Moonwalker - Adventures of a Midnight Mountaineer

I HAD expected that second time round on the Corbetts would be a voyage of rediscovery but instead it's proving to be a whole new experience.

It's 16 years since I completed, but in many cases I haven't set foot on some of these mountains for more than 30 years. And when you factor in that many were climbed at night and others in poor visibility, it's not surprising they now feel like undiscovered country. 

There are familiarities of course, little triggers for the memory banks, but nothing compared to the constant and intimate knowledge of the Munros and their multiple ascents. It's also fair to say that the preference of trying to climb each of these of hills by a different route or by a more expansive approach rather than it being simply a ticking exercise makes a difference. And it helps that I'm choosier with my weather days.

The past photographic evidence can be scant, just a few grainy pictures of summit cairns – the only ones deemed usable from a whole reel of film – often lacking a proper aspect of the landscape. It's got to the point that I no longer reference these before I head for the hill in case it spoils the surprise. Four mountain days in the past week have reinforced that view, four days that each proved to be a box of delights in so many ways.

The last time I sat at the summit of Beinn Mhic-Mhonaidh was on September 11, 2001 and it's likely the events that later unfolded in the USA on that day contributed to my consigning that mountain day to a footnote. My patchy memory was of a weary early morning push through the forest then a boggy firebreak to emerge on the open hill as the light started to rise, breakfast at the cairn as the diaphanous mist swirled around keeping most of the views under wraps.

There was no instant recollection of the parking area in beautiful Glen Orchy, the bridge over the falls or the march through the trees. Seeing this bulky mountain stretched across the horizon above the canopy was a revelation – a sight hidden by the mists last time. It felt a longer way up, a combination of the heat and the fact we thought we were rising far too slowly. Turned out we were fine – there was a misprint in the guide book regarding the timings. 

Details of the last visit to Cnoc Coinnich were even more elusive, buried in a sea of handwritten notes which used to be scribbled down at the end of walks, no clue as to whether we assailed it from the Lochgoilhead or Arrochar sides. The one word that does remain stuck somewhere deep in the memory banks though is quagmire.

No such problems this time, although the rough road through the Ardgarten forestry nearly put a halt to this reunion before it had started. Having already endured a time-consuming series of closures and diversions en route, I was dismayed to find this road covered in a sea of mud and boulders. At one point I nearly slewed off the road into a ditch, then the driver of a four-wheel coming the other way stopped to warn that it was even worse further up, possibly impassable. Help was at hand, though, and just in the nick of time. Clearance operations were under way and the excavator drivers waved me through.

There was plenty of tree harvesting on the slopes ahead as well but the way to Cnoc Coinnich was unaffected and simple, using the Cowal Way to reach the col and then turning sharp left for a direct assault. The tiny cairn was a magnificent viewpoint, lochs and peaks in every direction, the clarity perfection itself. Nothing rang a bell however, three people in one old, faded picture with a tight cropping the only proof that I had ever been there before.

The spectacular twin rock 'islands' of Cruach Innse and Sgurr Innse that sit to the east of the Grey Corries are harder to forget, as is the bone-shaking drive up the track from Corriechoille, but views had once again been restricted by stubborn mists on an earlier excursion, an annoyingly common occurrence when setting off at such an early hour. It had been like looking at the high terrain through net curtains.

The Wee Minister is still lurking on the way to the Lairig Leacach, albeit a lot more weather-beaten these days. When the wooden figure first appeared, be could be seen standing atop a rise, peeking over the lower treeline, giving many an early morning fright. If anything, his presence is even creepier now he was been swallowed by the forest – you are never quite ready for that jump scare round the corner.

My ascent of Cruach Innse was far more direct this time, helped by the fact that I could see the way ahead as well as marvelling at the constant presence of the soaring streaked peaks of the Grey Corries. The route off the other side was a delight too, twisting and turning through a series of rocky ramps with Sgurr Innse dead ahead and the Easains a magnificent backdrop.

There is a difference between forgetfulness and deliberately blocking out a memory, and that could easily be the case for many when it comes to Carn na Saobhaidhe. There's a belief that there no bad hills but this one tests the statement to its fullest extent. Even calling it a mountain is pushing things: it is the highest point (maybe) on a vast plateau of heather and peat bog among a multitude of other of rounded high points, with tracks running everywhere amongst an ocean of windmills. When I arrived at the designated top, there was a BT van parked. I don't imagine there would be too much outcry if the mountaineering VAR – wrongly, of course – chalked this one off the list.

To reach this summit from the east means a 28-kilometre round trip, mostly on tracks with just the final half-hour on pathless, soggy ground. With the full extent of the bleak surroundings laid out in perfect 360-degree visibility, I began to congratulate myself on having got there many years ago unsighted. 

Yet there was still so much to enjoy. The single-track drive from Tomatin to Coignafearn was wonderful, bright sunshine, clear skies, yet frost thick in the shadows of the -5 air; the long uninterrupted walk by the sparkling, rushing waters of the boulder-filled River Findhorn; the waterfalls below the undulating track as it rose and fell like a rollercoaster. And none of this raised the merest hint of recognition.

Even the final bog trot wasn't too bad, the still frozen ground producing more crunch than squelch even if the novelty soon wore off. The 'summit' had a saving grace – the gleaming white presence of the high Cairngorms stretched across the distant horizon.

There are two schools of thought when it comes to going over old ground: one is that you should never go back, the other that second time round is better. When it comes to the Corbetts, I'm firmly in the latter camp.