Marilyn bagging from Kinlochleven

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Marilyn bagging from Kinlochleven

Saturday, 25th January, 2003

Chris Upson & Demon Rodwell

The forecast for January 25th was gales, possibly severe, with frequent blustery and wintry showers. Thus encouraged, Chris Upson and I set off for Kinlochleven for a spot of Marilyn bagging. We'd initially hoped for a spot of company, but over the preceding week first Manny and then Charlie admitted that they were too scared to enter such a wild and scarce-trodden set of hills without full military and medical back-up and a rescue helicopter on standby, so it transpired that our only company was the intrepid mongrel Meeka.

We left Kinlochleven around 10:30 and followed a narrow and boggy trod for a couple of miles before joining a lovely fast 4-wheel-drive track, which took us past Loch Eilde Mor and Loch Eilde Beag and delivered us to Luibeilt, a derelict settlement on the banks of the Abhainn Rath The map promised a path on the opposite bank, and bog on our side, but the river in spate looked like a formidable obstacle, and we spent 10 minutes running upstream to find a crossing point.

One or two of the more forthright Westies have recently hinted that the best thing I could do to revive my flagging running career would be to have a vasectomy. Well, here I nearly did. It was bloody freezing, numbing feet and legs within yards, and it was with considerable relief that I discovered that the deepest section only came to mid-thigh! It was flowing so fast that I decided to carry Meeka across, fearing that she would end up three miles down-stream in Loch Treig. Safely across, we made our way to our first bothy at Meanach. A nicely appointed little number it was too, with swept wooden floors, a cosy upstairs sleeping area, a comfy sofa and a solar fridge.

A good runnable path along the river took us to some well-funky waterfalls, from where we cut NW across tussocks and started to climb our first Marilyn of the day, Creag Ghuanach. When we crested the summit ridge the wind hit us like a punch. Coming from our left, it buffeted so strongly that I fell repeatedly, stumbling on towards the distant and magnificent Easain ridge. After a brief photo-stop on the summit of Creag Ghuanach, where we sheltered from the wind beside a pretty we lochan, we decended the north side of the hill, again spending as much time on my arse as on my feet, before joining Allt na Lairige in a gorgeous, tranquil glen. A mile downstream this became a deep dramatic gorge.

OK, I made up that bit about the fridge.

Crossing the bridge at Creaguaineach Lodge, we came face to face with the illustrious Alec Keith. Luckily for him, he was heading in the opposite direction, denying us the chance to demonstrate how much faster than him we were moving. Alec is renowned for his holey, ragged running gear, and I noticed and commented that he was dressed in uncharacteristically natty attire. He admitted that the trousers were a present, the jacket a prize and the hat he had stolen. If I'd had my camera handy, you would have the pleasure of seeing Alec crossing the slippery, slime-covered wooden bridge in a 40-knot side wind on all fours. Unfortunately I didn't, so you'll just have to imagine it.

Our next hill, a 'sub-Marilyn' apparently, was Meal a Bhainne, which we approached from the NE in a blustery face-stinging hail-shower. It turned out to be one of those pain-in-the-arse hills with no definitive top, and we wandered about for some minutes standing on top of every likely looking spot just to be sure, to be sure.

And the sofa.

A windy descent through peat bog took us just south of Loch na Staoineig, from where we climbed our final hill of the day, Beinn na Cloiche. The weather was consistently crap now, and we quickly dropped off the south of the hill and made our way to the bothy beside Loch Chairian.

From here a reasonable path deteriorated into bog after a couple of miles, and we arrived at the dam holding back the Blackwater Reservoir pretty shagged out by the constant battle with the wind.

Chris had assured me that from here it was a gentle 4-mile descent to the car, but suspicious of his estimate after last week's tussocky debacle, I asked to see the map and discovered that it was a good 6 miles. With only 45 minutes of light left, we had to crack on, and these miles, on an undulating path through woodland, were completed on auto-pilot.

A grand day out, to be sure. Chris is attracted to Marilyns because they take him to places off the beaten track to some great little-known hills. This was certainly true. The first hill was a wee cracker, with magnificent views into the Grey Corries and the Easains and a lovely secluded glen and a gorge. The last hill gave us a great panorama, including shafts of dying sunlight streaking down into the col between the two Beuchailles. The second hill, however, was a pile of pish. Such is the wonderfully varied nature of Scotland!

It's as well you didn't come, Manny. You might have hurt your leg or something, and with all that wind and rain and stuff, you could well have caught a chill.