Embrace the dawn
Why dark starts can bring the richest rewards
Walking in the dark doesn’t necessarily mean walking at night. Here, in an extract from A Mountain Before Breakfast – the upcoming sequel to his book Munro Moonwalker – Alan Rowan demonstrates that a dark start in the dead of a Highland winter can bring rich rewards...
There were a few hours of darkness left and the thick, icy mist had settled all the way down to road level.
One night after work, Dundeebased journalist Alan Rowan decided he wasn’t going to wait any longer. Yes, he had to work during the day; but that left whole evenings free for mountains. After ticking off every Munro under the cover of darkness, he wrote a book, Moonwalker. But there were more hills to climb, and all darkness leads to the best light of the day...
I emerged from the freezing February mist looking like I’d been locked in a meat storage locker for 12 hours. I suppose in some ways I had – sleeping in a car for a few hours at this time of year can be similar.
I had arrived at the car park near the Cluanie Inn around 4am and tried to settle down for a few hours’ rest before heading off up Beinn Loinne, the long hill which resides between Loch Cluanie to the north and Loch Loyne to the south. There were a few hours of darkness left and the thick, icy mist had settled all the way down to road level. Nothing stirred, nothing could be seen, just a wall of grey that had swallowed the land.
Two hours of attempted sleep had been in vain, the cold was simply too much. I was trying to hypnotise myself into thinking I was back in my warm bed. It didn’t work, no trance of success. Now I was just miserable. It was time to get going, mist or no mist.
It may seem unlikely but I failed to see the track leading from the main road. In normal conditions it is obvious, but these weren’t normal conditions. This was a real pea-souper, only it was in deep freeze mode. I had to turn back and on my return I found the track. Ten minutes wasted walking down the road in zero visibility, not another soul around.
I could feel the icy particles settling on me, crackling, turning me pure white. But as I gained height on the track, the mist was left behind and the light was beginning to make its presence felt. The higher I rose the warmer it got. I came to a lone tree, its skeletal branches rising up from the dark into the light. Streaks of orange, red and pink lit the sky as a backdrop, a sea of icy grey beneath. Suddenly this dead tree looked alive, burning in the warm colours emerging on the horizon. Another 10 minutes, another tree. This one looked like a more robust version of the first, as though it had wakened and decided to get dressed, donning foliage recently lost for the season. The peaks on the north side of Glen Shiel were now poking their heads above the sea of cloud as if testing whether it was time to come out. Meanwhile, I had regained my colour, the rime evaporating in the early sunshine.
By the time I reached the high point of the track it was hard to believe it was February. It was 7.30am and the mist had retreated to cover the surfaces of the lochs, leaving the mountains to rise and shine. I now faced a trek across boggy ground to reach the ridge but my task was helped by the freeze. The terrain was solid and I crunched my way over confidently, until I reached the final rise. The trig point which marks the highest point stood out starkly on the skyline, a pencil of concrete amid a jumble of low rocks and stones.
Beinn Loinne is more a ridge than a hill, and its correct name, Druim nan Cnamh, reflects that. It means ‘ridge of the bone or spine’, a reference to the exposed rocks along its length which resemble the vertebrae of the spine. Beinn Loinne is the name given to its highest point. It comes from ‘loinn’ which means to shimmer, from the same origins as Loch Loyne, and suggests the rock shining along its flanks after the rain.
It was certainly shining and shimmering in every direction from the summit. Most of Scotland seemed to be visible over an ocean of fluffy cloud. It had changed from the depths of winter to full suntan weather in a matter of hours. A deckchair wouldn’t have been out of place here, the light of the sun being made even more brilliant by the reflection from the cloud.
Off to the south Ben Nevis stood tallest, a light dusting of snow, lording it over the whole range. To the north the mountain chains seemed to run on forever. It seemed a shame when I had to head back down. The icy fog was still holding its ground but the intensity had diminished – it would gradually fade to nothing over the next couple of hours leaving behind a lovely day. As I descended I heard a loud buzzing sound. Out of the mist came a minicopter, the local stalker’s way of getting around. Also coming out of the mist was another walker. For once, he didn’t appear startled or draw conclusions as to my possible mental state. He seemed genuinely impressed by my early start.
I thought I had just got lucky with the weather. Little did I know that we were in for a whole series of inversions over the next few weeks.
Once again the Scottish winter had kicked summer’s ass, and the next week it gave me the opportunity to go for it again. I did a 3am run to Braemore junction on the road to Ullapool. It was a cautious drive; the roads were icy and I felt the car sliding at one or two points. There were a couple of stops on the way – the constant pressure of clutching the wheel tightly was taking its toll.
It should still have been dark when I started walking but the clear sky and early sun gave enough light to hoodwink the eyes. The muddy path which runs round to Home Loch was icily solid, crunching with every step. I got a reminder of the true time of year, a cold chill suddenly biting as I vanished into the shadows behind Meall Doire Faid, but I was soon back into sunshine and got up a
good sweat on a direct line north up the slopes of Beinn Enaiglair.
As I rose, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a split-second movement to my right. A deer. I looked closer. There was another, then another. By the time the heads had all risen on alert I had counted around 50. They were all perfectly blended with the brown vegetation. A few seconds earlier I hadn’t noticed any. If that one hadn’t raised its head I would probably have walked on past oblivious to their presence.
The summit area was bathed in gold. This was the sort of brilliant light which would have the sun reaching for a pair of shades. Loch Broom was a shining blue patch in the terrain, the whites of the houses in Ullapool glowing specks. I had the Beinn Deargs, the Fannaichs and mighty An Teallach as companions but the view spread much further.
Beinn Enaiglair is the ‘hill of timid birds’ but the reasons why these creatures should be so particularly fearful on this hill is steeped in mystery. There was a distinct lack of any kind of birdlife here today, so no chance of asking any why they had been geographically called a bunch of chickens.
This stunning weather pattern was about to wave goodbye but there was one last chance to get out before the normal winter patterns resurfaced. Five days after my Ullapool run, I was heading even further afield. Fisher-afield to be precise. Any venture in here is going to be a long one. The distances needing to be covered mean it’s not ideal for fast raids but it’s the perfect area for night walking; long approaches to remote peaks on good paths and the sunrises always seem to throw up something different. A full circuit of the peaks here can take you from the dead of night through the wakening and fastchanging moods of the morning; from the heat of midday to the shadows of late afternoon; from the gradual dying of the light at sunset and back into darkness.
Millions of pinpricks of light sparkled like glitter in the sky and the moon dipped its wide beam into Loch Maree, casting a spreading white searchlight on the water. On the other shore of the loch, the fortress of Slioch stood tall, a dark citadel to rival any from Lord of the Rings, its satellite peaks just shadow shapes bowed in the presence of a greater force.
I set off from the car park at the hamlet of Poolewe, picking up a good pace on the tarred road which breaks you in for the first few miles. Once it turns past Inveran, the track becomes rougher, stonier, and the trick is to watch out for a cairn which marks a shortcut over open ground to save a huge loop in the track. I was now high above the shoreline, captivated by the rising sun spreading over the landscape, rendering the Torridon peaks so many contrasting depths of blue and defining the myriad of tree-covered islands in the foreground as mere blemishes on the water. The effect was so hypnotic that I missed another cairn marking the turn-off to Beinn Airigh Charr, my objective for the day. The loss of 20 minutes was a small price to pay for such a view.
A quick change into reverse gear and I was following the excellent path east and to the gateway to the mountain between the guardian twins of Meall Chnaimhean and Spidean nan Clach. Like all the best engineered stalkers’ paths, this seemed to be leading me away from my target but then, keeping to the best line for ease of ascent, cleverly swung back between these two rocky bastions. I was now in a hollow of boulder chaos but the quiet on entering this arena is reminiscent of walking into a cathedral. It would make a great camping spot. The main summit is now just a short push away. This sharp rocky peak is another wonderful wilderness breakfast perch; Loch Maree and Torridon to the south-west, the Fisherfield Munros to the north-east and Beinn Lair and Slioch in a direct line to the south-east. But the most breathtaking view is north, a vast expanse of empty land, studded with lochans and bare rock, stretching, it feels, into infinity.