“We edged our way down a loose gully, dislodging clods of mud and stones big enough to break bones, despite our best efforts to tiptoe as if in a minefield.”
Perhaps there was a way around, I said, not entirely convinced.
The route to the west looked like a fast track to head trauma; but the east suggested possibilities, however marginal.
We edged our way down a loose gully, dislodging clods of mud and stones big enough to break bones, despite our best efforts to tiptoe as if in a minefield. After inching around the base of a small buttress formed by the bad step above us, Mick tried one line, which ended in an overhang, before I took another. Hauling myself upwards (all arms, no feet!) through a jagged opening, I found a grassy flank and then just enough mud and choss to gain purchase. We both topped out wide-eyed, our gloves soaked through and everything else half covered in mud. The metallic taste of adrenalin didn’t leave until we took a dram on Ben Mor Assynt’s talussmashed summit sometime later.
BACK FROM THE BRINK
We climbed the rest of the way to the top in silence, egos bruised by our close call. Was there was a sense that, post-Covid, our sense of risk and reward had recalibrated and our worlds had grown smaller? I’d been caught off-guard, and felt embarrassed and guilty. I had so much faith in my partner’s stoicism and sure-footedness, I’d assumed we’d be fine and just sail through – but something had shifted under lockdown. Or, at least, we were out of practice and it was too much, too soon. One step beyond what we both needed after many months away.
The whisky helped. We relaxed a little on our way across to Conival, picking our way over huge slabs under a setting sun as shadows yawned into the glen on our left. Fatigue crept in with the chill and we aimed for flat ground by an unnamed lochan. We pitched the shelters in the gloaming, with croft lights twinkling and Suilven’s prow ever present, always nudging out to sea, all essential elements in the wild north west.
Walking out the following day was far more prosaic, and we were thankful for it. We chatted to people coming up the path for Conival, a mixed bag of holiday makers in jeans, puffies and gym shoes, midge-bitten old hands in tired fleeces, and newbies sweating into waterproofs fresh off the rack. We briefly assisted in the search for a compact camera, and gave directions and reassurance where we could. Things were fun and friendly again; I think perhaps we just felt of more use than we had the previous afternoon. The path joins the River Traligill, which cuts a deep channel before doglegging, flanked by bonsai birch and holly trees, winding towards Loch Assynt and, ultimately, the sea. The surrounding hillsides are peppered with sheiling remains, deer tracks and rusting sheds.
With that sense of deep time ebbing back into our consciousness, it was a relaxed and low-key way to end a trip that had proved just a little too exciting for comfort.
We’ll get our mojo back in time, no doubt. And Assynt has all the time in the world.