BEATING THE HEATWAVE AND A TIMELY NAVIGATION REMINDER

THE capricious nature of our weather ensures that no Scottish mountain day is ever the same, a heady mix of delight and misery wrapped in the one package.

For most of the year it requires a search for windows of opportunity, snatched hours of calm in between the more trying conditions, whether that be high winds, thunderstorms or, as we are increasingly experiencing, excessive heat.

Recent trips to the big glens of the North-west and to Ardgour were all about dodging the rains and for the most part it was successful, just one hour of waterproofs over four days during the former, three dry walks out of four for the latter.

Two weeks on, it was a different consideration. With high pressure firmly ensconced over most of the country and temperatures reaching and staying in the high 20s for days on end, the trick was trying to stay out of the worst of the heat. Location and timing were key.

The highest numbers were in the west and south, so I looked north where there was more chance of cooler conditions. The long summer light meant I could travel during the day, walk up a mountain in the evening, have a few hours' rest then go again early morning.

The journey to Sutherland was an entertainment in itself, watching the temperature gauge rising steadily from 15.5C at Perth to 28C around Aviemore, then dropping some 10 degrees again at Inverness. There were two route choices to reach Lairg: I stuck with the coastal option and its sea mists which kept things comfortable rather than heading inland just yet.

Then there were the road warning signs. One read: Otters for next 1¾ miles. Then: Goats for next 1½ miles. I didn't spot either but I was impressed that these animals obviously knew their boundaries.

I've always regarded Lairg as a frontier town, a last bastion of 'civilisation' before you head into the beautiful emptiness. Beyond, the long single-track passage through the moorland and past a series of lochs was shimmering as though on fire, the heat rising way beyond what had been forecast for this area.

I had planned to climb the hills above Loch Merkland, Beinn Leoid in the evening and the extravagantly named Meallan Liath Coire Mhic Dhughaill in the morning but the blistering, unrelenting sun forced a re-evaluation. It was 5.30pm and still 25C – the shorter wander up Ben Hee seemed a better bet. And in hindsight, this proved to be a wise move.

As I prepared for the off, I spotted a figure coming wearily up the road. He had been up Ben Hee in the heat of the day, a real struggle, especially in the confines of the lower corrie. He now looked ready to switch off, toiling to get his words out.

I had seen a few in this state and worse a few days earlier in Corrie Fee during a circuit of my locals, Mayar and Driesh. One in particular had lost the ability to put one foot in front of the other and his face looked ready to burst – despite being otherwise well equipped he had no cover for his head. At least they all had the sense to realise the impossibility of their task and turn back before things got too serious.

A cooling easterly breeze made the initial ascent of Ben Hee bearable, and with every step upwards the sun's intensity eased. Its fading luminosity then opened up a landscape of fresh light and shadow; the final hillside ahead a mix of brushed yellow vegetation and stark white slabs and boulders, the view to the north and west a stack of hazy blue ridges and peaks with the odd glistening silver slash of a lochan nestling in their midriff.

The last time I stood at this summit was on a gloomy winter day with snow cover and minimal views, a few minutes' respite arriving in the form of brilliant rays piercing the grey ceiling. This time, the light show revealed the full magnificence of the corrie across the way.

The descent was equally enthralling, a lone young stag on the near horizon, the waters of the Allt Coire a' Chruiteir turning into liquid gold and the high ridges ahead now sharp silhouettes lit elegantly from behind. It was windier and cool when I arrived back at the car where I lay and watched the rolling mists gently filling in the gaps between slope and loch as darkness closed in.

A 6am start next day, the stalker path providing a speedy rise above the cloud sea, peaks like desert islands all the way along the horizon. The high point between the two separate paths was reached, only the short drop and rise between to navigate. With Beinn Leoid sticking up above the mist it should have been straightforward. The terrain for next kilometre or so was rough but I didn't remember any great problem on the last crossing. But that was in clear conditions and the route was obvious. Now I had descended into a pea-souper that seemed in no hurry to shift and my electronic mapping had decided to go on the blink. No matter, I would soon recognise the way ahead. Except, I didn't.

The ground was a mix of bog, tussocks and deep grass, damp and miserable, no discernible landmarks. I started to realise I was off line when I passed below a dark leviathan looming out of the grey. Then I reached a lochan, sunlit yet still mostly hidden in the murk. It was time to revert to the old method. Out came map and compass and I sat and worked out what could have gone wrong.

I had erred too far left, overshooting the grass ramp where I should have turned. I reversed my route and was starting to make sense of it when the mist began to lift. The electronic mapping also came back to life. Now it was all so obvious.

I reckon I wasted about an hour altogether and all because of over-confidence. My last visit to this mountain was in crunchy winter clarity and I should have realised that in high summer this terrain would be more overgrown, more complex. The walk back out was certainly a reminder of that.

It also made me think that had I stuck with the original plan and tackled Beinn Leoid, I may have ended up having to tackle this difficult ground in fading light and disappearing visibility.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, especially when you call it right. But nothing beats a map and compass when the chips – and the apps – are down.