Finding Rapture on The Cuillin Ridge

We arrived late on Skye, to fine weather. Regardless, we wrote off an attempt the next day, because of car weariness. We used that day instead to recce the middle section with the most concentrated section of route finding and trickier climbing. It was glorious, but I came down pooped and chastened. The climbs felt goey, even on rope.

“Don’t be despondent,” Libby sagely told me. “We’re tired, with heavy rucksacks. It will feel much easier in running gear with light hydration vests.”

The next day it rained, and got really bloody windy. Marginal forecasts turned poor. Wet and windy became a theme and we wondered if foolishly we’d foregone the only good day of our window. We filled these days checking out the other crags on the island, Neist Point, Old Man of Storr, Kilt Rock, while the wonderful Elgol provided some distraction from the elephant in the room. We might not get our chance.

Giving the weather every chance, we resisted the urge to head south a day early and try to get something done on The Ben or in The Lakes. Instead delaying our departure as late as possible, gambling that if Saturday yielded a nice day, even a half day, then a mammoth drive Sunday and straight back to work on Monday would be worth it. The little weather window we saw on Saturday morning turned out to be the prime slot for one of the best days in the hills either of us had ever had. Good things do come to those who wait.

The day started with a 4am alarm. It was already light. Midsummer this far north sees only a strange twilight between midnight and 3ish. I ate as much granola as I could poke down, drank a litre of water wishing I could force more in, scoffed a banana and brushed teeth. Already packed bags were shouldered, and we walked away from Glen Brittle campsite, in a fairly sombre silence.

Sgurr Alisdair, Thearlaich, and Mhic Choinnich, passed quickly and easily. Confidence and energy were high. By King’s Chimney I was in the zone. Soloing was just an extended form of scrambling and there was no way I was going to fall. Laughing and joking, with three of the graded climbs done, it felt like we were half way.

The sun was beaming, we were beaming, and we were making good progress. In this mild euphoria the Inaccessible Pinnacle was a cruisy bask. With no-one at the bottom we started up the improbable blade, casually chatting away. I’d done this years ago, but had no actual memory of the views out to the right – on account of the mind-bending exposure. This time was a romp. We were elated at the top.

Two pairs were rigging abseils so we reversed the East Ridge. At the bottom, two guys roping up asked how we planned to tackle An Dorus. Without ropes we only had one tactic, which seemed to alarm them, but their eye-brow raises only bolstered my confidence.

Over the top of Sgurr Dearg and on towards Banachdich, physically half way, we started to flag. I had a gel, and a bar, and drank more than I’d rationed. But the climb to the next summit from the Bealach dragged, and I palmed my knees to aid upward progress.

The guidebook says the next section is ‘the mind numbing middle section’, and calls it ‘interminable’. Sans recce it felt slow and exploratory. Greadaidh, May Day and Bidein Druim nan Ramh were confusing. ‘Three Tops’, ‘Three Teeth’ and ‘Three Pinnacles’, these landmark names didn’t help either. We were sure the guidebook sent us left when we should have gone right, right when we should have gone left. I twice questioned Libby (wrong again, both times), and we belly crawled a horizontal cleft above a void that was so off route it would have made for fun viewing for anyone across the coire.

“Lib? Do we actually know which mountain we’re on?” She laughed an admission back at me and kept going. There was a notable zig-zagged down climb at An Dorus that refocused the mind, but the rest of that section is a blur. I remember wanting to tell her my knees hurt and that my legs were tired but then deciding to keep quiet. What was she going to say? Aww, you poor poppet..?

I managed to keep those thoughts to myself for about twenty minutes.

“My knees hurt… And my legs are tired.”

“Yep.”

We ran out of gas here. By Bruach na Frithe I was done in. I had about 100ml of water left and was very thirsty.

“We could just stop here couldn’t we?” said Libby. “I mean, that will do, won’t it?” I was drenched in sweat, had been for hours, my knees had aged 20 years.