Sarah Rya■
the UK’s tenth highest mountain is also one of summer’s most popular – but it might be even better in winter, if you make it to the top...
writes a brutally honest account of an aborted winter attempt on Britain’s 10th highest peak
Snow eddied around the windscreen, heaped up behind the wipers, stuck all over glass and was swished away. Hot air was exhaled from the vents with a grumbling hum, and I warmed my fingers on the dry heat as I gazed at a passing landscape crisped in frost. The pure white summit of Ben Lawers, the UK’s tenth highest mountain, was somewhere above, alone in the pale drifting cloud.
It’s one of the most popular summer climbs in the country, and there are a lot of reasons why it would also make a glorious winter walk. First is its location. Ben Lawers lies amid and slightly to the south of the boggy, irregular, wild area characterised by Loch Rannoch and Glen Lyon. To the
“the ‘hill’ part of the hill was soon over, and we were into the ‘mountain’ bit”
north-east is the immense arctic plateau of the Cairngorms. To the west and north, Glen
Coe and Ben Nevis. To the south, almost on its brink, Loch Lomond and the myriad lumpy, bumpy hills of the Trossachs.
Isolated Schiehallion, often credited as being the central point of mainland Scotland, is roughly 16km north-north-east. The Ordnance Survey-calculated actual centre of mainland Scotland lies to the east of that, on the spur of a small hill called Dun Coillich (NN767537), just over 18km away as the crow flies and the clouds run. Ben Lawers is bigger than both. It’s bigger than almost every other hill and is, to all intents and purposes, right in the middle. Imagine that view…
Lofty start point
And there’s the ever-referenced car park, which is also famous for its height: 420m uphill, on the slopes of the Ben Lawers range. You’ve done a third of the job before you’ve even got out of the car. From there, the route goes up the slopes of Beinn Ghlas, usually via its summit, down onto a little saddle and, whooop, up onto Ben Lawers.
We turned off the main road that zips along the flanks of Ben Lawers and approached the car park with the intention of bagging a spectacular winter walk that would easily fit into a day. Under the blue-green forestry canopy the snow stopped falling, caught by the needled branches above, and we drove through the warm red glow of the woodland bark. The wildlife on Ben Lawers is also fantastic. Mountain hares and ptarmigan crouch in the rocks and undergrowth, hidden by their white, black-specked winter coats. Red deer browse the slopes in huge herds and the conservation red-listed black grouse can be spotted nibbling birch buds. The extraordinarily lucky and early-rising may see a wildcat; and there is a huge variety of fauna, including over 600 different species of lichen, 20 of them unique in Britain to this mountain.
We left the tree line, abruptly re-entering a white world and immediately stopped the car. We weren’t at the car park, but instead looking grimly ahead at a trackless sweep of frozen road. We slumped in our seats, momentarily defeated. But only momentarily, mind.
The A827 racing along between the lower slopes and Loch Tay was entirely clear of snow – so we could still park at Lawers. It would make for a longer, harder day; but as the slopes glowed a luminous pearl and the cloud parted to reveal a deep momentary blue, that seemed like a fair bargain. The hunger for a challenge stirred…
Difficult decisions
The Lawers group connects seven Munros, which can all be done together in an epic 27km loop on a long summer’s day, starting north of the range. An alternative option is to tackle the five peaks that make up the main ridge (1001m Meall Greigh; Meall Garbh and An Stuc, both 1118m; Ben Lawers, 1214m; and Beinn Ghlas at 1103m), starting from the village of Lawers in the northeast and ending at the car park in the south-west. This is a 17km route with nearly 1600m ascent. It requires fitness, winter skills, a pre-dawn start, a good weather window, two vehicles, a headtorch, conviction and total delight at anything white and pointy. Nothing less will get you over in the time frame of a short winter day. Between us, we had numbers 1, 2, 4, 6, 7 and 8. Not bad, but we had to be on the road home by mid-afternoon. It wasn’t going to happen.
I stared at the map as we returned through the trees, tracing footpaths and contours, searching for a viable option. Another, shorter route follows the Lawers Burn up to Lochan nan Cat, at a fairly reasonable gradient. From there it shoots up a north-east spur onto the east ridge, and up to the summit. It looked perfect. But earlier that morning, while chasing off a clinging sleepiness with hot cups of coffee, we had downloaded the nearest SAIS avalanche report for the day. The simple pie chart glowed orange from north-north-west all the way round to east-southeast: considerable risk of avalanche from 900m upwards. The entire north-east quarter of the mountain was a no-go. We had four route options: the easy car park loop, two epic journeys and one direct approach from the road – and all of them were out.
The cloud parted over a burnished silver Loch Tay; the wind just sort of drifted around. We were at the foot of the mountain with about four hours to smash something in, and very acceptable conditions. Screw it, we said. We’d opt for the last reserve of the pig-headed: park somewhere and go straight up. The south ridge looked good.
Steep snow slopes
I slammed the door and clipped on my backpack, tucking a Tunnocks Caramel snugly into the hip pocket. The slopes of the hill rose gradually to about 300m and then became roughly twice as steep for the next 900. Cloud moved along; the summit was out of sight. The lower slopes passed in the soft crunch of frozen moss and the slip of a stony track. I pushed my hands down on my thighs as the ache of steepening ascent burned my calves.
Soon, despite the chill and increasing levels of snow, I was pulling off layers and stuffing them away. Hot skin was soothed by cold air. We zigzagged uphill as the snow patches grew larger, began to join and became one crisp layer, speared with grass. Behind us, a soft bank of cloud drifted over Loch Tay like the trail of a steam train, the sky blue above it.
The view and all thought of it was soon lost in the minutiae of climbing a steep hill in thick snow. Breath coming hot and damp through the fleece of a buff; the glimmer of sunlight on an icy crust. Trudging a few metres up and to the right; turn; another few metres up and to the left; turn… A huff of wind whirled sharp crystals into the air, and I turned my face into my shoulder, sheltering my eyes. I wiped the flakes from my sunglasses and looked back up through the blurry smear. Buff up, hat down, onwards...
The sky above shifted, cloud parted to reveal patches of deep blue, which closed again and opened elsewhere. The bluster of the skies promised clarity and an incredible view one moment and shut it down the next. After pulling slightly east to avoid the gully of Allt an Tuim
Bhric, we turned and started heading back more directly towards the south ridge. I glanced up at a wind-scoured crag and over to the white slopes of Beinn Ghlas, for now under a gleaming sky. We had just arrived in the winter peaks.
In the grip of winter
The ‘hill’ part of the hill was over, and we were into the ‘mountain’ bit. Conditions at the top still looked uncertain. We might get lucky and catch a blue sky break, or we might get stuck in the turbulent misty white. I unstrapped the ice axe from my pack, turned uphill and fixed my sight on the route ahead. Up onto the ridge, then north-east to the summit.
My walking partner with the strength of years of walking and several winter seasons in his legs, had already begun to climb determinedly upwards, head down, focus inwards. I followed the crushed line of his boots, breath hot in my chest, spindrift prickling my cheeks. Though I hadn’t realised it yet, I was hungry.
I’ve since learnt better how to notice hunger in myself. Out on the hill, absorbed in the view, delighted by the place and focused on the next step, I sometimes don’t notice. The restless gnaw in my belly that I feel at home or at work is at least partly sated by being outside, moving through a wild and beautiful landscape, engrossed in a challenge. Sometimes I don’t notice I’m hungry until I start to eat, when the first few bites turn to a ravenous devouring of the snack bag. Or until I start to lose focus. Sometimes, the first sign of hunger I notice on the hill is that I feel scared. Even if I haven’t consciously clocked the decrease in power and somewhat muddled thinking yet, my central nervous system will
“the wind blasted my hood against my cheeks and spun ice crystals around my face”
have. And sometimes a snack is not enough.
At around 800m up the side of Britain’s tenth highest mountain, spindrift blowing into my eyes, I started to rush. I planted my boots as quickly as I could one after the other, willing myself up the hill. I crumped up through the frozen grass on the wind-scoured edges of the south ridge, the stake of my ice axe twisting on exposed rock. I paused, wiped snow from my glasses, looked up, and continued. We fought the Lawers
I still hadn’t caught sight of the summit or its slopes; and as we neared the top of the ridge the cloud, which had swept in and out all day, swept finally and resoundingly in. The wider world became a much smaller one: our two figures, climbing up through deepening snow. Step, step, step, turn, switch the ice axe to the uphill hand, step, step, step, turn. Near the top of the ridge, we cut down across a slope and climbed to the other side. By this point, I was quite bleary-headed; these days I notice that much more promptly. But then, I was too bleary to know I was bleary, if you know what I mean.
I was losing power. Traversing the slope, my downhill boot slipped toward a swirl of cloud and I hit the ground with a hot jolt of panic. My confidence skittered downhill with the tiny pearls of bouncing snow. I jammed the edges of my boots hard into the crust and stamped across the col. Careful, Sarah I silently reprimanded myself. Only 200m from the summit, the wind blasted my hood against my cheeks and spun ice crystals around my face. I crushed each foot hard into the ground and tried to look around: nothing but wind and snow. Mountain and cloud mingled, the solidity of the earth lost in a shifting softness. We hunched behind a rock and with the point of an ice axe pinned the map against the ground.
Looking back I don’t know why I didn’t just grit my teeth, swear at the wind and push on for that trig point, encrusted in icy teeth. View or no view. We could have done it, got there and skidded downhill to a lunchbreak. Looking back I rewrite it time and again, turning it to a triumphant success story. But that’s not what really happened. The wind became much stronger than expected. I burned through my breakfast faster than I thought and a few muesli bars weren’t, in fact, enough to keep me going. But the Lawers won
So we didn’t make the summit. We turned around and quick-walked downhill, coasting on boot edges. We glissaded via a chute of perfect snow to a sheltered hollow, out of the wind. Here, on a boulder halfway down the hill, we ate lunch. If only I had done it before. After filling my belly with cheese and tattie scone, I brightened, looked up at the summit, crunched M&Ms and felt the tingle of cheery optimism.
The sky had brightened too. But the summit would have to wait for another day.
There are certain laws to climbing Ben Lawers in winter: be prepared, eat plenty, leave enough time. I fought them, and they won. But this is how you learn. When I go back, it will be with a long free day, a faultless forecast and two snacks in every pocket. The frozen summit of this perfect summer hill is still to come.