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Bidean nam Bian Stob Coire Sgreamhach Map Well after the long winter break I was looking forward to resuming the Munro campaign by finishing off the rest of my Glencoe peaks. On Friday evening I drove up to Ramsbottom to rendezvous with Andrew and we had a few drinks at the British Legion which was quite busy with folk celebrating some lady's 94th birthday. The next morning when we went to load the car we found that it had been vandalised overnight by the lower elements of Ramsbottom's gene pool. The driver's side mirror had been smashed. We tried to fix it temporarily by buying a flexible plastic mirror from a car accessory shop but it wasn't very good. The plastic distorted and made everything look like something in a fairground mirror - you could tell there was something behind you but distance was impossible to judge.
Anyway off we set in the bloodied but unbowed Toyota and were just passing through Glasgow when something smashed into the windscreen, leaving a large, star-shaped chip just to the left of the driver's field of vision. Really exasperating as it meant that the windscreen would have to be replaced. I couldn't do it then though so instead I just soldiered on feeling even more grumpy and annoyed with the universe. Luck didn't seem to be with us so far and an additional shadow lying across our venture was the knowledge that two climbers had fallen on Bidean nam Bian the previous weekend. One had had his leg broken and the other was killed. Nevertheless we pressed on and reached Glencoe without further trouble, finding lodgings at 'Ghlasdruim' in Glencoe village (£22). This was a B&B run by a lady called Maureen, from Birmingham, and her husband Ken. The only pub in the village had closed down so Ken very generously offered to drive us the mile and a bit down the road to Ballachulish so we could get some sustenance. We piled into his car, the outside of which was already coated in frost while the inside was covered in condensation. The inability to see where he was going didn't appear to deter Ken, however, as he set off anyway. Perhaps he knew the way well enough to do it all on autopilot but it was mildly alarming for anyone sitting beside him in the front passenger seat. Still, all went well so I can't complain. There are three Ballachulishes: Ballachulish, North Ballachulish and South Ballachulish. Why they don't just think up another two names I don't know but that's how it is. We had been deposited in the plain and simple Ballachulish, in which there is the grand total of 1 pub, the Laroch Hotel. They served up an acceptable veg kiev there (£6.75) and we played crib while the band in the next room cranked out the usual ghastly, loud noises which seem to pass for music now. I suppose if you're not an old git it's delightful. At midnight we walked back to the B&B along an empty, unlit road, warmed by the Laroch's antifreeze in our veins and with that sort of lump in the throat that I for one always feel when confronted by the full glory of the stars, glittering down from the great, black immensity of the sky. It's not the same in towns, where there are too many street lights spoiling the show. But when you get out here, away from all that, it's breath-taking. Sunday 18th February The day of the climb dawned to fine, clear skies, as promised by the BBC weather service - well done, chaps. Frost about an inch deep had to be scraped off the car before we were able to set off back up the A82. We parked in the layby at the western end of Loch Achtriochton and set off at 9.45. It was bitterly cold and after a couple of hundred yards I returned to the car to pack an additional pullover - which I never used. The plan was to follow the un-named stream south for a mile then bear round to the south-west and ascend to the main ridge at a point just south of the outlying hill, An t-Sron. From there we would be able to proceed along the ridge taking in the 'top' Stob Coire nam Beith and the two Munros, Bidean nam Bian and Stob Coire Sgreamhach (or 'Screaming Hag' as we called the latter). The pullover remained unused because after the first couple of hundred yards I was warm enough from the exercise, bathed in sweat as we laboured up the lower slopes. It's all pretty steep in Glencoe but that has the advantage, of course, that you gain height quite quickly - and in places there were some rough stone steps which helped. The upper slopes were mostly rock, scrub grass and scree, covered in places with snow and a glassy coating of ice. The looseness of the scree together with the steepness of the terrain and the slipperiness of the ice made it hard work getting up to the ridge and I gained a few bruises and grazes from a fall at one point but nonetheless we eventually made it to the col between An t-Sron and Stob Coire nam Beith.
The going became a bit easier then and having turned left we soon reached the snow-clad top of Stob Coire nam Beith where we paused to catch our breath and enjoy the fine views of the surrounding peaks and our way forward. The col which we had thought so high up at the time now looked to be far below us.
We continued SE along the ridge enjoying the walk but having to be very careful due to the snow and ice underfoot and the rather steep drops to our left. I think we gained the top of Bidean nam Bian, the highest mountain in Argyllshire, at about 1.00 but the timer in my camera had unfortunately reset itself so I can't accurately say. Once again excellent views but it was a bit exposed up there and with a light wind quickly cooling us down we decided to press on towards the Screaming Hag.
As we descended to the col between Bidean nam Bian and Stob Coire Sgreamhach there was even more snow around and I put my crampons on at this point. Andrew as usual didn't have any although most people we met up there (and it was fairly popular being such a great day) had both crampons and ice-axes. At the col we paused and looked over the northern edge as this was our intended route of descent. It looked desperately steep and was coated with a thick layer of frozen snow - but that was a challenge for later. For now we carried on and were able to climb the Screaming Hag with no real difficulties, reaching the top at about 2.20, I think.
Once again the views were magnificent but it quickly got chilly standing around so we didn't linger long before making our way back down to the col. There we had to wait about 10 minutes to allow a couple to climb up to us, not wanting to kick snow down on them or such. Then over we went, me first.
The snow on the rockface had frozen quite hard and there were holes in it where people had kicked steps as they ascended. By facing the rock it was possible to climb down using these holes as footholds and handholds, just like a ladder, and indeed this was how everyone we'd seen so far had been ascending/descending. For some reason I chose to try walking down them facing outwards - a bit of a mistake considering the crampons have spikes sticking down, spikes sticking out from the toes… but no spikes sticking back from the heels. I'd got about 50 feet down the 400 foot incline when my heels skidded out of the footholds and all of a sudden I found myself shooting off down the mountainside on my back. Very alarming and I was accelerating all the while. I seemed to stay quite calm, however, thinking what best to do. I had a walking pole with which I could try and do an ice-axe type arrest - not that I'd ever done one of those before but I remembered reading how it's done - but I thought I'd leave that as Plan B. Instead, keeping my elbows wide to ensure I didn't start rolling, I raised my feet in the air like some sort of giant bug on its back and tried to slam them down into the snow. One crampon bit and started to slew me round but then almost immediately the other one bit as well and thankfully I slowed down and came to a stop. It had only been about a 30 yard slide but quite, how can I describe it… unsettling. I looked up and Andrew was still cautiously making his way down, face to the wall like the sensible people - I don't think he even knew I'd slipped. I took a shaky breath and wondered how on earth he himself was going to get down without crampons, ice-axe or walking pole, but there wasn't anything I could do about that right now. First I had to get down myself, out of the way. This time I turned to face the snowy hillside and began the descent like everyone else, hands and feet in the holes and climbing down like a ladder. It seemed to go on for ages but at last the incline began to level off and I reached the end of the snow. I sat on a rock and looked back to see where Andrew was. He was still quite a long way up the hill, going very slowly but moments later a lone climber overtook him and kindly offered him the use of 2 spare walking poles. The climber came down and sat with me while we waited for Andrew; he was a student doing some sort of Outdoor course and had lots of good quality equipment with him.
Andrew got down ok and we bade the student farewell and continued on down the mountain and into the Lost Valley - a high, steep-sided cleft in the hillside which is more or less hidden from the road. It was easy enough to negotiate, following the stream and clambering over the large fallen boulders we encountered in places. Finally we passed through a lightly wooded bit and back onto the valley bottom of Glencoe. From there it was just a 2 mile walk back along the glen, initially along the remains of General Wade's old military road and then using the path at the side of the A82. Back at the car in the last glimmers of light at 5.55. That night we got fixed up at the Loch Leven Hotel in North Ballachulish. It was £35 but we were too done in to bother about dragging round looking for a suitable B&B. At least this would provide food, accommodation and beer all in the one place. As it happened the food was a bit on the Bridge of Orchy Hotel lines (ie not much there) but maybe not quite as bad. Adjourning to the bar we found they had some bottles of 'Fraoch', a Heather Ale of the kind that (according to the label) has been brewed in Scotland for 4000 years. It was very nice albeit at £3 per bottle (just under a pint) a bit expensive. [Apparently Fraoch was a mighty warrior in Celtic mythology who slew a water monster to win the hand of the fair Findbhair]. As we drank the Fraoch and played dominoes one of the waitresses was chatting in the bar to some friends about her tale of domestic abuse. She had a large bruise on her back, just above her right buttock. Towards the end of the evening, when I was too full of Fraoch to drink any more, the landlady came over and told us that John, the landlord, wanted to buy everyone in the pub a drink. It belies the myth of Scottish meanness, eh, what with that and Ken's generous lift the previous night. Anyway although I couldn't fit any more beer in it would have been rude to say no so I asked for a whisky. Like most Scottish pubs the back of the bar was lined with dozens of different bottles of the national drink and I was asked 'which one?' 'Any' I replied. 'Oh well we'll make it the best one, then,' said the landlady. What nice people. | ||||||||||
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