Time to turn back?
A questionable trip to Crianlarich's peaks
The rain had stopped. The sun was out. The slopes of the mountains glowed amber in the morning light, their peaks coated white with snow surrounded by billowing cloud. These are the days I dream of. And yet… A stubborn knee injury ached dully, the enforced rest it had required over the previous weeks evident in a lack of fitness compounded by the extra post-Christmas pounds I was carrying. There was no joy to be had for me in these beautiful surroundings, just fatigue and discomfort. Even when the sun burned through, bathing the landscape in warm hues and rich shadows, all I could focus on was how hot it made me. At that point, I would have done anything to be back at home, snuggled under a blanket on the sofa with my little girl watching
Harry and His Bucket Full of Dinosaurs. The theme tune played on repeat in my head – ‘Stegosaurus, Pterodactyl, Tyrannosaurus Rex. Scelidosaurus, Apatosaurus, Triceratops is next…’
Perhaps we should turn back…
The first few hundred metres of ascent out of the car are always the worst, as the mind and body adapt to the task. Soon the aching knee receded to a background niggle; pace and respiration established equilibrium and, crossing the snowline and leaving the waterlogged ground behind, enjoyment began to seep in. The day promised much. Our ultimate goal was the summit of the Crianlarich Munro Ben More and our route would take us over the lesser referenced, but more aesthetically pleasing peak, of Stob Binnein. There was plenty to be positive about. But, despite the subtlety of the light and the stillness of the breeze, there was something ominous about the snow-dampened silence. Perhaps we should turn back…
An hour later and everything had changed. The light had gone, replaced by a grey dampness that merged with the thick white of the ground. It was freezing – the briefest exposure of hands to the air to tighten crampons numbed fingers within seconds. But the precipitation wasn’t soft and white or even hard and white. Despite being above 1000m, with a wind chill that took the temperature to well below zero, it was raining. Not snow, not hail, not even sleet. Cold, liquid rain. Visibility continued to close in – and this was a problem. Stob Binnein’s back narrows as it climbs. To the right the edge of the ridge was obscured by a thick cornice. A couple of days of warmer temperatures had loosened winter’s grip on the mountain and cracks grew where the cornices had begun to peel away. We wanted to be nowhere near them when they went. But avoiding them was complicated by what lay to our left. A convex slope steepened and dropped away over smooth ice. In the event of a trip, this is the direction we would slide – rapidly gaining momentum and requiring the mother of all ice axe arrests to stop the fall. Glancing down, I noted that I had already assumed the position: axe clutched across my body, the head in my right hand by my shoulder, the spike in my left by my hip. Instinct had taken over. Perhaps we should turn back…
At some point the rain became snow. White whipped around us, driven into a frenzy by a strengthening wind. Every so often it gained an extra shot of bravado, gusting into us with increasing aggression. We hunkered down onto the snow. The altimeter strapped to my wrist showed us a mere 20 metres below the summit, but by now we couldn’t even tell where it was. A GPS grid reference was sought, checked and a bearing plotted. It pointed straight into the blizzard. We looked at each
Stob Binnein’s back narrows as it climbs
With ice-coated cornice-obscured drops on either side. All for the sake of 20 metres. Perhaps we should have turned back…
other through goggled eyes. We knew what the other was thinking. Perhaps we should turn back…
Summit fever is something you’d associate with Himalayan giants, not lowly Munros. But it was just 20 metres. I pointed, Tom nodded, we climbed on. The wind continued to batter. The air was full of movement, and dizzying. The ground steepened. I kicked into the slope and clawed at it with hands and axe, looking down between my crampons to spot Tom. Snow was blown up the slope into my ears and nose. Through the swirl he moved up behind me. Roar. Swirl. Blast. Perhaps we should turn back…
We climbed on. Out of nowhere, a rimecovered rock appeared. Then another. A mound of them. A cairn. We were at the summit of Stob Binnein. A hairy 20 metres, but we’d made it. We hadn’t spoken about whether we’d try to push on for Ben More, the higher peak and our original objective, or turn back. We hadn’t spoken at all, in fact, since the wind had made it all but impossible. Tom joined me by the cairn and pointed back down. I nodded in agreement. We knew there was no chance of continuing. I couldn’t really remember what it felt like to be warm and dry.
Back at the car, in dry layers and with the feeling returning to fingers and toes, the time on the mountain began to seem unreal. Tom, usually exceptionally conservative when estimating these things, hazarded a guess that the wind had been gusting at around 60mph as we approached the summit. A 60mph white-out. With ice-coated corniceobscured drops on either side. All for the sake of 20 metres. Perhaps we should have turned back…
Any journey on a mountain is governed by a series of decisions, and we aim to make the right ones. But maybe we make bad calls more often than we think. After all, people make bad choices all the time. When that happens in the hills and things go spectacularly wrong, we tend to hear about it. But what about those decisions we make that, in hindsight, were wrong, but – through the grace of whichever deity you believe in – we come away from unscathed? If you can recognise you’ve been lucky and that things could have been different, make a mental note – or a real one – and learn from it. Because if you make a bad decision and luck’s not on your side, it may be too late to turn back…