Let’s start with a bit of the Beaufort Wind Scale:

8 – Gale. 39-46mph. Twigs and small branches are broken from trees. Walking difficult.

9 – Strong Gale. 47-54mph. Slight damage occurs to buildings.

10 – Storm. 55-63mph. Trees are broken or uprooted, building damage is considerable. Walking effort trebled.

11 – Violent Storm. 64-72mph. Extensive widespread damage. Extreme windchill.

12 – Hurricane. 73+mph. Extreme destruction. Walking not possible at 77mph, only crawling; breathing difficulties facing into the wind. Humans can be blown off the ground for short distances at 99mph. (1)

I can relate to some of that.

The first taste of what was to come arrived on the relatively easy 17km walk up Creag Liath (745m), a rounded top behind our overnight stop at the Newtonmore bunkhouse. There were five of us, Neil, Mark and Giles, friends and fellow outdoor instructors, and Pete, a mate I’d met on an Alpine mountaineering course the previous year. Visibility was good, mainly because cloud finds it hard to hang around in the kind of winds we were experiencing. The actual walk wasn’t especially memorable with its brown and green slopes, slabs of grey stone and clear, fast boulder-strewn streams.

The winds on the summit ridge were memorable though. I recorded in reasonable depth in my diary that night the sensation of the wind drying out my eyeballs, the inside of my mouth and the interesting sensation of it whistling up my nose and my eyes spontaneously watering. No blocked sinuses on this holiday. A more astute person than myself (see later re: Giles and Pete) might have had an inkling as to what lay in store.

The next day we left a deserted and drizzling Newtonmore at 8am. Whilst paying at the local petrol station Neil noticed that the only commodities on sale, apart from fuel, were whisky and condoms. I’m sure on a warm, sunny summer evening  Newtonmore is a pleasant enough town, but on this dank morning the impression that the locals did nothing other than get hammered then engage in safe sex (who’d want to bring up a bairn here?) seemed quite fitting. A poster in the window made Aviemore sound like more of a laugh. Apparently it was only three quid for a bloke on Ladies Night at the Grotto. If they were that cheap though you’d probably still need that bottle of whisky to lower your standards sufficiently.

The plan was to ascend Fionn Bheinn via its various approach bogs. However after nearly being blown flat in Achnasheen train station car park we decided instead that navigating ourselves towards a cup of tea would be a more suitable objective for the day. This in itself was a pretty testing mission due to the lack of functioning tearooms. I will always remember the image of a sodden Pete staggering outside one closed teashop looking just like a film extra that, just out of shot, the crew were repeatedly heaving full buckets of water over.

Across the kicked up surf on Loch Maree we could see the zigzag lightning streak waterfalls on Slioch blowing upwards in feathered plumes.

More positively the drive over to our next base in Kinlochewe was impressive. Across the kicked up surf on Loch Maree we could see the zigzag lightning streak waterfalls on Slioch blowing upwards in feathered plumes.

The next day brought another unwintery, windy and not massively inspiring ascent, this time of Meall a Ghiubhais in the Beinn Eighe National Nature Reserve. The mountain was as good as it could look given the grey skies, flat-blown grass, luminous bog and damp lichen covered scree. Pete and Giles decided to leave. I firmly believe that the weather conditions were the major factor in their decision, it was nothing to do with the bizarre mushroom stroganoff they ate the night before. How’s a girl to know that pineapple fromage frais is not a suitable substitute for cream? Some people have no sense of adventure.

Ben Damph the next day. The dark river in the ravine by the path was roaring down but the rock hopping crossing at the top, above the pinewoods, was sound. We gained a higher level plateau and headed up the shaggy, grass tufted valley on a good path. The gradient and pace from then on was unremitting, but the terrain was straightforward lumpy grey scree. The gusting wind had picked up, funnelled and intensified by the contours of the mountain.  It was a weird sensation not to be able to breathe in the wind, as if a vacuum had been created in front of you as the wind screamed either side of your head. Occasionally my peripheral vision, i.e. that small part not staring at the snow flecked blocks computing the next footfall, would register a white cone of spindrift erratically weaving its way towards us. I found huddling down as the freezing stinging particles hit worked well.

A bigger spindrift whirlwind appeared. I flatted down on the scree, braced and ready when it hit. This time I felt the unnerving sensation of the wind pushing against my rucksack. It had never occurred to me that actually clutching the ground was a good idea until I felt the wind levering me over onto my back.

A bigger spindrift whirlwind appeared. I flatted down on the scree, braced and ready when it hit. This time I felt the unnerving sensation of the wind pushing against my rucksack. It had never occurred to me that actually clutching the ground was a good idea until I felt the wind levering me over onto my back. Time slowed, as it does in these situations. I can remember thinking “ooh, not good” before reality sped up once more. I had flipped all the way over and was shooting spread-eagled on my front down the slope. Mark had escaped this gust and, at the front of the group was temporarily unaware of what was happening behind him. Neil had had his legs whipped from under him and had landed face down on the rocks. He was feeling pretty uncared for when he got up but soon realised why I hadn’t shouted to see if he was OK. I was still in the prone position facing downhill doing a quick mental check that everything still moved and worked. Apart from a few bangs and scrapes, and the slight appearance that I had attempted ice axe braking with my face, we were all fine.

We carried on to the snowy tops then started plotting our descent. Some of the gullies were deep in recent unstable squeaky windslab. Others were scoured clear. We descended, skirting back and forth over loose, vegetated scree frosted with snow and cut by rivulets of brittle, cloudy ice. Dark had set in by the time we reached the bottom of the slope, the wind picked up again swirling constantly making shelter from it impossible. We must have been visible as just three bobbing headtorches as we tramped back to the car.

Copper brown islands in steel blue, wind ruffled lochans; monster-spined ridges of rock rising tall over the flat land…

Another friend, Dave, joined us (strangely bringing his own food supplies) and we headed up to Assynt and Stac Polliadh, a fantastic little peak for a short walk. It was wet and blowy but the views were astounding. Copper brown islands in steel blue, wind ruffled lochans; monster-spined ridges of rock rising tall over the flat land; layer upon layer of grey cloud rent by shafts of sunlight with vertical bands of rainbows slicing down.

After a windy and tiring ascent of Slioch and a drive to see a cloud draped sunset from Glen Brittle the scene was set for the best day yet, Beinn Dearg. We left at 6:45am and started in the dark from the parking area near Torridon House. As we emerged from the soft ground of the pine forest one by one we turned off our headtorches. The walk led towards Beinn Eighe with the hulking ridge of Liatach to our right. None of us realised at the time, but we were all having serious motivational issues at this point. Using Andy Kirkpatrick’s rule, which necessitates a group having 100% commitment for any route, we just scraped through with 25% each. The end of this approach was really trying, over and down endless, useless, bumpy grassy mounds. It’s not often I’ve felt like kicking something just because it exists, but if I’d have had the energy I’d have put the boot in on a couple of these hillocks. One such hillock is the historical site of a pointless attack by a vicious murderer; I bet he’d got the arse on the way up the valley too.

Luckily we set off towards the first peak, Carn na Feola, without incident. This grassy section had a reasonable gradient. As we gained height motivation flooded back and monochrome views of the snow sprinkled slopes opened out, heightening the richness of the browns and greens of the valleys below. Ascending with the steep ground on our right we had views down into an inky black lochan far below. We then contiued upwards through a steep section with ice axes in hand. The terrain wasn’t too difficult but a slip on the snow would become a spectacular, if final, toboggan run to the base of the coire. The final part of the ascent swung to the south of an icy rocky section and, crampons on, we weaved in and out and over the snowy blocks.

The views across to the glistening white Liatach ridge were a visual siren song. With the warm sensation of adrenalin running through our bodies we scrambled easily to the final top.

Suddenly there we were. The wintery verglassed summit of Beinn Dearg just ahead. The views across to the glistening white Liatach ridge were a visual siren song. With the warm sensation of adrenalin running through our bodies we scrambled easily to the final top. At last a winter day you could enjoy. No need to shout and stagger in the wind; just chat and the rhythmic kicking into the snow with each foot and downward thrust of the ice axe shaft. If life had a pause button I’d have hit it then and there. Time was reeling us in though. We dropped down steeply to the stream and then hit a fast pace in fading light through the darkening pines and back to the car. That evening was a warm fug of pasta, beer, card games and petrol station whisky. We’d been out there, and we’d got back.

• (1) Moran, Martin 1998, Scotland’s Winter Mountains.

Thanks to Neil for doing the bulk of the organisation and car driving. Apologies again for dinner on my designated night.

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