The last Trail100
So what does it really take to climb every peak on our Trail 100 mountain bucket list? In the case of our own intrepid photographer, the answer is around a quarter of a century of epic adventures, plus a good old-fashioned butt-kicking from the final mou
We tackle the last, and most remote, peak on the Trail 100 bucket list
Out on the driveway, the bonnet of my car is still warm to the touch. I’ve just got back from the far north-west of Scotland, haven’t washed in four days and the bath’s running. I’ve finally completed my Trail 100 list of mountains, mind you, it has taken me 25 years. Before I get in the bath and wash the mountain from my body, let me tell you how I added that last, elusive peak of Beinn Dearg Mor to the list. Firstly, just what is the Trail 100? Well, it’s probably the most diverse list of mountains in Britain. In short, most of the good ones. But it doesn’t stop there. If you’ve been lucky enough to have the time and resources to complete it, then I think you would be among the few who can actually say “I know and understand what our mountains are all about”. It’s a snapshot, not being restricted by height, but instead by sheer mountain swagger and regional balance. Just like people, every mountain has personality and it’s often the smaller ones that hold the most interest.
Now, I’m not usually one for lists, but about three years ago I counted up how many Trail 100s I’d climbed and the startling figure was 98! I clearly had a duty to finish it, so for the final couple of mountains I would focus and get things polished off quickly. I adventured into the frozen wastes of the far north for Foinaven, my penultimate peak. Then, obviously we all know what happened next; one away and the pandemic hit…
Heading north
Fast-forward to late spring 2021 and I rock up at Gruinard Bay, just west of the Fisherfield Forest, home to that rare animal, my last peak. Beinn Dearg Mor is the perfect example of a Trail 100 peak. At 906m it misses out on being a Munro, but that just adds to the allure. It’s also a long way from anywhere. Walking in from the north-east via Shenavall Bothy is the closest approach, but that involves some potentially serious river crossings. From the west, the direction I was heading in from, it’s simply a long walk. A track can be mountain-biked for a considerable distance to make the peak doable in a day, but my philosophy is always at odds with that approach. Why travel so far to spend as little time as possible on and around your desired mountain?
My plan, since you asked, was to have two whole days to get in and out, leaving two windows to go for the summit; last thing in the evening and first thing in the morning, both optimal times to be up high. The other part of the plan, the logistics if you like, were to drive up on day one (10 hours) and find a discreet wild camp spot well away from the world, but near the coast. After the hill days, I’d then use the same spot for the third night, before driving home (still 10 hours) on day four. Spoiler alert; all this happened, just like rather rusty clockwork.
At about 9ish in the morning of day two, I set off from Gruinard Bay, following the Inverianvie river south-east, towards the target. I’d decided to make the trip my own by using a combination of ways in and out. In a nutshell I figured I’d be pretty tired on the way back to the car, so I’d walk the slightly less interesting track (the one you can cycle along) as my ‘head down, I just want to get this over with’ way out. The way in, by contrast, followed the above-mentioned river, which proved spectacular and more impressive than planned. Then there would be a few kilometres of off-path walking, before heading along the southern shore of Loch na Sealga and finally reaching the mountain.
There was a point, on the off-path section, above Loch Giubhais, where I really got my first view of the mountain. That was the start of the head games it would play with me. The lower, nearer peak of Beinn Dearg Bheag was cloud free, dramatic, aloof, biblical. But the higher top of Beinn Dearg Mor was seemingly out of bounds to my eyes with cloud stubbornly hung over the very crest. No matter how hard I stared it into submission, it would not budge. That cloud layer came and went through the long day, never revealing ‘the one’, but often flaunting higher peaks such as An Teallach. I was very definitely starting to wonder, was that hill some kind of cloud magnet?
Perfect wilderness
That loch, Loch Giubhais, was a slice of perfection. Irregular, not too large, with at least three islands, all vegetated in a way that the whole landscape around should be. The sight made my heart sing, yet broke it in two at the very same time. Why do we live in such sterile times? Why is wildness so hard to find? And when it is discovered, why is it so painful to see? Mountains, for me, have always been about the life on and within them. After all, how utterly disturbing is the cold brutality of a whole mountain full of rock?
Mountains are beautiful because life clings so desperately to their outer shells, at such odds; the animate so close to the inanimate. Maybe that year of lockdowns had affected me more than I thought. I didn’t feel like a person about to complete something, I felt like someone about to break. It had been such a long year for ALL of us, this place was probably too much of an extreme, too much ‘freedom’, whatever that really is. What I did know was that I needed a bit of a sit down… again.
The climb up from Loch na Sealga to Loch Toll an Lochain, where I planned to make ‘base camp’, was a typically Scottish, off-path, pain in the neck affair. Wonderfully hard going, exactly what I’d hoped it would be, I just didn’t realise I’d be so tired. Some of you are probably thinking ‘this guy just isn’t fit enough’. Yeah, not far off, but I was also carrying a lot of photographic gear, constantly unpacking and repacking it, as and when I saw a shot.
“I’D DONE MY LAST TRAIL 100, BUT NO-ONE WOULD EVER KNOW BECAUSE I WOULD NEVER BE FOUND”
Secretly, if I’m really honest, I was glad that the cloud was well and truly down to the lochan, because it meant I wouldn’t be summiting that evening and a rest would be had.
A storm brewing
During that long evening and night, a storm developed. Not outside on the mountain, but within me. I’ve never been riddled with doubt about a mountain before and there have been many ‘befores’. That night I felt afraid. I was in deep. A four-day slot of time revolved around me getting to the top of the mountain in question, and also getting back. It must have been the pressure of the situation.
In the morning the storm had broken. I looked out of my tent, burning with urgency, not just for a pee, but to finally climb the mountain in my mind. I was going to have that sucker, no messing.
The cloud was still down, but above the col that separated the two peaks of Bheag and Mor. The way up to the col was pathless, which is surprising really, as there is a thin path once you get onto the col and travel between the two peaks. I’d left my camping gear at base camp, so I was lighter and progress was much more determined. At the col I turned for the higher of the two peaks, Beinn Dearg Mor, and said out loud “right then you bugger, let’s have you.”
Up into the mist and cloud, the path wound over loose steep rock and scree. Somewhere on the final summit ridge I passed a sizeable bank of snow. Then I had nowhere else to go. There was no more up, or even sideways, only down. What there was, was a cairn that was one of the best constructed I’ve ever stood beside and one of the most welcome. If you’ve seen the BBC’s Detectorists programmes, then you may know about the ‘gold dance’. I couldn’t resist, so I boogied away, just me and the cairn. Little did that cairn know that the last time I boogied I was dancing to a song by The Jam at my primary school disco. The teachers even gave me a prize for the best dancer. That being so, I decided to retire on a high note and never danced again. Beinn Dearg Mor, you don’t know how lucky you are.
The long way down
That’s not the end of the story. After all, I was only halfway, it wouldn’t be over until I was laying in my bath, back at home. The mountain now decided to have its way with me. On getting halfway down to the col, the cloud began to lift and reveal the summit views I’d been denied. “Flip... there’s no way I’m going back up there,” I thought.
I did come up with a compromise though. Beinn Dearg Bheag was now clear and if the cloud continued to rise, then being on the lower summit looking over towards the high one would probably be better than being on the top of the big one, as I’d be able to get a shot of the view and the actual mountain together. So, decisive and ever ready, I climbed up the lower of the two peaks, but here’s where the mountain twisted the knife...
Ten metres from the top, there was cloud everywhere again. “Flip,” I thought again, only this time I thought it over and over… I waited for 20 minutes and got a few glimpses of the higher mountain, but it resolutely still had its hat on. I left, thoroughly fed up with that pesky hill and its sibling, but at least I’d climbed both peaks, not something I’d originally planned on doing. I made my way carefully back down to the lochan where the tent was, packed up and didn’t want to look up at Beinn Dearg Mor, because I knew what was happening, I could feel the air pressure lifting.
Bogged off
Being this far ‘in country’, with only mobile signal on the tops of the peaks, makes walking the hills that much more of an intense experience. Hyper vigilance was the name of the game. Once down from the actual mountain, I began to relax.
A wide tract of rough land gently sloped down to the shores of Loch na Sealga. I was taking the most efficient line I could, a long way from the nearest semblance of a path, and I’d certainly not seen another person anywhere near the mountain. Ancient tree roots distracted me, they were eroding out of the peat. I love these echoes from the past, so I photographed them, popped my camera away and in one motion turned around and stepped forward. That was my mistake, stepping without looking. Both feet, to halfway up my shins, were firmly – and I really mean firmly – sunk in a bog.
I pride myself on bog avoidance, always banging on to whoever I’m with about reading the vegetation, avoiding the areas where moisture-loving plants grow and certainly never crossing an area of Sphagnum moss. Yes, I was in just such a spot. I always imagined it to be a bit more soupy, maybe bogs are dynamic, changing liquidity as and when conditions allow. This one felt like quick sand.
The pole in my right hand had sunk its entire depth on stepping in. Somewhere deep in my subconscious, I knew that the thing not to do was move; the more you move, the more you sink. Yet, just shifting my weight slightly to pull my right-hand pole out from the ‘bog of impending doom’ made my right leg sink a few more inches. I’d checked my phone only a few minutes ago for signal and I knew there wasn’t any. I looked up into the sky and laughed out loud. It was perfect, I’d done my last Trail 100, but no-one would ever know because I would never be found. That bloody mountain!
I obviously (thankfully) got out, but only by flopping back onto the bit of firm ground I’d stepped off. Getting my legs out of the bog while in a nearhorizontal position took all of my strength. It was a serious pickle, that’s why I want you to learn from my mistake.
Once at the loch shore, I was homeward bound. The sun obviously now shone, I saw truly amazing wildlife spectacles and Beinn Dearg flippin’ Mor stared down at me the whole way out, mocking me. I’d climbed my mountain, completed the list, but I knew the mountain had won. They always do.