The Ridge part 2

Another bright morning, another perfect day for scrambling on Skye, we stuffed in the porridge and double brew. A little weary but satisfied that, so far at least, all was perhaps not exactly going to plan, but was going as well as we’d hoped.

In some ways day 2 was less memorable, partly because we were suffering from 3 poor night’s sleep but more because the ridge just carries on going. That could sound like I’m talking it down and making it sound monotonous, no way; the northern end is no less challenging, in fact we found some of the route-finding trickier. However, without the high summit of Alasdair and the excitement of the Inn Pinn, the day blurred into a long period of scrambling over terrain that mostly wasn’t too technical, but the seriousness of the route meant each step still demanded care and every small mistake could cost you time or something worse.

So I can tell you that we continued to pick off the munro peaks and we attempted to climb Bhastier tooth but couldn’t find the apparently obvious Naismith’s route. In our depleting mental states we clambered up an alternative chossy section back onto the ridgeline, regretting the choice just after we’d committed to it, kicking ourselves that we’d done well so far but didn’t want to take unnecessary risks out of pride, tiredness or hurry.

Looking back, the mental toughness required for this challenge was way above our expectations. We’re both competent rock climbers and had taken fitness and kit preparations seriously (we even weighed gas canisters, different rope combinations and gear etc.) because all the books and guides stressed these points. What you won’t read in a guide is how delusional you can start to feel after 3 bad nights sleep, 3500m of ascent and 2 days of continual exposed scrambling. Our teamwork took a new direction as we kept each other focused, sane, motivated and reminded each other to stop and soak in the view every so often. For some reason, reciting Spice Girls lyrics became a game that helped; I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want - dinner and a drink in the Sligachan Hotel that seems visible for the entire second half of the ridge, but never gets closer.

Midway through this day, we felt that we’d made the wrong choice to leave waterproof gear behind, when clouds started to appear from the North, however an unmistakable smokey smell followed and we realised we weren’t about to get rained on, but were witnessing the awful but incredible sight of the woodland and grassland burning as a result of the hot, stable weather that had given us this window - I guess there’s always 2 sides to the coin. Ironically my wife and kids were at a Christian camping festival called Wild Fires that same week; a metaphorical nod to the Pentecost and the idea of new things being sparked into life. Looking at the literal and frightening devastation, it reminded me that as I pray and ask for God’s spirit like a wild fire, that’s not a safe prayer, but one asking for fundamental change by something more powerful than me, that I’m not in control of; nature the best teacher again.

As Sgurr Nan Gillean approached, we sensed an end to the ordeal (it was an ordeal in the moment, but looking back ever since, the greatest rock days we’ve ever had, classic type 2 fun). A few exposed terraces, then an easy but steep chimney, which for some reason, someone had left a crap at the bottom of, and then up towards the finish gate. Yes, literally, there is a natural gateway made from rocks you clamber through to reach the final summit. It could not have been designed better and gave us a real sense of completion, much like the finish line of a marathon, albeit a marathon with a 4 mile walk beyond. We took photos, felt crazily emotional and looked back on the splendour of the entire ridge stretching out towards the sea. Someone mentioned the pub and we were off.

A postscript regarding planning:

2 things we assumed but didn’t know as we finished the ridge. First, we’d eat in the pub a hearty celebratory meal. Second, we’d hitch a ride back to Glen Brittle.

Another pair of ridge completers thought the pub stopped serving food at 9pm. It was already 8:15!

I have never been much of a runner, but high on the euphoria of our achievement, with the aid of sticks and the motivation of a victory supper, I legged it, promising John that I would get there in time and order him something special. John, sensibly, refused to rush and calmly enjoyed the stroll down as I dashed off like a whippet after a hare.

Arriving at Sligachan, sweating and exhausted, the watch said 9:12 and I sat despondent, only to note that they served until 10pm anyway. I washed in the river and sat in a midge infested meadow looking out for John, feeling foolish and guilty that I hadn’t accompanied a mate on the walk-out, enjoying that time and dipping in the stream together. Poor planning on my part.

Hitch-hiking, no problem. In these parts, people help each other out; we’re all into the outdoors and we’ve all given others a lift, so shouldn’t be difficult.

Except by the time we left the bar it was 11:30pm and however friendly people might be, there’s not much traffic on the B8009 at that hour. Acquiring the first lift was fairly straightforward, but they were only going about 2 miles the way we wanted, so we started walking, multiple cycles of optimism and regret swinging between us. A phone call confirmed a taxi would be a crazy price and take an hour to reach us anyway. 2 days on the ridge and a run down not enough, we walked on. Our estimate was that we had walked 7 of the 14 miles back before a car came down the now un-numbered road to Glen Brittle and there was no way we were going to let them pass. Standing in the middle of the road with a pleading yet assertive stance, we would make them look us in the eyes before they drove past; surely if they spoke to us, they’d take pity. Despite having rear seats full of bouldering mats, we found a way of cramming ourselves in and gratefully rode to the campsite, recounting our experiences to the new adventurers that had just arrived.

We slept well and began the long journey back to Leicestershire. With the weather still perfect, I posed the suggestion, “John, do you fancy doing Tower Ridge tomorrow?” If you’d seen the wince on our faces as we stepped out of the car for a coffee with stiffening legs, you’d have also laughed at the idea.

“Another trip mate.”