THE FINAL FRONTIER
What does it take to bag one of mainland Britain’s most northern mountains? We sent our trusty photographer on an epic mission of precision planning to find out.
Are you working your way through the Trail 100 bucket list?
I was two away from completing the full set at the start of the year. Both were remote Scottish peaks that involved a lot of effort to climb. A weather window in the far north of Scotland made a decision for me… I would climb Foinaven, one of my two missing mountains.
At 911m, Foinaven escapes the attention of Munro baggers by 3.7m. It’s a long ridge made up of many peaks. The highest being Ganu Mor, and it was this I focused on. I’d be returning another time to explore the rest of the range. The other notable thing about the mountain is that it involves a long journey down the glen of Strath Dionard, just to get near the thing. So, in winter conditions, an ascent of Foinaven’s Ganu Mor would mean a full day on the hill, just for the one peak. Which was fair enough.
As you’d expect up there, the rocks are really old and laid down in complicated sequences, made of a hard quartzite which has withstood the comings and goings of glaciers better than the surrounding rocks. As always, I’d like to say to the glaciers, on behalf of all Trail readers, thank you for your sterling work.
Don’t be fooled though – I was peakbagging. And it was the weather forecast that was ultimately responsible for Foinaven swinging into my crosshairs that week. For 14 days I’d kept an eye on the forecast. I had a four-day slot at my disposal. The rest of the country’s mountain areas were write-offs weatherwise. But in the darkness there shone a beacon in the form of a sunny window right at the top of Scotland, over Foinaven.
There was only one problem, the weather window was only a morning and half an afternoon. So my quandary was; do I gamble all on such a slim portion of sunshine? The short answer was yes. It was better to try something than nothing.
The drive north, on my own, was an epic in itself, taking 12 hours. I’ve driven up to Scotland many times and knew the only way to get it done was to keep the forward momentum going. No distraction, make the breaks only as long as they need to be, then back in the car and back on it. My lasting impression of the day was during my 12th hour at the wheel; the roads were single track, passing spaces only. It was dark. There were seemingly huge numbers of red deer desperate to step in front of my car. To make matters far worse it started to snow. Luckily, I had some of my favourite tunes blasting out to keep me alert, the hypnotic beat of Fool’s Gold by the Roses, added suitably trippy feel to the proceedings. ‘Gold road’s sure a long road, winds on through the hills for 15 days’, as the snow seemed not only to fall, but swirl, rise and blow sideways.
I mention all this because it’s a part of the whole. I’ll never think of Foinaven without thinking about the endless weather forecasts I’d checked, or that drive. The nearer I got to the mountain, the harder the going got. That summit moment wouldn’t exist without each part of the puzzle slotting into place perfectly.
“THE BAD WEATHER WAS DUE BY 3PM. WOULD I GET TO THE SUMMIT RIDGE WHILE THE GOOD CONDITIONS LASTED?”
The only way I could start early enough to exploit the good weather was to camp by the car at the start of the route. After the long drive, I pitched my tent in a shallow layer of snow. I made a meal, got my bag all sorted for the morning, then went to bed within an hour of finishing the drive.
The alarm woke me at 5am. I made coffee, ate breakfast, and took my ice axe to help with excavating a hole in the frozen ground for you know what. Then it was time to start the hill day. I had a trump card up my sleeve. From the satellite imagery I’d checked, the track along Strath Dionard looked like it could be cycled down. What’s more, the valley bottom was snow-free. So by the light of a headtorch, I cycled for about 45 minutes.
And, oh my God, it was turning into all that the weather forecasters had promised it would. Blue sky blossomed above me. However, it would be a while before I’d be amongst those golden rays. I’d have to climb towards the stubbornly low winter sun.
I left the bike at a junction with the river Dionard and the Allt Coire Duail, cunningly hidden behind a peat hag. From there I followed the burn up into the coire. There was the occasional deer path through the heather, but for most of it I made my own line. Relentlessly upwards, through hard won, boggy, rough stuff. There was no glory in any of it.
I knew it was going to take me a couple of hours to get to the summit. The bad weather was due to creep in by 3pm, and we all know that the ‘creeping in’ period starts a few hours before it’s due. Would I get onto that summit ridge while the good conditions lasted? This
is what drove me on. Up and up. I moved into the snowline, which made the going harder. On and on, chest pounding, legs aching, sweat pouring off me. The final cone of Ganu Mor was a beast. I’d planned to take the slight ridge to the north, but felt the pressure of time, so blasted straight up the front. Four or five steps, then a breather, like I was on Everest. Only I wasn’t, I was spectacularly within sight of the north coast of Britain.
I was greeted by the summit cairn the moment I stopped climbing. I’d done it. Then my real work began; photographing the ridge before the weather changed. At no point did I stop and take it all in. I was aware that the view was biblical. I was indeed aware that the sun still shone, even that the ridge was a wonder of the mountain world, but I had to get on. I had to do my job of photographing the peak before the weather broke. Ben Hope, the most northerly Munro, sat in a landscape of snowy blue shadows and steely perfection. I’d flipping well done it. As I headed east along the ridge, setting up shot after shot, the pentup tension of whether my long-range gamble would pay off eased. I felt lightheaded. I was in a very cool place. Completely on my own. I’d worked hard to make it happen. The riches were mine. He who dares…
Exhilaration passed in a blur. I’d reached that state of mind where there was at last a kind of peace in the world. The cycle ride back along the glen was more laboured. All the time the sky was darkening. Fifty metres from the car, the first rain drops hit me. Once at the car, I leaned against it, bike flung to the ground and stared up into the sky, laughing to myself. I’d done it. I’d set myself a huge logistical and physical challenge and I’d pulled it off. All I had to do then was find a hotel that was open, no small test in this part of Scotland…