Inaccessible Pinnacle
To celebrate Trail’s 30th year we’re dusting off our archives each month to resurface a favourite mountain adventure from the past three decades. The latest instalment dates back to 1997 and a daring ascent of Skye’s Inaccessible Pinnacle – the second hig
Go back in time to when Trail climbed the most fearsome of Munros, on the Isle of Skye
“SUDDENLY THERE’S A 2000FT DROP TO YOUR RIGHT. THAT’S WHEN THE EXPOSURE GRABS YOU”
As we unpacked the boot of the car in Glen Brittle, I snuck a quick look at what lay in store above. God, the Black Cuillin mountains looked good, even from down here. Adventure was in the air all right, and the weather was bloody marvellous.
Our mission? To climb the hardest 3000ft mountain in Scotland, by the hardest means possible, in true Boy’s Own style. There’s a youth hostel in Glen Brittle if you like the easy life, but if you’re going to tackle one of the cream of the country’s really serious mountains, you’ve got to do it properly. And that meant kipping on the hill. Piece of cake...
A well-trodden path shadowed Allt Coire na Banachdich and led us to the dramatic Eas Mor waterfall. Great place for a cold shower. Soon after, the main path heads south-east into Coire Lagan for the more common approach to the Cuillin via the tradesman’s entrance. But we come from a different school of thought and, for us, there was only one option – attack the boulder fields, then scramble to the heights.
The scrambling here’s as easy or as hard as you want to make it and the views… well, let’s just say you can see all the nooks and crannies on the southern islands of Canna and Rum. The scrambling up Window Buttress was tasty in its own right and the higher we got, the better and more enticing the meanest Black Cuillin peak became. Eventually, the
“THE BEST WAY DOWN IS VIA THE SHORTER WEST FACE – AN ABSEIL MADE IN HEAVEN”
ground levelled off and a bright idea dawned on us. Why don’t we pitch the tent now, to lighten our loads and so it’s ready for later? We spent a good hour making it bombproof and at more than 900m above sea-level, it really was the ultimate room with a view. We stashed most of the gear in the tent, had a quick slug of juice, then threw ourselves back at the ridge.
We were close to our destination now – I could almost smell it. We scrambled along the rock – up, down, round, then… whoosh. Thar she blows! First a fleeting glimpse of the top, then moments later the full impact of the Inaccessible Pinnacle in all its naked glory. From this angle the ‘In Pinn’ doesn’t look as intimidating as in the classic photographs from nearby Sgurr Mhic Choinnich, but it still made me tingle with anticipation.
“You nervous, mate?” I asked Aran, my climbing partner and confirmed nutter.
“No, of course not.”
“Oh, I just wondered why you’ve put your harness on back to front…”
“Shit.” Rumbled.
A few anxious giggles, then we were scampering down scree to the foot of the climb. If you were in any doubt about the severity of this undertaking from the top of Sgurr Dearg, when you get to the bottom of the In Pinn you start to understand what all the fuss is about. A 200ft blade of jagged rock, only a few inches wide in places, rising into the wild blue yonder.
“Looks good,” I say.
“Shit,” says Aran.
I thought about further tormenting my partner by offering him the lead, which I knew he didn’t want. But he somehow knew what was coming and before I had chance to rub salt into his wound, he’d tied into the rope and was ready to belay.
“Climb when ready,” came the call and I didn’t need asking twice. I was off. Big, generous holds, for hands and feet. The going was good in these conditions, easy in fact. Then, suddenly, you’re out in the middle of this arête with a 2000ft drop to your right. That’s when the exposure grabs you.
I found a comfortable stance, sitting astride the ridge, set myself to bring Aran up and shouted for him to climb. Even though I couldn’t see him, you can tell how fluently someone’s climbing when you’re actually taking the rope in. And his movement could only be described as cautious.
The wind was starting to pick up, and what it must be like up there in a real hoolie I wouldn’t like to imagine. There’s only one way up the ridge and, when the wind hums in, that slender platform seems to narrow to even sharper dimensions. Think about it, then add the 2000ft drop.
But I was really enjoying this, even though you can’t fully enjoy an adventure like this until it’s over safely and you’re reflecting. Then we were off again, over another rise and… “what the?”… the rock levelled out. No hands required. I knew this wasn’t the longest climb in the world, but I’d hoped it’d just go on and on. It was over too quickly.
We sat for a breather – then Aran let his secret out. This, the hardest of all the Munros to climb, was his first. He’d got one over on me. Respect…
All that was left was the descent, and the best way down is an abseil via the shorter west face. Luckily, there’s a secure wire thread that’s ideal for belaying off, so the Boy Wonder went down first, grinning maniacally. An abseil made in heaven.
The scramble back to the tent went off without incident and it was time for a celebratory sunbathe! Only 14 hours to kill before we set off for the ferry to back to the mainland. The sun eventually went down around 10pm and it got cold. Very cold.
“Since we’ve got to drive through Glen Coe on the way back anyway,” I ventured. “Don’t s’pose you fancy a run across Aonach Eagach too…?”