The Cairnwell Dash
It’s not the highest, or most exciting, and it’s certainly not the prettiest mountain. But if you’ve a little over half-an-hour to spare and are looking to bag a Munro, The Cairnwell is perfect.
Perhaps the easiest Munro of all, but can you bag it in half an hour?
Tickets for the 2019 Glastonbury Festival went on sale at 9am on Sunday 7th October. By 9:36 they’d sold out. Some festival fans spent over half-an-hour desperately clicking away at the website, only to be left disappointed with no tickets and RSI. In 2016, a study by tea-baggers PG Tips determined that workers in the UK only relax an average of 36 minutes a day (although not, presumably, by attempting to purchase Glastonbury tickets). Coincidentally, 36 minutes is also the exact amount of time it takes for one writer and one photographer from Trail to climb and descend from The Cairnwell – a 933m mountain in the East Highlands. The short story is this: on the way to climb less accessible things in the Cairngorms, we had an hour or so to kill before we could check in to our digs for the night. Very few big Scottish mountains can be bagged in that sort of window, but The Cairnwell can. So we did. The long story? Read on…
We got out of the car in the large lay-by directly below the eastern flank of the mountain and spread the map out on the bonnet. We were at 665m above sea-level. It’s this height that the Old Military Road (otherwise known as the A93) reaches as it journeys from the Spittal of Glenshee to Braemar that’s key in making The Cairnwell such an easy target; the summit is a mere 268m above. Combined with a horizontal distance of around 700m, the steepness is such that it gains height quickly but not overwhelmingly. According to Naismith’s rule, we figured that the ascent should take us around 37 minutes. Using the same formula but modified to account for the gradient, we calculated that the descent should take us close to 17 minutes. That gave us a total time of roughly 52 minutes. “I reckon we can do better than that,” photographer Tom ventured, with the look of a man with a plan. “It’s not far away and the weather’s good. If we leave our packs and travel light, we can be up and down in under 40.” We had a brief conversation about the risks, but made the decision to abandon our packs in the car boot. Feeling eager and slightly naked, we wandered over to the edge of the road. The timer would start as soon as we left the tarmac. We couldn’t see the skeletal metal mast that tops the peak, but knew it was there. We pointed ourselves in its general direction and I rested my forefinger on the button of my stopwatch. “Ready?” I asked. Tom nodded. “Three… two…o ne… GO!”
We left the road, leapt a shallow ditch and started up. Thighs began to pump. Left foot up. Right foot up. Left foot. Right foot. Left. Right. Glancing back, the car was already dropping lower. The ground under our boots, although steep, was consistent in its gradient. We’d found our rhythm, but it could have done with being a little less allegro and a little more andante. The ground was soft, sapping the energy from each step.
Legs still unwinding from 7 hours in a car began to complain. The burn set in. We slowed, but didn’t stop. Somewhere behind us the rumbling bellows of a rutting stag reverberated off the hills. Tom does an excellent impression, but now was not the time.
Onwards. Upwards. We were breathing heavier now. Sweat began to bead. The terrain began to change. Still mostly mossy, but interrupted by bands of boulders. Tired and fickle feet swapped between the sapping but predictable softness of the vegetation and
the firm but awkward clunkiness of the rock. Neither was preferable. I glanced back again. The car was a long way away now. I glanced up. The top of the summit aerial was spiking into view.
Another low grunting interrupted the sounds of panting breaths. Not a deer this time. This noise had come, somewhat involuntarily, from me. I looked around for Tom. He was close behind, and faring much the same. A much faster motion caught the corner of my eye. A mountain hare, already in its white winter coat, skipped behind some stones. Then another one, a little closer, lolloped about ignoring us completely. And then another one. The upper slopes of the mountain were covered in hare.
The summit aerial grew taller. Another lattice of metal and wire came into view, followed by what looked like a concrete shed. The gradient shallowed. The mountain stopped.
We’d reached the top. I sauntered over to a collapsing wooden crate topped by a cairn and clambered carefully onto it, concerned that the roof, if not the whole structure, could give way at any moment. I checked my watch. 24 minutes and 41 seconds.
The summit of The Cairnwell is at best unsightly, and at worst, a hideous monstrosity. It’s home to two freestanding aerials – one tall and thin, one short and squat, both unapologetically geometric assemblages of metal and concrete. Next to the first of these is a vulgar pebble-dashed concrete box devoid of any aesthetic qualities – a real carbuncle of a building. Next to the second aerial is a trio of pale metal cuboids that are probably storage units or substations but look like the mobile toilet blocks you get at posher festivals. In the middle of all this is the crumbling wooden hut while strands of plastic conduits thread across the summit, making no attempt whatsoever to be in any way inconspicuous. Beyond this detritus, the pylons and cables of the Glenshee Ski Centre scar the southern slopes of Carn Aosda. The views over to Carn a’ Gheoidh are quite nice, but on the whole this is not a summit that rewards lingering. We began our descent.
The soft sphagnum moss and springy heather came into their own on the return. Our knees appreciated their shock-absorbing qualities as we bounded down the hillside, reeled in by gravity. Step. Spring. Leap. Jump. Skip. Slip. Catch. Run. Where we could, we pointed our noses straight down and urged our legs to keep up with our falling bodies. Where it became too steep, we zig-zagged like skiers on a black run. The road rushed up to greet us. We reached the edge of the ditch, leapt over it onto the tarmac and I hit stop on the timer. Tom looked over, breathing hard. “Well?” “The descent took us
12 minutes and
15 seconds.”
“Which makes our total time…?” “36 minutes and 55 seconds.” “Let’s call it 36 dead – we spent at least 56 seconds taking photos.” “Done.”
We’d beaten our 40-minute goal, which was good because, to be blunt, the whole exercise had been a relatively pointless one, given that Tom and I had both bagged The Cairnwell’s summit on previous occasions and, as it is so desperately unsightly, it’s not one that necessarily demands a return visit. But why bother at all? The better question is “Why not?”. If you’ve just started bagging Munros, The Cairnwell is a quick-fire way to get the first one under your belt. If you’re well into your list and just need to cross The Cairnwell off, it’s the easiest summit you’ll tick. And if none of those apply, well, sometimes it’s just good to stand on the summit of a mountain, even if it’s not the most picturesque. Of course, there is now another reason – The Cairnwell Dash. Reckon you can do better than 36 minutes? Three... two… one…