Glencoe and Ninja Mike

When I returned from football a week last Thursday I discovered that I had a missed call on my mobile. I didn’t recognise the number but, high on endorphins, I impetuously returned the call. My cousin Michael Pat answered the phone. ’Want to come camping and hiking this weekend?’ Still buzzing from exercise and without giving it much thought I said ’Sure, okay.’ Maybe if I had known what was ahead of me I would have changed my mind but I did‘nt have the benefit of hindsight. We met up in town early Friday evening, the idea being to camp Friday and Saturday night up at Glencoe and climb two Munros (an Munro in Scotland is a mountain over 3000 feet high) on the Saturday afternoon. No problem for Ninja Mike, the fitness freak, but for me it was always going to be a big challenge. Like myself Ninja Mike has a slight eccentric streak in him. One time he dressed up in full black ninja gear, complete with hood and mask, and, with a real razor sharp sword slung over his back, he attempted to slink ninja style through people’s gardens, hanging off trees and trying not to get noticed. As my cousin Ciaran pointed out, if caught by the police how would he explain himself, especially carrying a lethal weapon. ‘Eh, I'm a ninja officer.’ Quite a character. Anyway the drive north was very pleasant. The weather was promising and the forecast was good for the weekend. Mike hooked up his Satnav. Much to my amusement the voice giving directions was Christopher Walken, a feature he must have downloaded from the internet. Personally I would have chosen the calm gravitas of Morgan Freeman or the deep dulcet bass of Barry White. ‘In one hundred yards baby turn left, oh yeah.’ The drive to Glencoe took about two hours, which included a short stop at Taynuilt to buy booze and other essentials. Whenever Mike passed a camper van or caravan he would stick up two fingers in their direction. I’ve got no problem with them but Mike is a purist and he detests their modern convenience and luxury and does not regard the owners as true campers. They are also slow and cumbersome, and there is nothing worse than getting stuck behind one and unable to overtake. The breathtaking scenery however was ample consolation, especially with the evening light catching on the rugged hills. We passed through the long handsome valley of Glen Coe, mountains rising majestically on either side. With daylight beginning to fade we stopped at Clachiag Inn, parked the car, assembled our gear and tramped off into the woods to find a location suitable for camping. This did not take long, as we came across a clearing in the trees which had the remains of a fire. Mike had trained with the Royal Marines so he knew how to set up the bivy (short for bivouac) and get a fire started. A bivy is like a tarpulin which you tie between two trees, so essentially you are sleeping outdoors but the bivy provides overhead shelter and insulation. The advantage of a bivy over a tent is that it is easier to pack and quicker to set up. We spent the evening mostly tending to the fire, having a few beers and dipping in and out of conversation. A campfire has a powerful, almost hypnotic hold over you, it’s hard to take your eyes off it. It must connect to some deep primeval instinct in man. In Royal Marine slang it’s called watching ’bootneck tv’. We settled down for the night but unfortunately for some reason I could not sleep and I lay awake until about 6am. Maybe it was just the unfamiliar surroundings and situation. I ended up only getting 2 or 3 hours sleep, not ideal preparation for a day of arduous hill walking. We packed up the bivy and set out to find a place to eat. The weather was horrible: grey skies, mist descending on the mountains and as we entered the village of Glencoe rain began to come down heavily. We eventually found a café and fuelled up with a traditional Scottish breakfast of sausages, potato scone, egg and bacon. While I finished my coffee Mike plotted our course on a finely detailed map using his compass. He had experience orienteering with the Royal Marines so I was happy to leave all that in his hands. We parked the car at a lay-by about a quarter of a mile from the start of the ascent and packed some rations, water, mobile phone, map, compass, and waterproofs. I put on waterproof trousers - not very fashionable but they did the job. We set off amid the drizzle of rain just before midday. The ascent was gradual but after about twenty minutes the sweat was pouring off me and I was really struggling physically. Bidean nam Bian is 3373 ft and remember thinking that there was no way I was going to able to climb such a high mountain. I pushed on and the terrain became a bit more rocky but surprisingly my body began to adapt to the physical exertion, as though it had recovered from the initial shock and was getting into exercise mode. As we continued to climb our path consisted more and more of broken rock fragments called scree. This was a bit tricky at times but we stopped every now and again for a water break or to consult the map. After about an hour the terrain changed and we started to scramble. According to Wikipedia ’scrambling is a method of ascending rocky faces and ridges‘. You have to use your hands and it takes a certain amount of skill, upper body strength and balance. At first I quite enjoyed the challenge of scrambling but as the ridges and rocky faces became more vertical and demanding I began to get a bit concerned for my safety, especially as the rain continued to come down and make the rocks slippy. The ascent gradually became more steep and the scrambling more difficult and treacherous. It was as much a test of nerve and mental concentration as it was of stamina and physical strength. Mike led the way and I followed him cautiously. About a third of the way up the rain started to really batter down and we decided to put on our waterproof jackets. We continued to negotiate our way up and over ridges and rocky faces. I was getting tired and at times fell behind Mike. ’Enjoying yourself?’ asked Mike. ’Yes and no,’ I replied. I thought for a moment. ‘More no than yes,’ I added. After about three hours of this gruelling exertion we began to reach the final ascent to the summit. Mike had to check his map several times and gradually I began to have doubts that we were not taking the correct route to the top. Then the mist descended and our situation instantly became more perilous. We really had to get our bearings correct or we could get lost and end up in serious trouble. Finally we curved round a craggy and steep ridge that you would have to be bonkers to tackle head on and through the mist we saw the route to the summit. Although I was exhausted the sense that the summit was within reach spurred us on. After about twenty minutes of moderate scrambling we reached what we thought was the summit but through the mist and rain more mountain beckoned before us. Slightly dismayed we pushed on but my legs were beginning to buckle. We reached the top of one ascent but again we faced another one. Over the next hour this happened again and again. Now I began to realise why the gaelic translation of Bidean nam Bian is ’Pinnacle of the hides’ or ’Peak of the mountains’. It was simply never ending, one ascent after another, over rocky and difficult terrain. My legs were like jelly now and frequently I had to stop and rest. Mike spurred me on. It is a beast of mountain but some stubborn part of me was determined (or mad enough) to tame it. Finally, after fours of climbing in mist and rain, we reached the summit. We were wet, cold and exhausted but we had done it. We took a couple of photos, Mike posing theatrically for the camera, myself sitting on some rocks looking tired but relieved. I wanted to rest but we had to keep moving. We were exposed to the elements and I could feel the coldness starting to set in. As we started our descent Mike checked his map anxiously, unsure of his bearings. Finally we found something that resembled a path and zigzagged our way slowly down through scree and mud. While we were still unsure of our direction there was some divine intervention. For a few moments the mist cleared and we saw what lay before us. A valley surrounded by imposing peaks with a gorge running through the middle. Our descent was slow and tricky but I did not feel that it posed any serious danger as the ascent had done. About two hours later we finally reached the valley floor and found a path next to the gorge. This is where Mike’s navigation came into question. He should have followed along a ridge taking us to the correct descent point but instead our descent down Bidean nam Bian had taken us away from our starting point. To be honest I have a terrible sense of direction so I’m not in much of a position to criticise Mike. To reach that starting point we needed to climb over another munro and we both knew that I didn’t have the legs for that. Instead we turned left at the bottom of the valley, judging the distance to the road to be about two miles. This was a major misjudgement. It turned out to be about four or five miles away. After about a mile the landscape of the valley changed dramatically - it was a strange mixture of large boulders and rocks, trees and a stream, all intertwined like a exotic assault-course. It felt almost pre-historic and I half expected to climb over a boulder and come face to face with a dinosaur. As we worked our way through this strange and demanding environment my boots began to come apart. I had bought them a couple of years ago in a charity shop for about £10. I should have invested in a proper pair of walking boots that could withstand this kind of treatment and now I was paying the price for it. We eventually found a path that led us to the road but the last two miles were agony on my feet and Mike forged ahead as I was slowed down with the pain. As I tenderly trod the last mile the sun came out and the mountains were bathed in glorious sunshine but I was too tired and in too much pain to appreciate the beauty of the surroundings. After seven or eight hours of climbing and walking I reached the road. Mike was waiting for me at a lay-by. We were about four or five miles away from where we had parked the car so the plan was to thumb a lift from a passing car. After about twenty minutes a Spaniard approached us and kindly offered us the one remaining seat in his car. The plan was that they would drop Mike off at his car and he would come back to get me. That was the plan but there was another twist in the tale. As I waited, shivering in my cold clothes, cars and the occasional bus load of tourists pulled in to the lay-by to better appreciate the scenery and take photos of the hills. After about twenty minutes Mike still was no where to be seen. Ten more minutes passed and I began to wonder where the hell he was. Car trouble? Had the Spaniard got lost? Had Mike went for a quick pint? After about 40 minutes I was getting really cold and more worried. A mini van pulled up and a bunch of Russian tourists climbed out. They stretched their legs, smiled in my direction, wrapped up against the cold, took some photos. One guy noticed me pacing up and down to keep warm and kindly offered me a cup of tea. I gratefully accepted. As I was sipping this hot beverage the Spaniard’s car suddenly reappeared and Mike jumped out. ‘My keys are in your bag!’ I didn’t know whether to punch him in anger or hug him in relief. I handed the keys over and he jumped back into the Spaniard’s car and they sped away into the dying light of the evening. God bless that Spaniard. About ten minutes later Mike’s car appeared. We were both wet and cold and did not have a spare change of clothes so we decided just to head back to Glasgow. Just after 10pm Mike dropped me off in Glasgow and we shook hands as we went our separate ways. It had been quite an adventure. Not everything had gone to plan but hey, shit happens. I had survived. More than that I had achieved something that a year ago would have been physically impossible. When I got home I had a hot bath, changed into dry clothes and had a couple of bottles of cider. I think I deserved it.