Moonwalker - Adventures of a Midnight Mountaineer

THE first kiss of winter on the mountains is always special, a moment of sweet promise with deep soft snow, dramatic light and skies alternating in threat and delight.

This striking landscape switch from colour to monochrome often turns out to be relatively short-lived, so I was glad to have taken full advantage before the weather beats a retreat into the more customary mundane.

The far north of the country had taken the brunt of the Arctic blast and Inverbroom Lodge, a rambling Victorian house a few miles south of Ullapool, proved to be the ideal base. Our group numbered 12, each with their own agenda. Some were prepared to travel even further into the snowscape to reach their targets, others were happy with what was on offer closer to their temporary home.

There had been a taste of what was to come two days earlier on a traverse from Glen Clunie to Deeside over the White Mounth Munros. The forecast was for fierce winds and constant wintry showers, but it wasn't until we neared the top of Lochnagar that we were properly assaulted and we were soon able to drop out of the firing line. That turned out to be a mere appetiser.

The long drive north 48 hours later was benign. Once the line was crossed at Garve however, conditions changed dramatically. And once past the inn at Aultguish, the mountains disappeared altogether, hidden by an icy mist that had set up camp down at the roadside.

With a later start and a shorter window, I was aiming for the little hill with the big name, Beinn Liath Mhor a' Ghiubhais Li, an outlier of the main Fannaichs range. I set off into the sub-zero veil in full winter kit and little expectation of any views, and that proved to be the case for the first half-hour. Then it all changed.

A few more steps and I rose out of the clinging mist to witness the unveiling of a stunning panorama of high mountains in every direction; an inversion that showed the whole Fannaichs ridge to one side, the Beinn Deargs to the other, while a glance backwards revealed the bulk of Ben Wyvis stretching across the horizon. The mist was now lying like an inland sea lapping round huge, rocky islands.

The ascent from then on was one of ever-changing moods: brilliant sunshine bouncing off sparkling slopes and lines of light dancing along the contours; darkening skies throwing shadow and sudden fluctuations in temperature in my path. The snow came on as I reached the summit so there was no hanging around. I dropped fast towards the west on a compass line, the reward being another spectacular light show all around as the snow and wind relented during the loss of height.

The roaring fires and fine company at the lodge that evening meant the constant snowfall largely passed unnoticed. The first steps out the door next morning suggested it would be much harder going on the hill.

The roads needed caution and I emerged from the car at the empty parking spot above Loch a' Bhraoin to temperatures of minus seven and a touch of nose and finger nip. A quick ground test meant spikes were a necessity along with double gloves. The walk along the lochside track was mostly in shadow. To the left, the sun was trying hard to breach the high line of the western Fannaichs but only finding partial success with a pale yellow spill across the glass-like surface. Ahead, the twin Grahams at the head of the loch were reflected in perfect symmetry.

I broke away from the track, wading through deep powder on a constantly twisting line trying to find the best ground. It was hard work but I had emerged from the shadows and my core heat was rising with the growing power of the sun. The spikes were jettisoned along with one pair of gloves. The rise was unceasing, book times now an irrelevance, every step unpredictable. Once again though, winter provided a boost when it was most needed, As I finally crested the ridge, I was treated to the sight of mighty An Teallach cloaked in brilliant white beneath towering clouds of increasing menace.

Within the space of a few minutes, the sky had shifted through multiple shades of grey to jet black with the occasional slice of blue struggling to make its presence felt just off to the right. The threat looked as though it was heading this way but my hoped-for dash to the summit of Creag Rainich was slowed by the deepest snow yet, every step upward an exercise in post-holing. 

There was some brief respite with views from the trig summit and I thought the threat had passed. Five minutes later, I was in a blizzard. Any hopes of retracing my ploughed trail back down to the track vanished as the weather closed in completely. I decided the best course of action in near-zero visibility was to take the shortest line down.

This inevitably meant a few wet stumbles into hollows with hidden hazards. It also involved a greater distance along the track and the last half-hour was walked in darkness and constant snowfall, but it was the safest course of action. 

When the weather turns in the short days of winter, the priority is to get off the hill. Only then do you start to pray that the car is still there, it starts and the roads are open. On this occasion, every box was ticked.