Once a year, during May or June, my loving wife ejects me from the house and sends me to the Highlands to climb mountains. She understands that without this pilgrimage, my enthusiasm for life would become dulled and tarnished, and that she would otherwise suffer the moody consequences!

I usually wait for a settled weather forecast, set things up at the office to cover my absence, and go. 1996 was different - events had conspired to fix the dates some months ahead.

I don't enjoy exercise for the sake of it, but for the month before the trip, I work out on my step machine, which usefully mimics a gradient climb, and on Sunday mornings I walk in the countryside for three or four hours at a forced pace. This at least warns the body that something is afoot, even if it is hardly prepared for the assault it suffers.

For months before the trip I plan which mountains to climb, and mentally preparing the routes. This time I was taking five days from 31st May, and looking to cover eight Munros to add to my (then) tally of twenty-four. I'm gradually working south, having scaled Ben Hope (the most northerly Munro) in September 1993, with an aim of completing ten every year. My maths isn't great, but at that rate (life and health permitting) I will be in my mid sixties when I reach the final summit, hopefully with my three children leading the way. By 1996, I had worked my way down to the Fisherfield Forest and Torridon. I reckoned on one two day expedition, taking in Slioch, A'Mhaighdean and three others, followed by a day off and then Beinn Eighe and Liathach.

With a boyish excitement, I had packed my suitcase a week in advance. Two different sized tents and rucksacs, loads of clothes, waterproofs, etc. Twenty-seven kilos, yes, that should do it!

At the end of May 1996, the weather had not been encouraging. The Thursday Weathercheck forecast for the five days of my visit could not have been worse: Friday through Sunday - gale force winds and rain, becoming a little more settled for Monday and Tuesday (but that far in advance is always a guess). I couldn't cancel, so I had to make the best of it.

The flight from Heathrow to Inverness was ominous. The Captain advised us to keep buckled up, as we would be experiencing turbulence over the Scottish hills. He wasn't wrong, and I politely declined the stewardess' offer of the standard plastic meal. Dad collected me from the airport, and, having stocked up on a few essentials at Safeway, we returned to his retirement hideaway in Altass, sixty miles further north. I was being permitted (for the first time) the loan of my parents' VW Camper van. I unpacked, packed the van and set out for Kinlochewe at 8pm. The further west I travelled, the worse the weather became. Rain lay in pools on the roads - I had clearly just missed a heavy storm. Nevertheless, there was a minor sunset, and the view down Loch Maree as I approached via Glen Docherty was welcoming.

The A832 snakes through Glen Docherty to Loch Maree

Arriving at Kinlochewe, I parked a short way down the shore of Loch Maree, in the National Trust Beinn Eighe Trail car park (only later realising that there was a no overnight parking rule). Gales were already battering the area, and I was rocked to sleep, as the van was buffeted by the storm. The rain resumed shortly after my arrival, and didn't cease all night. I awoke at one stage in the night, after a strange dream about firefighting with an enormous hose. I needed to wee. There was only one thing for it, and I opened the sliding door and added to the sizeable pool of water already forming in the car park..

As soon as I awoke the next morning I immediately realised that climbing was a write-off. The conditions had worsened. Rather than sit in the van all day sulking, I instead made a visit to Inverewe Gardens, a short drive to the west coast, and used my National Trust card to gain entrance. A thorough investigation of the maze-like paths was a pleasant use of an hour. Even in a thunderous gale, these gardens are extraordinary - a veritable feast of colour and perfume amidst an otherwise barren landscape.

Inverewe Gardens, Poolewe

Gairloch was my next port of call - the harbour to be precise. A local craft shop appealed, and I parked outside. Trouble was, once inside, I couldn't open the door to leave, the wind was so strong. When I finally forced an exit, I was sent on my way with an angry look from the shop prporietor whose display had been re-arranged when I had allowed the gale into his premises.

I couldn't sit around all day, though. If Slioch was out, then why not a gentle stroll around the NTS Torridon mountain trail, near Kinlochewe. This turned out to be a genuine mountain walk, rising to almost 2,000ft. In the lee of the hill the wind was manageable, but at the viewpoint a standing position of forty-five degrees was necessary just to stay on my feet.

Mountain trail viewpoint (SE to Ruadh-Stac Beag)

The alluring Scots lass at Weathercheck suggested, when I phoned the following morning, that the winds would ease a little by afternoon, so I resolved to try an evening climb of Slioch. Setting out from the Incheril car park at 2.45pm, I had hardly walked a quarter of a mile before the rain started. My waterproofs went on, and stayed on, until my return. With all the rain over the last forty-eight hours, there was water everywhere. Burns had appeared spontaneously, tumbling down the hillside, and normally peaceful streams had become raging swollen torrents, foaming with a thunderous wrath that was awe-inspiring. As I approached the eastern end of Loch Maree, I was struck by the sight of several trees that appeared to be trying to cross the spating Kinlochewe River.

Trees wade accross the Kinlochewe River

Abhainn an Fhasaigh, the burn that falls from Lochan Fada to Loch Maree, could be seen and heard from some distance away, plumes of spray being flung into the air around the numerous falls.

Crossing the bridge over the Abhainn an Fhasaigh, the route to Slioch heads away from Loch Maree up Gleann Bianasdail, before climbimg into the Corrie na Sleaghaigh, a relatively level hidden corrie, surrounded on three sides by Slioch, Sgurr Dubh and Sgurr an Tuill Bhain. The walk into the corrie provides some respite before the path steepens into the hill beneath Slioch.

At the lochan on the south-east ridge below Slioch the horizontal hail began, and persisted until the summit ridge was gained. My nose would be redder than usual that evening! Cloud was clinging stubbornly to the top five hundred feet of the mountain. The summit itself was consequently a disappointment - with such limited visibility one pile of stones looks much like another, even at 3,500 ft. Oh well, a summit is a summit, after all. Unexpectedly, and for a few moments, the cloud parted to reveal an enticing view of Loch Maree and a true sense of height. Barely enough time for a snap before Slioch summoned the cloud and immersed itself once more in the mist.

A momentary view of Loch Maree from the summit of Slioch

This year for the first time I had borrowed a mobile phone from the office, and was able to share the endorphin induced high of reaching 3,000 ft with my family. "Hello, darling, what a view!" I exclaimed as the phone was answered six hundred miles away. "Who is this?!" was the reply from our Woman Police Officer lodger. "Sorry, wrong darling". My darlings were out, so I left a suitably impressive message, and went on. I received a call a few minutes later from the children on their return. While a mobile is to an extent a negation of an escape to the wilderness, it does enable the highs of the summit experience to be shared with a willing audience, who might perhaps catch the bug. One thing I hadn't established before setting out, was how to turn the phone off. As a result, my descent was plagued by calls from my colleague's dissatisfied clients!

That evening I was treated to some magical views from my chosen overnight car park on the banks of Loch Maree. The ever changing light on the loch and the hills provided a perfect end to a satisfying day.

Slioch, accross Loch Maree : the storm breaks.........and the sun begins to set

My regular call to Heather at Weathercheck the following morning confirmed that there would be a window of twenty-four hours fine weather from about midday. I determined to make the most of it, and to sleep out that night in the hills, to enable me to take in The Maiden and her neighbours. My Munroists' Bible reassured me that there was a basic rock shelter on the bealach between The Maiden and Ruadh Stac Mor, which sounded just the ticket since I didn't want the burden of a heavy tent and sleeping bag. Before embarking, I made a visit to Kinlochewe's own version of Milletts - a one man show operating from what appeared to be a converted petrol station kiosk. I purchased a light-weight storm shelter and a Petzl Headtorch. I explained to the friendly proprietor that I intended to make it in to "A-mag-dean". No response. "You know, the Maiden?" His eyes lit up, "Och, y'a mean 'Armour-haven' - that's hoo it's pronounced, ya ken." I pointed out that my name wasn't Ken, but thanked him for his guidance anyway.

From my starting point at Incheril there were a couple of routes into the wilderness that lay to the north of Slioch. The path up Gleann Bianasdail, beneath Slioch itself, looked the more visually appealing, but given the weather conditions of the past few days, I didn't fancy the river crossing that apparently lay at the head of the Gleann. I opted for the safer route via The Heights of Kinlochewe, following the Kinlochewe River before climbing through Gleann na Muice. Although the walk on the dirt road to the Heights was comparatively tedious, I passed the time gazing longingly at the pools along the river, and imagining the delights of casting a line over the enticing salmon lies of a river in perfect fishing condition.

As I approached Lochan Fada, at the head of Gleann na Muice I was greeted with a view of true Highland wilderness. "Lochan" means "little loch", but Fada is hardly that, being fully four miles long. This was a perfect moment. I was completely alone in the silence, surrounded by rugged mountains, with not a sign of civilisation to be seen.

True wilderness : Lochan Fada

The far (western) end of the loch was guarded by Beinn Lair and The Maiden, while Slioch protected the left flank and Beinn Tarsuinn and Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair stood to the right.

Renewed and envigorated by this wild amphitheatre, I strode off up the foothills of the Mullach, my first objective. The final climb was steep and increasingly rocky, an inhospitable environment to all but the climber.

Approaching the summit of Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair

At over a thousand metres, this was the highest I would get that day, and the summit carried with it a due sense of height and exposure. I could see for many miles all around, and the light danced accross Beinn Tarsuinn, beckoning me onward.

Beinn Tarsuinn from the summit of the Mullach

Another hour's descent and ascent, with plenty of pauses to take in the views, led me to the summit of Beinn Tarsuinn. The view north from the summit was outstanding, with the An Teallach range in the distance, beyond the beautiful, deserted glen.

North to An Teallach from the summit of Beinn Tarsuinn

From here it was a long and tiring march to The Maiden. The day's exertions were beginning to tell, and the ascent of A'Mhaighdean itself was more than I had bargained for. The slopes were covered with a moss that had soaked up the previous days' rain and had become as energy sapping as walking on soft sand. As I at last approached the top, I saw someone waiting at the summit cairn. I had seen nobody all day, and I felt cheated of my wilderness experience. I had not expected to see anyone at 9.30pm on one of the remotest mountain tops in Scotland. As I drew closer, it became apparent that the intruder was an old man with a white beard. He had no ruc-sack and was wearing shorts on a very cool evening. The view to the west of the setting sun was heavenly, and I recalled the shop proprietor's pronunciation of the mountain's name - "Armour-haven", or perhaps it was "I'm in heaven"... and maybe this old boy was God.....Well, if so, God's name is Norman and he had just popped up to the summit, having set his tent on the mountainside!

The Maiden's view of the setting sun

It may have been closing 10pm, but at this time of year in the Highlands, it's only dark for a couple of hours. I left Norm with the Maiden and followed the ridge down to the bealach beneath Ruadh Stac Mor. I spotted the stone shelter, which actually amounted to little more than a hole in the ground beneath a large slab of stone, but at least a kindly soul had left a basic blow-up mattress behind. Leaving my ruc-sack, I climbed the steep rocky side of the mountain, gaining the summit plateau at about 10.30pm. I was no more than fifteen metres from the summit cairn, when I noticed a large bird standing just beside it. It was a Golden Eagle. I froze, but it had already seen me and rose with some effort into the air, no doubt thoroughly raptored off at having it's evening snooze disturbed - I mean, if you can't escape Man by kipping out at 3,000ft on one of the remotest Scottish mountains, where can you go? As the eagle extended it's wings, it's plumage was enhanced in the orange/red glow of the sunset. It soared slowly around the mountain before gliding accross the glen to Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair.

Life is defined by moments of intense experience, and I savoured this one. It may have lasted no more than a minute, but it will sustain me to the grave.

Exhausted but happy, I returned to my wild hotel for the night. Even at 11.15pm some light remained. I attempted to inflate the mattress and discovered why it had been left behind - it was a holey relic. But it was something to lie on at least. Then it got cold. It really isn't very clever to spend a night at 2,500 ft with no tent and no sleeping bag. The shelter seemed to mimic a deep freeze. After a couple of hours' teeth chattering and shivering I'd had enough. I packed up, and equipped myself with the headtorch, making may way gingerly down the Maiden's slopes to Lochan Fada. At 2am the skies started to lighten, and by 3.30am the night had departed. It was a long walk back along the shore of the Lochan. The total silence was broken only occasionally by the sound of cock grouse calling to eachother accross the glen. There was not a breath of wind, and as I looked back one last time before leaving this wild place, the mountains provided a perfect image in the mirror of one of the smaller lochans, leaving me to reflect upon a memorable day.

Slioch and Beinn Lair accross Lochan Sgeirach

I want to fly like an eagle to the sea,
fly like an eagle, let my spirit carry me,
I want to fly like an eagle, 'till I'm free
(Steve Miller Band)

© Angus Bruce
2000