Moonwalker - Adventures of a Midnight Mountaineer

I HAD spent two hours at the head of Loch Etive watching the star-spangled sky slowly but steadily transform from ink black to radiant blue and the millions of sparkling diamonds losing their intensity in the growing light. It was time to get going.

The rough path alongside the edge of the forestry was boggy and awkward but the hard work was offset by the coming sunrise: the twin humps of the Buachailles were backlit silhouettes, the slopes of Beinn Fhionnlaidh bathed in an ever expanding copper wash.

This was widescreen cinema at its most dramatic, albeit all light and no sound. But almost as soon as the thought entered my head, the complementary orchestration kicked in.

There had been the odd, faint peep of birdsong from the trees but now the Pavorotti of the avian world, the song thrush, had found its voice and was going through its full euphonious repertoire. It seemed somewhat ironic that a thrush should be the apex bird at that moment on an ascent of Beinn Trilleachan, a mountain whose name means hill of the oystercatchers or sandpipers, but its tuneful trilling was a defining moment, confirmation that this was going to be a superb day.

The last time I had been as far down the Glen Etive road was in August 2018 when I was tackling Ben Starav as part of the Mountains of the Moon book project. That was also a beautiful night, but the contrast couldn't have been greater. 

I had been accompanied by author Patrick Baker and as we dragged his canoe the short distance from the car park to the water we were mercilessly assailed by clouds of midges. The crossing was a relief and the climb successful under the Sturgeon Moon, but the return was in damp, claggy conditions which meant another losing battle with the mini vampires when we reached the home shore.

This time I could relax. The overhead conditions were flawless and it was warm but not too hot but the true beauty of April was the absence of the dreaded beasties. 

As the sun finally started peeking over the left shoulder of Ben Starav, I was gaining height. There was still a bit of hard work to reach the ridge, a lot of dodging round slabs and crags and trying to avoid messy, slimy ground but once through these hazards the walking became easy. A sustained rise at a good angle on dry and increasingly long pavements led to the first summit, a little rocky eyrie perched at the top of the plunging Trilleachan Slabs.

I had forgotten that the way off this peak needs care – there is a path through the rock bands but it is harder to locate from above, much simpler on the return – and the breathtaking depths of view to the loch is a constant reminder that it is a long way down. The main summit doesn't have the same drama but it does offer an equalling compelling vista, a long line of sight down the loch with the Cruachan range particularly prominent across the water.

The day before I had been on another fine Corbett in the glen, Beinn Maol Chaluim, a walk which shares a few similarities with Beinn Trilleachan. The initial ascent is equally steep and trying, an alleged 'path' through browned and flattened bracken – it would be worse in high season – a slippery nuisance factor then by the line of an old rusty fence leading to an exercise to trying to find the best ground uphill through another carpet of bracken plus low crags.

Beyond this, the whole nature of the walk changed. There was one prominent crag to turn, then it was a relaxed trot up to the south top where the long, twisting S-shaped ridge leading to the main summit was revealed in all its glory. And it was a revelation. The only evidence of my last visit more than 20 years ago was a photo of two friends, who had obviously deeply regretted the invitation to join me, as they stood dripping wet and miserable with nothing to see for their efforts.

Then we were only aware of the huge presence of Bidean nam Bian which dominates the space to the right: this time I could see it every step of the way to the two cairns which crown the top. The central position of this summit means that everywhere you look there is a jumbled mass of mighty mountains.

The downhill journey was slightly tinged by the thought of the mess that awaited for the last few steps but consolation was at hand in the shape of a golden eagle gliding over in that deceptive way that suggests lethargy but which is all about grace and economy.

Two perfect mountain days, with the thrush winning the Oscar for best soundtrack and the eagle for the visuals.