This is the second of three posts about our Xmas and New Year trip to Scotland’s southern highlands, trying to tick off some more Munros (mountains in Scotland over 3,000ft in height). In the first post, we tackled Beinn a’ Chochuill and Beinn Eunaich, Next, we moved further east…
The forecast for the following day predicted higher winds on the summits. The panorama that Ben Cruachan had presented from the summit of Ben O’Cockle – of an airy knife blade of rock, perfect for splitting one’s trousers – had given me goose bumps. It didn’t look like the best place to be caught in a gale, so I decided to look for alternative options for our second day.
A short distance to the east along the road to Tyndrum, lay 1,130m Ben Lui, a mountain considered by many to be the finest peak in the Southern Highlands. Its position further inland meant that it was more sheltered from the south-westerly winds; its summit forecast was better than the one for Ben Cruachan.
Ben Lui’s sister peak, 916m Beinn a’ Chleibh (or Ben of Cleeves if you prefer), is also classed as a Munro, and there is a route from the A85 through Glen Lochy that provides access to both. However, the walk came with a hazard of its own right at the very start: a crossing of the River Lochy that the Walkhighlands guidebook warned would be impossible when the river is in full spate.
In recent years, I’ve taken to crossing rivers using the ‘Peter Salenieks’ method (named after an erstwhile trekking companion who specialises in it) of simply wading across without bothering to take my shoes off. Done quickly enough in big leather boots, you can actually avoid getting your feet wet. It’s not a trick I wanted to risk in winter though. In temperatures of zero degrees or less, there would be no chance of wet feet drying inside wet boots. They would simply become frozen cold.
We arrived at the car park in Glen Lochy at 8am, having driven in the dark from Taynuilt. The first few rays of sunlight were penetrating the gloom. A single overnight camper van was parked up and we were the first hikers there.
The river crossing came just 500m from the car. I spotted several feasible crossing points as we walked along the riverbank, and was dismayed to find that the official fording place was located at the widest part of the river. There were some stepping stones, but they were widely spaced and rimed with ice; they would have required giant strides – risky on an icy surface.
To make things more interesting, parts of the water were iced over, though not thickly enough to stand on. There was nothing for it but to take our boots off, roll up our trouser legs and get on with it. I was already prepared for this. I had packed a spare pair of socks so that I could wear them to buffer the jagged pebbles that I expected to line the riverbed. I had also packed a towel to dry and warm my feet when I got to the other side.
I didn’t hesitate. With boots in hand, I strode across, breaking the ice as I went. The water came to just below my knee and was as cold as I expected. Edita must have been right behind me, for she climbed onto the far bank at the same time as I did.
My feet were frozen. I removed my socks as quickly as possible and warmed my feet with the towel. The tootsies were still painfully cold by the time I’d rubbed them dry, put on fresh socks and laced up my boots; but they were dry, and I hoped they would warm up as I walked.
Our next hazard was to pass underneath the railway line in a tunnel designed for hobbits. I needed to take my pack off and crawl like a crab. A side stream lapped at the walkway; the guidebook had warned that this would also be impassable when the river was high, but today it was OK.
The fun wasn’t over. We ascended a firm, frosty path beside the stream for about 500m. My toes were just starting to warm up when we reached a second side stream that we would have to cross. It was narrower than the river and the stepping stones were closer together, but they were just as icy. I didn’t have the patience to go through the rigmarole of taking my boots off and putting the cold, wet socks back on again, so I risked the stepping stones. Somehow, we both managed to get across without ducking our feet or (the outcome I was expecting) sliding arse over tit.
The trail steepened to reach a pine plantation, then passed through it on a pathway that appeared to have been constructed entirely from frozen peat. This path would certainly be worse in summer, when you would have no option but to sprawl through midden. But frozen peat isn’t entirely harmless. While it generally held firm to our weight, this wasn’t guaranteed. We tiptoed up this hell-spawned walkway, conscious that any moment the surface might break and swallow a leg. It was here I discovered why my new trekking pole (see the previous post) had been priced at only £12.50. The locking mechanism didn’t cause the pole to instantly retract like my broken pole of the day before; it shrank gradually as I strode onwards. Little by little my posture regressed from homo erectus to australopithecus, and every so often, when I started smelling peat, I would have to stop and adjust the pole.
Towards the top of this section, the trail veered into the forest and we had to be careful not to get skewered on twiggy branches. I was glad to pass through a gate in a deer fence into open moorland.
To our left, the route to Ben Lui followed the fence along the forest boundary before striking off up grassy slopes. The summit looked just a stone’s throw away, the high point at the top of a matted hillside. To its right, the skyline dropped 300m to an inconspicuous col before rising just 100m more to the summit of Ben of Cleeves, a far less prominent mountain that extended towards the forest in the form of a broad shoulder.
Ben Lui may be considered the finest mountain in the Southern Highlands, but principally due to its north-eastern aspect, on which it is buffered by the well-fashioned corrie of Coire Gaothach. I have a photo that I took with a zoom lense from the summit of Bheinn Mhanach, 18km away, on a snowy March weekend in 2013. The peak rises majestically like a marble throne above arctic tundra, and ever since I took that shot I’ve wanted to climb it.
Mountains have many aspects, though. From the north side, Ben Lui is decidedly unmajestic. IMO, the word that best describes it northern ascent route is ‘slog’. Give me two words and it would be ‘bloody slog’, and that’s the polite version. And yet this is its most popular route. The reasons for this are twofold: it’s closer to the road, and – perhaps more importantly from a Munro-bagger’s point-of-view – Ben of Cleeves lies on this side. If you want to climb two Munros in a day, then this is the way to do it.
We were hiking up a grassy bog that had iced over in places. Frozen sheets the size of tennis courts peppered the hillside, prompting wide diversions. The trail was faint and we frequently lost it, plodding up rutted slopes until it re-emerged. On ascents like this, a trekking pole is useful, but I was quite unable to put any weight on mine without halving its size. A walking stick that you can’t put any weight on is rather like a wheelchair without a seat. It was no more useful for balance and propulsion than Fred Astaire’s cane. If only I’d worn a top hat, white tie and tails, then I could at least have looked the part.
I’d also had ‘stomach issues’ that morning and had packed toilet paper in case of an emergency. The roll wasn’t needed, but as I dropped further behind Edita, it became clear that I wasn’t performing with my usual virility (yes, virility). At around 800m, I started ‘bonking’, as they say across the pond. Four separate hikers overtook me. Edita continued to race ahead and I had to keep asking her to stop and wait. We were still a good 200m beneath the summit when I asked for a break. We sat down in the grass, and hot tea and a clif bar gave me a small energy boost.
This wasn’t a classic ascent. We lost the trail again, and ended up taking a more direct route up boulder-strewn slopes to reach the south ridge, which we joined only 100m short of the summit. Here the going became easier. There were some sections of easy scrambling to provide interest after the rotten slog.
We reached the top at 11.30 and found ourselves bathed in sunshine. There were two summits: a flat, indistinct one and a more prominent, jagged rock tower a little further away. I instinctively continued to the second one, where one of the hikers who had passed me earlier stood silhouetted against the sky. It was one of those deceptive peaks where whichever summit you stand on, the other looks slightly higher. The OS map unhelpfully placed the 1,130m label directly between both.
I believe that the rocky one is the true summit, but it was cold and windy up there, so we returned to the other summit to eat our lunch in a sheltered spot. A hungry raven kept us company as we gazed west to Ben of Cleeves, which was looking rather pathetic 200m below us, a grassy shoulder with no obvious peak.
We left Ben Lui’s summit at midday and followed a good path down to the col and back up the other side. We were standing on the lonely top of the 916m little chap less than an hour later. We looked across a crumpled landscape of low-lying frosted hills towards the western isles. Behind us, Ben Lui’s lampshade-like flat top stood high above. I was glad we had climbed that one first. By contrast Ben of Cleeves felt innocuous, the high point on a long, plateaued ridge. To be honest, I felt a bit embarrassed about ticking it off as a Munro.
Our descent was quick back to the col, but arduous beneath. There were places where the boggy trail had frozen solid. Torville and Dean would have loved it, but I wouldn’t have managed three steps before flying feet first down the hill like a recumbent long-jumper. We had to skirt above these sections on tufted grassy banks.
By now I was running on empty, staggering downwards by sheer force of gravity, unable to concentrate on anything more than putting one foot in front of the other. But I didn’t realise how tired I was until Edita started a conversation about heading down a bar for New Year’s Eve.
I stopped dead and focused my attention on the question.
‘Why do you have to mention that now?’ I said.
At that precise moment, the thought of going out partying punctured my head like an arrow, deflating my remaining energy bags.
‘Jesus, I’m knackered.’
I sat down on the grassy slope with my pack still on. I could easily have slept for a few minutes. Meanwhile, Edita continued onwards. When she looked back 100m further down the hill, I was still slumped there. She probably thought I was sulking.
‘Come on. Let’s go. It’s embarrassing,’ she shouted up at me.
I rose wearily to my feet and resumed my plodding. I caught up with Edita at the forest line and we stopped for a second lunch. The sandwich buoyed me up again, and I was able to complete the descent of the boggy forest trail without any further drama.
Back at the River Lochy, we decided to look for an easier crossing point than the official one. A well-trodden trail along the south bank revealed that we weren’t the first people to have this thought. At the bend opposite the car park, we found our spot. A pebble beach reduced the width of the river by half, and what remained looked shallow.
Since our car was just 50m away and I could warm my feet inside, I decided to do a Peter Salenieks. I strode across purposefully. The water came up to the top of my boots, but the crossing took only a few seconds. I was pleasantly surprised to reach the other side with my feet still dry. Edita was wearing approach shoes, so the technique was less effective for her, but she was soon able to dry her feet in the car.
I felt a faint glow of satisfaction as we drove back to Taynuilt with two more Munros under our belts. It had been a rewarding experience, all things considered. I may come across as a grumpy old duffer, but I had actually quite enjoyed it. But while I know that some people consider Ben Lui to be the finest peak in the Southern Highlands, I would need to drink a lot of whisky to count myself among them.
To be continued…
You can see all photos from our walk in my Loch Etive and Glen Awe Flickr album.
Route map
Ben Lui and Beinn a’ Chleibh
Total distance: 11.15km. Total ascent/descent: 1,174m.
View route map and download GPX
