The Munros in Winter E-Book

Martin Moran

• Herausgeber: Sandstone Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 410

Beschreibung

'The winter completion of the Munros in a single push was not only a tremendous team effort but also Martin and Joy's great love story. It was an amazing Odyssey and The Munros in Winter is a superb account.' Sir Chris BoningtonIn 1984 Martin Moran became the first person to conquer the Munros in a single winter journey. In this gripping narrative he recounts his legendary achievement.

Leseprobe

Martin Moranwas one of Britain’s most experienced mountaineers and guides. Born on North Tyneside he studied geography at Cambridge University before moving to Sheffield with his new wife, Joy, to train as a chartered accountant. In 1985 he qualified as a British and International IFMGA Mountain Guide and moved to the North-West Highlands with Joy to found their climbing and guiding enterprise, Moran Mountain. He made a dozen pioneering ascents in the Himalaya and climbed over a hundred new winter routes in Scotland. In May 2019, Martin tragically lost his life in the Himalaya while on a pioneering expedition with seven other climbers.

By the same author

Scotland’s Winter Mountains

Alps 4000

The Magic of Wester Ross and Skye

The 4000 Metre Peaks of the Alps – Selected Routes

Higher Ground

Published in Great Britain

Sandstone Press Ltd

Suite 1, Willow House

Stoneyfield Business Park

Inverness

IV2 7PA

Scotland

www.sandstonepress.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

© Martin Moran 1986

The moral right of Martin Moran to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This first edition of The Munros in Winter was published in Great Britain by David and Charles in 1986. The second edition was published by Sandstone Press in 2011. This edition 2020.

Editor for the Sandstone Press editions: Robert Davidson

Scans from original slides: David Ritchie, Dingwall

ISBN: 978-1-913207-38-0

ISBNe: 978-1-913207-44-1

Cover design by Ryder Design

Typeset by Iolaire Typography, Newtonmore

CONTENTS

Foreword by Joy Moran

Prologue to the 2011 edition by Martin Moran

Acknowledgements

List of illustrations

Foreword to the original edition by Hamish Brown

1. The Winter Challenge

2. The Stormtossed Start, 21–25 December

3. First Foots in Argyll, 26 December–1 January

4. The Southern Sweep, 2–7 January

5. Into Wilder Domains, 8–13 January

6. Rough Bounds Passage, 14–18 January

7. Blizzard over Kintail, 19–22 January

8. Skiing for Survival, 23–27 January

9. The Atlantic Strikes back, 28 January–1 February

10. Roaming the Big Glens, 2–7 February

11. In Bleakest Midwinter, 8–16 February

12. The Cairngorms Complete, 17–21 February

13. Northern Heatwave, 22 February–3 March

14. Climax on the Cuillin, 4–7 March

15. The Final Surge, 8–13 March

Appendices

Postscript

I Gaelic Glossary

II Route Statistics

III Equipment, Diet and Health

IV Munro Runs and Marathon Walks

FOREWORD

Distracted would be the word to describe Martin’s mood over the previous few months. A map lay open on his desk with a compass on top, others were piled close by, and every day an envelope would arrive with more. Scribbled notes, compass bearings, heights and times, it was a frantic scene but away from this, apparent, chaos a journal lay open at a perfectly handwritten chronological list of the Munros journey he was about to embark on. Martin’s mother, Nancy, told me that he read maps at bedtime from the age of five, not books, and most of his pocket money was spent on them. It was a habit that lasted a lifetime.

I knew exactly what he was up to but wasn’t aware that he intended me to be his solo support team until, finally, he shared the secret project he had been working on so intently. ‘How would you feel about handing in your notice at work, selling the house, putting our furniture in storage and hiring a campervan before heading for Scotland to climb all the Munros in a single winter?’

‘Let me think about it please,’ I said, but he knew he had this one in the bag.

I was not really taken aback. We had already been married for ten years and I absolutely loved the active outdoor life he had introduced me to. Most weeks we packed our car on the Thursday night, ready for the week-end’s activities. He would pick me up from work on Friday evening and we would drive from our home in Sheffield to Wales, Scotland, or the Lake District, where we would pitch the tent, get a few hours of sleep and head for the tops at dawn. It was challenging and intense, but very rewarding, a special time when our strong bond formed, the partnership that carried us through the rest of our lives together.

A week later I gave him his answer, ‘Yes, I’ll do it’, and entered a question and answer session until I was sure I could cope with the practical details.

Many would question my sanity. It was not my life’s purpose to capture all the Munros in a single winter, but how could I deny someone I loved the chance to fulfil such a dream? To help others achieve their ambitions can be more satisfying than the achievement itself so, because we had such a choice, we determined that our decision would benefit others. Intermediate Technology was a charity that introduced simple engineering projects to economically disadvantaged rural people, and provided the necessary tools and basic machines. Resources used were also made available locally to improve more general wellbeing. All things considered, Intermediate Technology was an obvious choice as it focused on the environment, people and traditional ways of life.

However, we did not anticipate the intense media coverage that followed which, at times, was a distraction from our core plan. As we were both naturally shy individuals, this aspect could be quite alarming, but in the end it was worth it. We raised £25,000 for the charity’s projects.

With preparations complete we had no house or job, and very little money. It seemed absolute madness, but 21st December saw us pull away in our campervan, the six by two and a half metre box that would be our home for the next eighty-three days.

Climbing the Munros is a wonderful way to escape. Scotland’s vast landscapes and diversity leave you with images to remember and reflect on throughout your life, and every Munro presents something different. On some, you are cradled by other mountains so close you might think you could skip to the next, only to find a three hundred metre drop between. On others you stand as one isolated and alone, looking on an endless landscape that takes your breath away. On this trip, I climbed many with Martin, but I also enjoyed driving down spectacular glens and onto lonely peninsulas, to stop off in Highland villages and meet residents who were always willing to pass the time of day.

Until you have climbed these mountains, sat in silence on the summit or experienced an Atlantic storm funnelling through the glen, it may be hard to understand the compulsion of ticking off the Munros. To this day the Munro effect is still within me. Every hill or mountain I cast my eyes upon, I have a strong urge to climb.

The trip’s routines were too intense for boredom. If I was not climbing with Martin, I was organising provisions, van maintenance, media coverage, the next day’s itinerary, and all with nobody to assist. I was my own boss and just got on with the tasks.

In 1985 nobody carried mobile phones in their rucksacks, or had iPads at base for news or weather forecasts, and at times we felt we were off grid. I had a handwritten itinerary for each day with Martin’s Estimated Time of Arrival (return). He would leave in the morning, more often than not in the dark, and much later I would see his headtorch flashing across the hillside as he descended, or hear a thud on the campervan door when he arrived. Unwavering trust, mutual telepathy and the understanding that getting off these mountains can take more time than anticipated were necessities.

Each day’s nutrition was of paramount importance. Protein energy drinks and powders were not available in that era. We were both vegetarians, but it was a challenge on the two-burner gas stove. We did have a small oven so there was plenty of home baking when we listened to the shipping forecast together each night. ‘Hebrides Bailey, south westerly veering north westerly gale eight or severe gale nine decreasing six, wintery showers, mainly good.’ Such an iconic, poetic, soothing presentation style; Martin had total confidence in it. 2017 was its 150th anniversary and it is still worth the listen.

This book is about a partnership born from mutual love of the outdoors, and a desire to live in harmony with them. It is also about two individuals coping with diversity in their lives, working through difficult times with a shared goal, and experiencing the energy gained simply from being in a natural environment.

It is not always easy to share your partner with another love. In my case I was up against the mountains, and there are many of them, all over the world. I let him go time and time again, but he always returned exhilarated yet humbled. Denial was not a word I knew when a mountain was involved. Consequently, our life together was a happy one.

Martin is sadly no longer with us. He died in an avalanche in 2019 in the Himalaya, but I am left with such rich and wonderful memories of this time in our lives. I can only encourage you, his reader, to make your own journeys into the mountains. They can be very memorable. To all Munroists, runners, and outdoor enthusiasts, this book offers valuable information on the routes he took and the difficulties he encountered. It will inspire you to keep ticking them off until finally, once completed, you will be disappointed there are not more to climb.

Joy Moran

Strathcarron

2020

PROLOGUE

to the 2011 edition

The Munros in Winter trip was a turning point in our lives. A week after we finished I travelled back north for a final day of assessment on the Tower Ridge of Ben Nevis, and qualified as a British Mountain Guide. The path was clear for Joy and I to make the move from Sheffield to start a new life in the Highlands. Having reconnoitred potential bases for a mountaineering school during the expedition, Wester Ross was our unequivocal choice.

Torridon, An Teallach, Applecross, Kintail, the Cuillin of Skye – here were inspirational mountains with rich pioneering potential. I could be happy here for many years without sacrificing the dreams of youth to the dread curse of tedium. The area was easily accessible from Inverness with the Kyle railway and a rapidly improving road network, and there were no other guides in business.

The village of Lochcarron exerted a crucial emotional pull. The kindness and interest of the owner of the local post office and shop during a difficult phase of the winter trip were not forgotten. Then we received an invitation to give a lecture to the Lochcarron Mountaineering Club, which, we discovered, had been set up by the staff working on the nearby Kishorn oil rig construction site. What a night they gave us! Nearly half the village packed the hall to hear about our adventure. In autumn of 1985 we rented a cottage at Slumbay and a year later bought a croft house in the township of Achintee at the head of the loch. We are still there.

Cynics accused us of devising the Munros in Winter trip as a publicity vehicle to further a career in mountain guiding. While admitting that ego plays a significant part in motivating such a venture, I was never so wilful as to plot a future course. We were genuinely surprised and delighted by people’s interest in us and I remember the thrill of getting our first bookings for winter courses in 1986. Stuart Mair, Paul Suthers, Jack Escritt, Peter Bower, Ray Cooke – I don’t need a diary to recall those first clients who came in ones and twos and stayed with us that memorable season. They endured six days of uncompromising adventure as I nailed my personal standards of hardship and commitment to the Moran Mountaineering mast. Early ventures were a process of trial and error. Every climb was new to me and my judgement of conditions was hopelessly optimistic. Massive walks to obscure gullies high in the Fannichs, collapsing snow-holes in the back of Glenuaig, and washed-out bothy trips in Fisherfield – the clients had every reason to revert to more predictable fare in the Cairngorms or Lochaber. Something of my spirit and passion must have got through because many of them came back for more!

Publication of The Munros in Winter in 1986 had the biggest impact on our guiding business. I little-valued my writing ability but I used my geographical logic and accountant’s sense of balance to organise and subdivide the mass of information and impressions from three months into a digestible narrative. Three sample chapters were drafted and with self-effacing deference I posted them to a dozen likely publishers. The response was startling – genuine enthusiasm and three firm offers. Maybe the joyful innocence of our enterprise shone through in the writing. When I read the book now, I cringe at the many instances of clumsy phrasing and the derivative threads. Yet I am stunned when a gem of genuine descriptive passion jumps from the pages and still smile at the many clips of self-deprecating humour.

Perhaps the book served to silence the doubters. Our enterprise had been labelled a ‘sponsored circus’ by one editor, fuelling an impression that the trip had been bankrolled by Berghaus. A Mr Jamieson wrote in from Balloch, rather acerbically suggesting that I should be nominated for the ‘Motor Caravanner of the Year’ award. Still possessing the sensitivity of youth and having spent half of proceeds of our house sale to fund the trip, I was hurt by these undercurrents of criticism whereas now I would smile. The book dispelled such notions and gave me a platform of credibility in the mountaineering world. Nonetheless, I developed the conviction that to wallow in cosy acceptance would be an abject and miserable surrender from the true values of the mountains. Dreams and then action are all that really count!

In 1987 we were welcoming up to eight guests a week, and rented a shooting lodge in Strathcarron for the season. Prices were ridiculously low. A week’s mountaincraft course with six nights’ full-board lodgings cost just £160. With Joy otherwise occupied after the birth of Alex we employed a couthy older lady, Mrs T, to satisfy prodigious appetites with hearty home-cooking. If the exposure of my book gave us a head-start we were also reaping the benefits of the growth in prosperity and leisure time as the British economy recovered from the gloom of the 1970s and early 1980s. Outdoor activities were especially favoured as people sought some excitement outside the strictures of traditional holidaying.

Although the duties of family life doubled with the arrival of Hazel in 1990 I was still bubbling with ideas for new mountain challenges. Hill running was one predilection so long as my knees held out. One day that May I stood on Sgurr a’Mhadaidh with a group after a traverse from In Pinn and looked longingly at the northern third of the Cuillin Ridge. Two runners from Wales had recently lowered the record for the whole Traverse to 3 hours and 50 minutes. Sacrificing my normal duty of care I asked my clients if they minded taking my sack and descending to Glen Brittle on their own. ‘I’m going to run the ridge to Sgurr nan Gillean and I’ll meet you at Sligachan if you bring the car round. Let’s see who is first!’

So just how good was this Cuillin record? One hour and 3 minutes later I scrambled up to the summit plinth of Gillean, scarcely crediting my speed. If I could nearly replicate the pace over the rest of the ridge I would be looking at a time of 3½ hours or less. A fortnight later my day off coincided with dry weather and I put the theory to the test, alone and unsupported. Despite a nasty tumble on Sgurr Mhic Choinnich I set a time of 3 hours 33 minutes and was home for an early tea. Beautiful and simple – as all the best things in life should be – and not a moment too soon; a year later my knees were creaking so badly that I gave up running for good to save my career.

A most depressing sight in the mountains is to see guides who seem to despise their job and resent their clients through overwork. The problem is how to maintain the buzz of pleasure in work and play when you spend 36 weeks a year on the hill. On a personal level I took the Munros in Winter ethic to a wider arena by tackling the 4,000 metres peaks of the Alps in a continuous journey of 52 days with fellow-guide Simon Jenkins in 1993. That was the final cure for my ‘peak-bagging’ mentality and subsequent pleasure has been more selective.

As a guide repetition is inevitable. My tally of Munros is well in excess of 2,000 and I have learnt to take increasing satisfaction in the rewards and skills gained by my clients; but each year I have kept the personal flame alive by offering new venues and new courses. Big guiding days can be as enthralling, prolonged and memorable as anything achieved purely for the self. Since 1992 I have taken groups to the Indian Himalayas every year, pioneering new peaks, valleys and passes on many trips. Since 2005 the mountains and icefalls of Norway have become a passion. Here I see the same vastness of landscape that first awakened my soul as a youngster. At times my affections have deserted my home country with the constant itch that new mountains must be better mountains. Now, thankfully, that trajectory is coming full circle. Whatever the exquisite delights of Garhwal Himalaya or the stern grandeur of Norway’s fjordlands, I conclude that the Scottish Highlands are unsurpassed in their mix of upland solitude, maritime drama and winter splendour.

Of course Joy knew this all along. She has always loved her life in Lochcarron and has never questioned its relative worth, despite the distance from family and amenities. She has endured the worst of our weather without a complaint and has chided me whenever my restlessness stirs. Sitting in our garden in the evening, looking out over the sun-dappled moors towards Ben Dronaig, there seems nowhere better to pass a life, but now I am forgetting the midge!

And what has become of the mountains themselves over 26 years living in their midst? The winter climate has undergone major fluctuations. After 1987 winter conditions deteriorated profoundly in duration and intensity as milder Atlantic weather systems came to dominate the climate. 1990 marked a nadir with an unending succession of storms and thaws. Fort William recorded measurable precipitation on 61 consecutive days, nearly all of it rain! Despite brief rallies in 1994 and 1996, most commentators were predicting the rapid demise of winter mountaineering as a reliable sport as the ‘greenhouse effect’ became the hot topic. The turn of the millennium saw drier winters set in but snow volumes were but a fraction of their levels in the 1970s and mid-1980s.

From 2007 the fortunes of winter mountaineering began to recover as Arctic and Continental airflows reasserted their influence. However, nobody could have predicted the magnificence of the winter of 2010, when, after an exceptionally warm November, snow and ice reigned for four months. What a season to be a winter climber or skier! Only 1986 can compare in my memory. My increasingly equivocal enthusiasm for winter climbing was instantly revitalised. Every day brought new joys and radiant sunsets. Only in mid-April did the season finally relent, leaving the peaks clad in Alpine splendour. So a sense of optimism has returned to the sport. Cycles of good years will no doubt continue to come and go, whether or not the average temperature creeps infinitesimally higher. We must all keep our axes sharp!

Throughout the last 25 years the popularity of winter mountaineering has steadily risen as more people seek to connect to the wilder edge of Nature and test themselves against the elements. Honeypot areas like the Northern Corries of Cairn Gorm are now horribly overcrowded every weekend, guided groups forming the bulk of the traffic flow on easier routes. The crucible of Ben Nevis has lost its former imperious power as hundreds whack their way up its great ice routes, which were the preserve of the elite just a generation ago. Yet it would be churlish to deplore this trend. Young mountaineers are just as enthused and inspired by the ‘icy halls of cold sublimity’1 as I was 30 years ago. The problem for old-timers is that we instinctively sully our current impressions with comparison to the rosy glow of youthful memory. The fault is entirely with our perception.

So it is actually heartening to see the exponential growth in Munro-bagging and to marvel at the remarkable Munro records that have been established in recent years. Back in 1985, when my motor-assisted 83-day round was considered a fair effort, no-one would have predicted that the Munros would be completed as a continuous summer run in less than 40, as achieved by Stephen Pyke in 2010. If we make an environmental audit of the Scottish hills over the last 25 years the erosion of paths across all the Munros is undoubtedly the greatest negative as far as lovers of wildness are concerned. I got progressively more despondent in my early years of guiding as ugly paths sprung up over the remotest of peaks, even in Knoydart and Fisherfield, but eventually took the more rational view that I was partly the cause! There is a price to be paid for popularity, but it is a price worth paying in knowledge that so many people are improving their health and relieving their stress by taking to the hills. As our dependence on health services becomes ever-more obsessive and our young gener­ation grow up with obesity as a norm, thank goodness there is a counter-reformation flowering on our mountains.

Indeed, the outdoor media can paint a bleak picture of our mountain environment. We are tempted to believe that we are besieged on all sides by useless wind turbines, that our scenery is being destroyed by new electricity pylons, and that rapacious landowners continue to plunder the resources of the Highlands. I do not wish to encourage complacency, for many important battles have been won by environmentalists over the years, but the ‘doom and gloom’ mentality can be corrosive to spirit and distorting to the truth. I contend that our hills are in far better shape, and are far better loved, valued and tended than they ever have been.

Looking back to 1985, the hills were then being blanketed with Sitka Spruce in vast mono-cultural plantations by the Forestry Commission. Our native forests were dying on their feet through neglect and overgrazing. Landownership was exclusively the preserve of private capital and was managed for sporting profit, save for a few pockets in hands of the National Trust. The Knoydart peninsular had just been reprieved from being turned in to a Ministry of Defence training ground. And there was still genuine poverty in many areas of the Highlands.

In 2010 replanting and regeneration of native broadleaved woodland has proceeded so far that some of us are grumbling that we will soon be losing our favourite views. The spread of mass plantations was halted by taxation changes 20 years ago. Our most-eroded footpaths have been repaired and rebuilt. A substantial percentage of wild land is now owned by conservation bodies, most notably the John Muir Trust. Many other estates are now under enlightened management, while Scotland’s Land Reform Act has enabled communities to buy back their land. All areas have enjoyed greater prosperity. Speyside is now the victim of its own attraction as a desirable place to live. However, the malaise of low wages, unemployment and underinvestment still blights many of the more remote villages. In this regard the development of renewable energy in the Highlands and round our shores should be seen as a positive opportunity, despite its environmental impacts.

Once resident in a locality an inevitable change takes place in one’s views on environmental issues. I won’t forget being taken to task by our crofters when I issued a localwalks guide without consulting all of them. ‘I’ll tell you where the best walk in Lochcarron is,’ fumed one magnificently indignant lady. ‘Along the sea-front pavement.’ One is quickly disabused of the incomer’s romance! New roads and industries become a lot more attractive when you’ve got a business to run and act as chauffeur to two children, who are soon enough out of school and looking for work in the area. However much I have swayed by such realities I must never forget the pristine beauty that brought us to Lochcarron in the first place and which still inspires thousands of hill-lovers to come here every year. A five-minute walk up our local hill is sufficient reminder.

I am most grateful to Sandstone Press for re-publishing The Munros in Winter five years after the original proofs were lost and the last copies of earlier editions sold. It has provided me with a delightful journey back down memory lane, a chance to reconnect with my earlier incarnation as a shy accountant with a passion for the hills. If the book can still inspire a few to set their feet towards the tops it will have served its purpose.

Martin Moran

Strathcarron

April 2011

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

to the 2011 edition

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Descending Ben Lomond on the first morning of the tripDecember 27: Descending Cruach ArdrainDecember 26: sunset view north-west from Beinn a’Chreachain over Rannoch Moor to the Lochaber hillsMartin and Joy leaving Meall Glas with the last Munro, Sgiath Chuil, and success on the Glen Lochay circuit in sight (photo: Simon Stewart)Simon Stewart with Martin at the summit of Meall GhaordieJoy on the summit of Ben More, Mull, with our fundraising leafletDawn at Culra bothy looking to Ben Alder and the Lancet EdgeThe lonely summit of Geal Charn in Ben Alder ForestClimbing Sgurr Thuilm looking north to Loch ArkaigOn the summit ridge of Ben Wyvis seconds before the squall struck and minutes before we were avalanchedMartin picks himself out of the avalanche debris in Coire na Feola, Ben WyvisMartin and Joy in loving pose on Carn Liath, Creag Meagaidh (photo: Hamish Brown)Joy skiing up Carn Liath against the backdrop of the Coire Ardair cliffs, Creag Meagaidh (photo: Hamish Brown)Joy on the approach to Mam Sodhail (right) and Carn Eige (left) above Glen AffricMartin descending Carn Eige on crisp névé snowThe Affric support team on the summit of An Socach: (front, left to right) Martin Stone, Pete Simpson and Roger Canavan; (back) Joy and Chris DoddWhite out conditions on the Moine Mhor above Glen Feshie en route to Mullach Clach a’BhlairLunch break on the trek to Braeriach from Monadh MorThe upper Feshie hills from Beinn BhrotainMartin heads up Glen Quoich towards the tops of Ben Avon on the last leg of the Cairngorm campaignThe rime-crusted summit tors of Ben AvonDrying operations after the North-West Highlands delugeNorthern wastelands: the eastward view from the summit of Ben HopeStriding towards Beinn Dearg from Am Faochagach in the Braemore hillsOn the relentless climb of Beinn Eighe out of Coire Dubh with Liathach behindTraversing the Corrag Bhuidhe pinnacles looking south-west over Loch na Sealga and Beinn Dearg Mor into the Great Wilderness (photo: Alan Thomson)Andy Hyslop taking a quick snack during the southern Cuillin traverseSoloing the East Ridge of the Inaccessible Pinnacle in the snowThe hardest Munro is vanquished: Martin on the top block of the In PinnThe final climb: ascending the west ridge of Sgurr Eilde Mor with the Mamores peaks behind (photo: Alan Thomson)Celebrating success on Sgurr Eilde Mor (photo: Alan Thomson)The Creag Meagaidh ‘circus’ on the summit of Carn Liath; in front, Joy and Martin, and standing left to right: Chris Bonington, Hamish Brown, Steve Bonnist, Richard Crane, Nick Crane (photo: Alan Hinkes)

FOREWORD

to the original edition by Hamish Brown

Completing the Munros is a challenge. It was a challenge for the Rev A. E. Robertson who first achieved this goal in 1901; it was a challenge for the next Munroist, the Rev A. R. G. Burn in 1923, and it has been a challenge to many thousands since.

The list of Munroists, beginning with two reverend gentlemen, was itself a start to the long accumulation of statistics and records that have followed. The first lady, Mrs Hurst, entered the list in 1947 (also a husband-and-wife combination). There have been father-and-son records, people have gone solo, or in different seasons, Philip Tranter did them a second time and led to a row of multiple tallies The ages of the oldest and youngest have changed steadily; even dogs have topped all the magic summits.

The game of Munro-bagging should have died with the maps going metric, which rendered obsolete the historic height of 3,000ft, but just enough people had completed the list, or were working on it, to ensure the game went merrily on. The number has multiplied since, and stood at 381 by the end of 19842. It was natural enough to go off and do them all in a continuous ‘walk’ as I did in 1974. That jaunt has been repeated several times since. My mountain walk took 112 days of largely unspectacular and unhurried progress. Speed was far from my mind and I resented being given the ‘fastest-ever’ label. For this reason, if no other, I am grateful to Martin Moran’s contribution to our crazy game. With his single winter’s round, he, for his sins, became the fastest-ever Munroist!3

In some ways that too is incidental. It was the winter aspect which was the new challenge that Martin set off to tilt at – a real Don Quixote effort compared with my Sancho Panza one. Scottish winters can be fickle and, far from having endless snow which would have been a joy, Martin had to cope with every variety of nastiness except midges. I was lucky to join him for one day of glorious perfection on skis, but even that entailed cruel living in our frozen motor caravans. The winter challenge is a mountaineering feat, not just a walking one, but then Martin is a lean, fit well equipped Don Quixote. It only took 83 days! I thank he gave his wife Joy who acted as support sufficient grounds for a divorce. It was a not unadventurous escapade.

I am delighted that their adventures have been set down. Our escapist’s literature has been given a lively addition. Suddenly, after a decade with only Hamish’s Mountain Walk for the armchair Munroist, there has been a flurry of books about the Munros. This one is different for here is a story of one man’s accepted challenge. It gladdens my heart in these mean, grey days to see a young man putting feet to his rainbow dreams. Readers had best beware though: Munroitis is also a disease, a highly contagious one, which can be caught through the printed page. You have been warned.

Hamish M. Brown

1986

NOTE TO SECOND EDITION

There is little I wrote in 1986 that I would change. That the Munros are inspirational is seen in the growth in participant numbers, an indication of increased leisure opportunities and recognition of great enjoyment in this esoteric pastime. Martin’s account has become a classic and I’m sure will inspire many in the years ahead to find and share the thrill of the Scottish hills.

Hamish M. Brown

1997

1

THE WINTER CHALLENGE

The Scottish Highlands have an aura that is unequalled anywhere within the small confines of the British Isles. Where else is there a natural domain of such infinite scale and unspoiled magnificence that one feels dwarfed and lost in its midst?

Think of any other upland tract – Dartmoor, Snowdonia, the Lakes: each one is touched and pressured, struggling for space, and even ravaged in places. The human hand is always in the view, and however lovely in certain parts or finer detail, Nature has surely lost her total freedom there in modern times. But up in the North you can still stand atop a lonely ‘ben’ and see no end or blemish to the expanse of mountain loch and ocean that is spread out at your feet. The wilderness scene mocks our ego, and puts us in our proper place within the scheme of things, yet it also consoles and uplifts the spirit. And for the mountaineer, the array of peaks, which every Highland view includes, is an irresistible call to arms.

If the words ring true to those who trek and climb through the moist and misted months of Scotland’s summer then they bear much stronger tone in the depths of the winter season. The numbers are fast growing of those who know the mountains to be at their finest when swathed in snow and battered by the year’s worst storms, and no longer is one regarded as madly eccentric to take a winter climbing or skiing holiday in the Highlands.

The peaks may be relatively tiny in stature, but neither in shape, variety nor heart-stirring beauty do they yield much to any mountains in the world; and in winter their ferocious and unpredictable weather is renowned. They are a forcing ground of technique and experience, and generations of British mountaineers have cut their teeth on Scottish ice before progressing to the Greater Ranges. But it is unfair to treat the Highlands merely as a stepping-stone to bigger things: they have sufficient challenge of their own to meet the highest ambition.

This train of thought attracted me to the idea of a prolonged winter expedition in the Highlands which would explore their great potential for adventure; a single challenge involving every type of winter mountaineering skill from Nordic skiing to steep ice-climbing, and giving complete commitment to meet the hills in all their moods, both fair and foul.

The exploit would necessarily be contrived in its design and rules, yet without a code of ethics and a personalised objective is there real adventure left anywhere these days? The age of pure exploration is long past, and it is the style of achievement which now counts for all, whether it is yachting single-handed or climbing Everest without oxygen. To do it in Britain without expense and fuss would also help to prove the lie that modern adventure is the slave of commercial interests. But above all a trip was sought that would fulfil a long-held passion for the Highlands and, despite its trials and dangers, would be a thorough enjoyment to undertake.

And of course the solution was obvious – it had to be the Munros.

When Sir Hugh Munro, in 1891, surveyed and tabulated the Scottish mountains exceeding 3,000ft in height he would little have imagined that he was instigating a challenge and a tradition that ninety years later has achieved the status of a cult. What was probably for him a purely personal indulgence is now a lifetime ambition for many thousands of keen hill-goers.

His original Tables gave 283 such separate peaks, a total now trimmed by resurvey and reappraisal to 277 in the latest 1984 edition4. At the end of 1984, 381 climbers were known to have achieved the ascent of all, and there are countless others making determined progress towards their completion.

Notwithstanding the many fine summits below 3,000ft in elevation, and leaving aside the Hebridean Islands, a Munroist can reasonably claim to have encompassed the greater length and breadth of the Highlands in his travels; so the apparently senseless mania of Munro-bagging does have a ‘real’ purpose which on its achievement ensures an intimate and extensive knowledge of the country. The lure of the unclimbed Munro takes the walker far beyond his usual haunts.

The ‘Winter Munros’ story properly begins in the summer of 1974 when Hamish Brown made the first non-stop traverse of them all in a continuous walk of 112 days. His feat is known to have been emulated twice, but of a winter grand-slam attempt nothing was heard. Understandably so, for whilst the traverse in summer is essentially a marathon walk with just a little rock-climbing on the Cuillin of Skye, in winter it is transformed to a mountaineering proposition of high order. And so, as one man’s endeavour merely points out the things left undone, the winter gauntlet was thrown down, and I eagerly took it up.

Having set the objective some ground rules were required. First and foremost was the problem of timing. What or to be more precise when, is ‘winter’ in the mountains? The tops can bear a complete snow cover in any month from October to May, yet in a lean year can be almost bare in the middle of January. If a deep coating of snow and ice was prerequisite to my every ascent, it could take several years to finish.

So the strict calendar season from 21 December to 20 March was selected as holding the greatest probability of winter conditions. This would follow the practice in the Alps where the calendar limits are applied rigidly to all claims of winter ascents. More excitingly, though, these limits thrust upon me a ninety-day target, which when divided into the 277 Munros determined a schedule that made my heartbeat race. Three summits per day – now that looked interesting! It would make a tough test of endurance at any time of year, but was it remotely possible through the dark days and snows of winter? One thing was certain at the outset – the target was unattainable on a continuous journey and would necessitate the major tactical concession of using motor transport between the peaks. Not only would this save the 500 miles of valley walking and cycling by which Hamish linked his mountains (imagine pedalling into a Force 10 gale on a late December night!) but would also give the crucial flexibility to choose whichever summits suited the prevailing conditions. The joy of continuity was sacrificed but the spice of adventure maintained, for even with motor support the scheme looked marginal.

Winter weather data for the Highlands make a fascinating study, which leaves the intending climber with few illusions about the challenge ahead.

The notion that the winter brings less rainfall than the other seasons is something of a myth. Records for both the west and east sides of the country show that the months from December to March take slightly more than their one-third share of the annual total, and of course much of the winter precipitation comes as snow. Nor in winter are the high tops any clearer of cloud. The nineteenth-century observatory readings for the summit of Ben Nevis gave a 75 per cent average frequency of hill fog between November and March. Summit air temperatures, as would be expected, are depressed throughout the winter. On average, 6°C should be deducted from the sea-level readings to give the temperature at 3,000ft. On the summit of Cairn Gorm, 1,000ft higher, the mean air temperature in the four-month winter periods between 1979 and 82 was -3.4°C.

But it is winter winds that are most to be feared by the mountaineer. A compass will see you through the fog, and a good set of clothing can keep both the cold and snow at bay, but against the wind there is no answer. It slows the pace, saps the strength and sucks away the body heat – a triple threat in a single foe. Not only are natural windspeeds 50 per cent higher at 3,000ft than at sea level, but also the mountain topography has a compressing and channelling effect which markedly accelerates the flow. Just how many gales might be faced on the tops in those ninety days? The question was crucial to the whole venture.

The data for Cairn Gorm summit for 1980–1 gave an expect­ancy of 53 days with gales (ie, winds above 40mph) out of the winter’s 90. The figure looked intolerable, and a more kindly interpretation was anxiously sought. After all, a day with a gale doesn’t mean twenty-four hours non-stop, or in itself make all progress impossible. By making reasonable modifications the conclusion emerged that 32 days could be expected where progress was severely impeded (ie, winds between 40 and 60mph) and 10 where a climber would be stormbound (ie, greater than 60mph).

So those 277 peaks would have to be climbed in 80 days rather than 90, of which only 48 might allow full-scale exped­itions. At least the storms would give some periods of rest!

October 1980: Sheffield

Having handed in my notice and abandoned an accountancy career a week previously, the preparations for the winter attempt had passed the point of no return. Even my wife, Joy, had with difficulty resigned herself to spending three months down here alone, keeping up her job and maintaining some semblance of security in our lives. And two months of hard running on our local hills and moors had built an enviable stamina and resilience to carry me through the coming struggles.

As usual, the final light of a gloomy autumn evening saw me out training, pounding up a wooded clough towards the gritstone edges. With a lung-bursting effort I clambered to its top and turned to view the twinkling city lights behind. All was going well – the Munros dream was taking shape, its start just six weeks away. But at the beginning of the descent, without warning a shooting pain locked my knee-joint solid. Something was radically wrong. I tried to ignore it and went on, but ten more paces brought me staggering to a halt. It was four miles to limp back home, a slow and bitter walk.

Five days later I sat on the specialist’s couch, and my worst expectations were realised as he delivered his solemn judgement: ‘There’s a piece of bone broken off your kneecap. If it isn’t removed you will damage the joint, so you’ll have to give up whatever it is you’re planning to do . . .’

The anguish I felt when leaving that consulting room will forever haunt my memory. There I was, my spirit crushed, feeling an abject failure, out of work and without a future; so many people – companions, supporters and a local charity for whom I hoped to raise funds – to disappoint, and then facing the ignominy of asking for my job back. To my great gratitude I was re-engaged and the planned day of departure saw me back at a desk, pushing a pencil over ledger sheets once more, my escape hatch to the mountains firmly shut, perhaps for ever.

Yet this dream and challenge, so intently nurtured and pursued, was not to be forgotten. The knee recovered its strength from the operation. I worked and saved hard, climbed continuously and travelled afar. Self-confidence was slowly restored, experience broadened and four years later life was sufficiently organised to try a second time.

October 1984

Joy had noticed me creeping off upstairs of an evening for the last few months, and in her curiosity would come up to find me poring over Scottish maps, and scribbling notes of routes, distances and heights. She knew the truth without a word being spoken. The Munros game was on again!

But when the subject was broached and discussed, we made a firm pact to do it together. The lonely solo attempt planned in 1980 was perhaps ill-considered and very likely would have failed through lack of dependable help; for if there was one trump-card to play against the odds of wind and storm, then it was to have Joy with me, as companion, pacer, driver and provisioner. Most crucially, though, we would have each other for constant emotional support throughout the stresses of the journey. It would be an interesting test of marital harmony.

Joy was by no means overawed by the prospect. Her pedigree as a cycle tourer and marathon walker was considerable. Together we had walked the Pennine Way in winter, trekked over the deserted Norwegian plateaux in autumn, and now had just returned from an expedition in the Indian Himalayas. In fact she was so taken by the idea that she had already arranged the sale of our beloved terraced home even before my final decision to go was made. This was wisely deferred to the latest date possible for I wished no repeat of the cruel rebuff of 1980. First the strength of my creaking knee-joints needed to conclusive proof, and they were subjected to a summer’s mountain guiding in the Alps, followed by four weeks under huge loads on a Garhwal glacier, before a public commitment was chanced.

This left us just six short weeks from design to launch. Transport and accommodation en route were our prime concerns, and were together solved by thumbing through the ‘Yellow Pages’ to the Motor Caravan Hire section.

‘We don’t usually get a lot of winter rentals. Will you be taking it far?’ queried the owner of a white coach-built Ford transit which stood washed and polished in his drive.

‘No, no, just up to Scotland to do a bit of hill-walking.’

‘Oh well, that’s all right then, but did I hear you right – it is three and a half months you want it . . .?’

We left him doubtful of our sanity but glad of the business all the same. The van was nearly new, fully insulated and with every imaginable fitment. All our hopes resided in its efficiency and reliability.

The trip was costed at £2,500, a figure which could be at least doubled if three months’ loss of earnings was taken into account. And yet, retaining the style of simplicity and independence in which the venture was conceived, we sought no financial assistance from commercial sponsors. Berghaus served us proudly with their enthusiastic provision of boots, clothing and rucksacks of the highest quality. Their gear would never have a better testing. But that apart, we bore our own expenses.

However, we saw the expedition as an excellent vehicle to publicise and also sponsor a worthwhile charity. Two visits to the Himalayas had opened my eyes to the hopeless poverty and the environmental destruction with which India and many Third World countries are beset. The work of Intermediate Technology in providing new tools and methods to help regenerate and improve rural societies in these countries was already known to us through the incredible 2,000-mile run, over the foothills and passes of the Himalayas, which the Crane brothers had undertaken on its behalf in 1983.

We liked IT’s preventive approach to famine. The adage comes to mind: ‘If you give a man a fish you’ll feed him for a day; if you teach him how to fish you’ll feed him for life’.

It sounded perfect common sense, but would they risk taking on another crazy exploit to promote their cause? We wrote in hope, and were quickly accepted. Within a month the ‘Summits for Survival’ appeal was mounted, and a flourish of publicity arranged for our departure on 21 December.

But before enthusiasm ran away with reason, the results of those months of route-planning had to be assessed.

The required total of eighty day routes was drafted, giving the most efficient means of ascending every group of Munros. They varied from short return trips to climb the many isolated summits like Schiehallion and Ben Lomond, to extended traverses of the great multi-peaked ridges such as the Fannichs or the Mamores, and 25-mile Nordic ski-tours in the Grampians. To cover the remote areas such as Knoydart or Ben Alder Forest, around sixteen nights would have to be spent in camp, bivouac or, more likely, bothy shelters. The variety was intended. Each itinerary could hopefully be matched to the fluctuating weather – easy hills in stormy periods and the big traverses on clear days and moonlit nights.

The showpiece of the whole winter would be the Black Cuillin Ridge on the Isle of Skye, much the most difficult set of Munros in summer, and in winter conditions a major snow- and ice-climbing expedition, which has only been achieved in full by a handful of parties.

The allowance of ten rest or stormbound days could be extended by combining some of the shorter climbs, but only with difficulty given that the eighty planned routes themselves produced a taxing daily average of 1,675m (5,500ft) of ascent and 13 miles to cover all 277 summits.