |
All hopes of maintaining dry boots and feet were dashed as we approached a very gushing Allt Taige. No bridge, no stepping stones and knee deep water. The first thing I saw was James with his leggings rolled up, sloshing through rather stoically. I'm not entirely sure why he had his leggings rolled up, he maybe just didn't want to get his waterproofs wet! It was my turn next, I stopped at a vantage point about half way as Jason took the plunge, I assured him that if he fell, I would be there to photograph him! Mind you if he did end up in the drink it wouldn't be the first time this expedition that he was flat out in a river, would it Jason?
 |
| Hess leads the way. I don't think he wanted to get his waterproofs wet! |
 |
| Allt Taige. Jason in trouble |
 |
| I assured him that if he fell I would be there to photograph him! |
 |
| It wouldn't have been the first time you were flat out in a river this trip though, would it Jason? |
We came to a copse of trees, now the last time we saw these was in the dark but now as the sun's illustrious rays illuminated the vibrant winter colours, it demanded an impromptu picnic. We randomly sat down on some neolithic gnarled tree roots, a little spaced out from one another, now Jason being the generous chap he is, made the altruistic gesture of splashing out the chocolate bars. Because nobody had the energy to go to him, he had to throw them at us! I was that tired, I think if I dropped my wallet I wouldn't have the energy to pick it up! Somebody asked me if I was tired, I replied that I was but what they couldn't see inside was that I was full of serotonin and boy, did I feel good!
 |
| no shortage of colour |
 |
| The Mullardoch River |
Those last few grid squares we really did have to grind it out, it felt sweet though as the end was closing in. There were signs of civilisation, a Boat House, the Dam, a road! I know it's bad when you have to quote from your own Blogs but I love that line in 'Slicing through time in a perfect curve' that say's 'and then I saw the most welcome sight in the world, my car' it is such a beautiful sight. The flower of self determination was fading but with the sight of my car, my inner voice said 'stand up, life is good'. From then on I had a Cheshire cat grin, with every step thoughts went through my mind like 'youth Hostel' 'hot shower' 'real food' 'warmth' 'a real bed' 'beer'.
 |
| the most welcome sight in the world, my car! |
We had a great time in Drumnadrochit, I adore the place, it has the perfect balance between the civilisation of the East of Scotland and the rugged wild spirit of the West. I loved the Hostel as well to be truthful, it was a bit quirky but it worked. You know when you're having a good time when four lads in a dorm get a bang on the door and are told to keep the noise down! After a sublime meal and a few jars it was not surprising I was exploring the wastelands of sleep at about 7:30 p.m!
It is Sunday now, the final day and somehow I still had some scope for walking in my legs. Tom and myself set out for Glen Affric, where I unlocked the third door to Wonderland. Wow what a special Glen. It's an area of soaring ridges and high peaks looking down on tree lined lochs. Because of the long distances it has wide horizons and is quite heavily wooded. Universally accepted as the most beautiful Glen in Scotland. A Blogfan once asked me what I thought was the most beautiful Glen in Scotland I replied "maybe Glen Coe, Glen Pean or Glen Doherty" he looked puzzled and said "what about Glen Affric?" I responded " sorry, I thought you meant apart from Glen Affric!"
Made a major tactical error the previous evening, I forgot to dry my boots out from the sensational river crossing, hence, things did not start well, it was like easing my feet into a pool of liquid nitrogen! That combined with snow from the ground up, ensured I was walking on stumps all day, I thought at one point I might suffer from a bout of Jacefoot but thankfully that wasn't the case. Looking up from my feet, lush green spruce, a sea of green amidst a vivid brown underbelly of bracken, with the backdrop of an azure sky. Let's keep things in perspective.
 |
| Glen Affric |
Toll Creagach was a fine introduction to the Affric hills. We started off on a footpath that evolved into a track. We crossed several small tributaries before the first real feature of note came into view. the magnificent hidden corrie of Sgurr na Lapaich. We then headed North to gain the broad sweep, west, to the summit. The further we slogged it up the hill we were rewarded in a commensurate manner by more of the twenty mile long beautiful Glen coming into view, the showpiece of Inverness shire.
 |
| Glen Affric the showpiece of Inverness shire |
Once on the broad connecting ridge the situation of having Glen Affric on one side and Glen Cannich on the other was simply superb.The strupack down to the bulky hunk of Toll Creagach ended all too soon. Now ensued another steep pull to the summit of out third Munro of the expedition. A great deal of spindrift and bright sunshine made for a classic day's hillwalking in the heart of the Motherland.
 |
| Tom a Choinich |
 |
| Glen Affric on one side of the ridge, Glen Cannich on the other |
A continual source of amusement to young Thomas was my 'microspikes'', I knew full well I was venturing into 'Whipping Boy' territory with this innovation, my only coup de gras was that I knew we had the Hess on board, who I thought would be sure to pip me at the post in the race for the 'Whipping Boy' title. The following is an extract from the statement I made in the 'Court of the Golden Crampon' : "I am not saying crampons are out and microspikes are in .I merely ask myself 'how many times have I genuinely needed crampons in many years of winter walking'? Only a handful of times, that being the case I will reserve my crampons for the technical work and steep climbs, the rest of the time I shall carry the spikes. They are quick and easy to fit and very Ingo friendly. The mistake I made on Toll Creagach was putting them on in the snow, they are not designed for snow, hence they kept 'balling', a fact that didn't escape the notice of Mr B. They are designed for use on ice." After some tutting and waving of papers Judge Matthews overruled the Prosecution.
 |
| Tom a Choinich and An Leth chreag (left) |
 |
| Tom closing in on Toll Creagach |
 |
| Glen Cannich |
 |
 |
| sweeping summit ridge of Toll Creagach |
Driving back to 'Drum' we noticed a sign on a Petrol Station 'Gifts, food, Beer'. Tom piped up, "hey, fancy a beer?" next thing I knew, the car just swung in to be filled up with juice. Sadly, the beer was not forthcoming, it could only be consumed on the premises which was a 6' x 6' shed! "fancy a few beers in Drum tonight lads"? "great where have you got in mind?" " well I thought we would have one in the Drum Hotel, then move on to the Loch Ness Inn then finish off with a couple of scoops in the garage on the outskirts of the village!" Man I love this place!
On the last night we had the obligatory audience with some friendly Scottish drunkards, to be fair they were two good lads, a bit like 'Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum' but they must have quaffed enough ale to have knocked out an elephant. The Highland's clearly have an issue with alcohol abuse, with these lads, the social kick of drinking appears to have been superceded by alcohol consumption being deployed as a gauging stick to their very survival. One of them surprised me though, John, as it turns out was staying in our Hostel, I had a conversation with him in the morning about where we were walking and he remembered, I didn't think he would be able to link the present to the past! They were visibly hammered, only just managing to hold it together. I wondered if they would make it home. They were last sighted staggering into another pub!
I'm going to really digress now Blogfans, Tom and myself had a very interesting conversation about Trees, now I happened to come across this leaf, I just wondered Jean Brothers, if there are any Arbour specialists out there that could give me a positive identification on it. Just to make it a bit more interesting there is a prize...
 |
Second: An Evening with the Hess at a Restaurant of your choice, providing it's in his home, with the sole intention of commiserating with him on receiving the Whipping Boy award three times, a record only equalled by the writer of this Blog.
Third: A curry Banquet under the auspices of Dr Paul King, Purveyor of fine Indian Cuisine since the fall of the British Empire and current President of the M.C.S (Macho Curry Society)
Still on the subject of Trees, I couldn't resist a snap of this little baby outside the Drum Hotel. It's a Sweet Chestnut, its approximately five hundred years old and used to be the Hanging Tree of the community. Reminded me of a folk song:
 |
| The old Hanging Tree |
To this day she still doesn't know why
But her heart broke
When they came with the rope
To declare her the old Hanging Tree
Life is stranger than fiction
Can make you want to cry
Roots could never stop her
From reaching for the sky
Those years have all past
Lucky for us, lucky for her
Now children play at her feet
And in her arms she cradles birds
And it seems like she's been here forever
Yet these days are the best that she's seen
But somewhere in the back of her mind
Is the time she was known,
As the Old Hanging Tree.
Mmmm poignant.
So there we have it, another 'El Classico'. Back up the Rabbit Hole to reality. It's hard to believe the Wonderland we know as the Highlands/ Motherland is on the same chunk of land as Lincolnshire. To be candid though the 'Rabbit Hole' is all in the mind ( well you didn't think we literally fell down a Rabbit Hole did you) and you can recall it at any time you like. As Mother Time gradually wraps her frame around us, these are the memories that hold us in the game and...
...although they are only memories, some memories last forever!
Yah mo be there!!!!
Markles.
Please leave a comment