Beinn an Dothaidh

A Day Out in Early March.

Bart grins the grin of the only man in hiking kit in a station full of dark suited commuters. It's a Thursday morning in Glasgow Queen street. I walk over to him, and together we grab a ticket from the machine, day-return to Bridge of Orchy. We jump on the train.

Pulling out the map, we have a look at our route for the day. East from the Bridge of Orchy station, up the Coire an Dòthaidh, then north toward Beinn an Dothaidh, a climb up a fun looking gully before turning east again. Up to the west summit, then across to the (ever so slightly taller) east summit. Finally, we would retrace our steps down to the station and (hopefully) a train home.  

We settle in for two hours of planning trips and watching the mountains slowly rise up outside the train window. 

Stepping onto the platform, we can see the bulk of the mountain rising up before us. The white snow is patchworked with black rock, and tinged a slight grey by the overcast gloom of a Scottish winters day. 

We follow a stream up toward the coire. The snow slowly deepens. The top layer, half melted by some earlier thaw then refrozen, forms a hard crust, any fresh powder swept away by the winter winds. 

This icy layer taunts us, promising again and again, like a terrible boyfriend, that this time it will support us. 

The boot is placed, the ice holds. A cautious weight is applied, still it holds. Balance is shifted, the step committed to, trust is betrayed. We drop ankle, knee, thigh deep into the soft powder below.

 Entering the bowl of the coire, we jump the stream and stop to look up at the gully above us. We have a Snickers and agree on a route. Below the cliffs to our right is a nice smooth slope, a leftwards traverse at the top and we will be on the shoulder of the mountain. It’s not technical, but it’s steep. We drop our bags and unsling our ice axes (or rather Bart takes out his and I take out Luca’s, cheers for the loan, I promise to buy my own kit one day…).

I take first turn breaking trail, Bart following in my footsteps. The ground steepens, soon a smooth white slope drops away below us.

The distant peaks are obscured by cloud, the ice-crusted cliff beside us glitters in the half light. 

I try to settle into a rhythm, step one foot forward, make sure it’s properly planted before the other follows, then swing my arm and plant the ice axe, shaft down like a walking stick, out ahead. Two points of contact with the ground at all times, hand always ready on the axe to catch any slip. 

Step, step, swing.

Step, step, swing.

A stiff breeze picks up, and fresh snow starts to fall. Giant fairy-tale flakes whirling in the eddies of air that blow up the mountainside. 

Despite the cold, I start to warm up.The deep snow forces me to lift each foot high, in an over-exaggerated arch, like I’m play-acting a giant.

Step, step, swing.

Step, step, swing.

I look back and Bart is close behind, keeping up easily, his big grin now hidden below his buff and goggles (but undoubtedly still there, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the boy without it).

Step, step, swing.

Step, step, swing.

I stop for a breather, Bart offers to take a turn at the front and moves up past me. It’s easier being second, but the bastard climbs like a mountain goat. I get little chance to cool down. 

Step, step, swing.

Step, step, swing.

The route narrows and winds a little. We thread our way across a small strip suspended between the rock to our right and the steep slope to our left. 

The atmosphere in the mountains is incredibly peaceful. We chat as we climb, stopping often to admire the view. 

Step, step, swing.

Step, step, swing.

I’m in the lead, traversing a particularly steep section. The snow beneath my left foot gives way, then my right starts to go. For a fraction of a second I am sliding, but I have a firm grip on my ice axe, and feel a reassuring hand grasp my rucksack. It is over in the blink of an eye, my feet are back under me and we continue on. We laugh it off, but looking down to the base coire, now several hundred metres beneath me, it is a gentle reminder not to let complacency creep in. 

Step, step, swing.

Step, step, swing.

Bart leads the way across another short traverse. Just a few metres, but by this point the snowpack is reduced to centimetres of hard rind, nearly ice, over the rock beneath. He kicks the toes of his boots in, hard, with each step, gouging out little platforms on which we can balance. Our axes are now held by the hand grip, picks buried in the slope above.

The gully comes to an end, the slope opens up before us, the angle softens to a gentle incline. We are on the shoulder of the mountain.

Another snickers goes down the hatch as Bart gets out his map. We both have a go at trying to pinpoint our position before checking our results against the GPS. The white blanket across the landscape smooths over the terrain, making precision that much harder.

There is something captivating about navigation. Using a piece of paper and a tiny shard of magnetic steel to figure out exactly where you are in the world. We agree there are few things as satisfying. 

We reach the western summit, the clouds have closed in. We can now see perhaps forty metres in any direction. The wind has dropped, the snow and the cloud merge. We stand at the centre of a blank white bubble. 

Five hundred metres to our east is the main summit. To our north, a line of cliffs, unseen in the whiteout, drop away to the Coire Achaldair. 

Leapfrogging. It’s a navigational technique. Person A (me) stands still, whilst person B (Bart, it’s like it was meant to be) walks a short distance, following a bearing on their compass. Person B then turns to face person A, the only reference point in a blank white universe, to take a back bearing, making sure they haven’t drifted from their desired path (ie, not towards the cliffs). Person A then moves up to person B, and the process is repeated.

I’ve read about leapfrogging, I’ve practised it, I’ve even taught it, but, before today, I've never used it for real. Looking at the dead straight line we draw on the GPS it is gratifying to see how well it works (and a bit of a relief to know I’ve not been teaching people utter bollocks).

The whiteout breaks just as we reach the eastern summit. We sit on the rocks of the cairn and have our lunch. The coffee in my flask has its usual slightly rancid scent (no amount of scrubbing, boiling, or bleach will remove the ghost of a hot chocolate left too long to mature) and my sandwiches have been lightly crushed. On this snowy summit, feeling far from civilisation, lunch tastes wonderful. Deep in the warmth of my big puffy jacket, I enjoy the tingle of cold air on my face. 

With lunch finished, we turn to retrace our steps down the mountain. A shaft of sunshine breaks through the cloud, lighting up the top of a reentrant as we pass. The golden light on the snow at the crest of the dramatic cliff face makes the perfect backdrop for a photo.

I swing my bag off again, opening the top flap to retrieve my mini tripod. Finding a rock, I set it up, getting Bart to stand with his back to the view whilst I frame the perfect photo. I take too long, the cloud closes in, Bart blames it all on me, tempers flare, an epic life or death struggle ensues. We fight each other, ice axe to ice axe, balanced precariously atop the cliffs. 

We carry on down. Past the west summit, back down the broad field to the shoulder then into the top of the gully. The descent is slow and steady, little balls of snow kicked up by our boots roll away down the hill, growing as they go. 

This can mean only one thing. 

He is named Snowy, having ice axes for arms makes him a pretty good climber, and when they fail he simply rolls to safety, a concept we prove by sending him for a tumble down the final hundred metres of the gully.

Soon enough, we have followed the stream back down into the valley and are sitting in the station awaiting our train. 

In all we have been on the hill for a little over six hours. We’ve been on a tiny adventure, climbed a mountain, practiced navigation, had a fight to the death, made a snowman. All this, and we will be back in our respective flats in time for dinner, a hot shower and an early night. 

Footsteps in the snow, the only thing that should be left behind.