Ben Alder (m)
Ben Bheoil (m)
Length
- bike 19.7m 31.8km
- walk 10.5 m 16.9km
Total 30.2m 48.7km
Ascent
- bike 448m
- walk 1066m
Total 1514m
Naismith
- bike 3h
- walk 5h 9m
Total 8h 9m
Weather Fine with about 50% cloud, cover light wind, dry & sunny
The culmination of the precise
planning. I have long had a fondness for this hill. It is big. It is far away
from roads. I had something of a traumatic experience many, many years ago in
this neck of the woods. This was a return in style, bigger, better, faster,
lighter, drier, nimbler, bolder. A triumph. Smugness without compare. (I may be getting carried away here but I was really looking forward to this).
I had decided that if there was
to be a 200th Munro then it should be, without doubt, Ben Alder. It
is a name that doesn't really convey much but to those who know... let’s say it
has an appeal.
We had hummed and hawed about
the exact nature of our outing but reckoned that the simplest option was the
best. We would abandon the children with our long suffering In-laws and strap
bikes to the back of the car and do a single day round trip. That is one of the
things about this hill, you have to decide 1 day or 2 or maybe 3? We had camped
just past Lock Pattack a few years ago. The intention had been to have
something of a Munro ‘Fest. We biked in, pitched a tiny tent next to the Allt
Cam and set off up Beinn a’ Chlachair. Next day we climbed out of the tent and
up onto Carn Dearg after which we wound our way along to Geal Carn, Aonach Beag
and Beinn Eibhinn. The return was over some roughish country to pick up a path
near Dubh Lochan and back to the tent to eat and quaff tea. We had intended to
bike round to Ben Alder the next day and climb it too but the day dawned and we
lay in sleeping bags listening to the tap - tap - tap of rain on the fly. We
resumed one of our favourite past times, drinking tea and scoffing biscuits.
When we ran out of biscuits we packed up and went home. The only regret was in
hindsight we should also have climbed the nearby Creag Pitridh and Geal Carn on
the first day.
On this occasion the day dawned
bright and warm with a gentle breeze. It was looking good. The car park by the
level crossing was ram-jam full and I received words of advice from a woman in
a camper van, “Don’t park in the resident’s spaces. We did and we got shouted
at”. I thanked the woman for that pearl of wisdom and parked further down Station
Road. I had no intention of parking in the resident spaces. They’re for
residents. I’m about to undertake a journey of about 40km. 100m more will not
make a blind bit of difference. People! Really!!
We crossed the railway and pedalled
down the road. As we approached the dam, a convoy of 4x4s and a minibus drove
down the road accompanied by a large van. We held back to let the dust settle.
I had assumed there was a party kicking off in the Big Hoose but my thoughts
were interrupted by a massive bang. I was the victim of a blowout, not just an
ordinary blowout but an unrepairable blowout only a mile from the car.
Everything crumbled round me. The planning, the preparation, all the
anticipation of my Ben Alder return. There was no way we could do this trip in
one day on foot and be home before dawn!! (we did have torches). When would we
get good weather again?
Over the next few minutes, my
wife effectively told me to get a grip. I should point out that there were a
few select words that I have omitted in the interests of decency. I have also
paraphrased and removed the cries of anguish.
Wife: “Could you repair it?”
Me: “No, I have no kit to repair it with me”.
Wife: “That’s a bit daft etc. etc. etc. ad nauseum”
Wife: “Do you want to take my bike and I’ll wait for you?” Yes, she actually said that.
Me: “That’s very kind of you but no, that would not be much fun for
you”
Wife: “Is there a bike hire/shop place nearby?”
Me: “Errr, actually I think there’s one in Newtonmore”
Wife: “Well then, let’s go”
I took my wife’s bike and
pedalled back to the car, racked it then drove back to meet her. She then
surpassed herself. A couple of the locals were getting in their car and she had
the presence of mind to ask where the nearest bike shop was. “The one in
Newtonmore is shut. I used to work there, but Laggan Wolftrax is open”.
Sorted. A brief visit to Laggan,
coffee, a new tyre, an inner tube and a couple of tyre levers were purchased
for the slightly inflated (no pun intended) price of £40.00 and the day was
saved. I even managed to do the repair without taking the bike off the car.
There was a brief sense of Déjà
vu as we saddled up again and pedalled our way down the side of Loch Ericht,
past the lodge and up the slight hill. On the way down we were treated to a
grand view of Ben Alder forest and a collection of 4x4s and a large van parked
up at the ford. Curiouser and curiouser.
By the shores of Loch Pattack a
group of people were sat about drinking. Greetings were exchanged as we passed
and the last thing I heard was “They’ve got a bar!” That confused me briefly.
We passed the van and all became clear, a bar with optics and draught taps set
up in the shade of the van. This is how Badenoch Angling Association roll. A
friendly bunch too.
There is a bothy called Culra.
It is not the bothy that was the focus of my previously mentioned traumatic
experience. We headed towards the bothy along a track that wasn’t as good as
the one that takes you to Lock Pattack. There were times we had to dismount as
it was too rough for comfort but we reached the bridge that signalled the start
of the walk. We consumed tea and sandwiches on a big rock as we wondered who
had abandoned the expensive looking Land Rover Disco on the track (it
transpired it belonged to the family of blond people picnicking next to the
river. I assume it was mum, kids and au pair). Culra was a hundred or so meters
up the track and it was besieged by tents. We may have been a long way from the
road but not from “civilisation”. There must have been in excess of 20 tents of
varying colour. I felt justified in deciding not to camp and made a mental note
not to drink from the river below the “wild” campsite and to always buy a dark
coloured tent.
 |
| Bem Alder - Long Leachas on the right skyline. |
The master plan was to ascend
to the plateau by way of the “Long Leachas” Leachas is a corruption of the
Gaelic for leg. The route is in the most excellent “Scrambles in Lochaber” and,
to be honest, only just qualifies as a scramble. There is a final steepening
which is turned on the right by way of a short gully with no difficulty. The
only precaution was for me to ascend while Mrs H waited in case I dislodged a
stone or two. A final narrowish ridge leads to the plateau and a cairn. I’d
like to do it in winter; the views are fine and wide. If we hadn't some time to
make up I would have liked to sit a while.
 |
| The view from the top. |
 |
| Looking toward the summit. |
 |
| Looking moody in the OS ruins |
Back in the 1990’s a hill
walker had the misfortune to discover the remains of a young man on the mountain. All
means of identification had been removed, even the labels from his clothes.
 |
| 200. 'nuff said. |
 |
| 200 but with jazz hands. |
While traversing Bheoil, I had
looked down to the path along Loch Ericht and marvelled at the distance I had
walked at age 12. I'm still not sure how I managed it.
My dad and his friends along
with some members of Kyle Mountaineering Club had hatched a plan.
Friday night; Get the train to
Crianlarich and stay at the youth hostel.
Saturday morning; Catch the
first train to Corrour and walk out to Ben Alder Cottage.
Sunday Morning; Walk out to
Dalwhinnie for the train back to Glasgow Queen Street.
I seem to remember that it
started in good weather. By the time we reached Corrour Lodge it started to
rain and then it kept on raining. It all gets a bit hazy after that. I remember
crossing the river and the descent towards the bothy which seemed to take
forever. I was wet. We got into the bothy and steamed in front of the fire
until I changed into dry clothes. I am amazed I had anything dry. There was a
couple of folk in the bothy already and by the time the KMC and other arrived
it was pretty full.
In case you don’t know, there
are various stories about Ben Alder Cottage and its resident ghost. Some people have heard of bumping
and scraping noises during the night while others have been convinced that they
are being watched through the window. Legend has it that the last resident
shepherd hanged himself, unable to endure the loneliness and isolation. His
ghost remains, unable to rest in peace.
The bothy had 3 rooms and was
organised into Married Quarters, Family Room and Single End. Dad and I along
with Duncan and his daughter Marion occupied the Family room. As this was back
in the good old days, I had a crap sleeping bag. This meant I couldn't sleep
because I was cold. I managed to make enough noise to wake up dad. There was a
brief discussion and we swapped sleeping bags. I then fell into a blissful
sleep while my dad tossed and turned unable to sleep because he was cold. At
some point during the night my dad claims to have heard a scream from next
door, remembered the ghost story and decided to stay in his sleeping bag.
Unknown to us at the time, one
of our companions in the Single End had woken and heard the knocking and
scraping noises from next door and remembered about the ghost. This seems to
have led to a nightmare from which she woke with a scream. It’s probably as
well that my dad stayed in his sleeping bag. If the screamer from next door had
woken from a nightmare then lay and listened as a clumping noise approached and
the door slowly swung open, I think the whole bothy would have been awake
shortly after.
Next morning I discovered that
my feet were too big for my boots. They were too tight to wear for the 14 miles
to Dalwhinnie. The only option was to walk in my Gola trainers. These were 1982
trainers remember, not 2012 trainers/approach shoes with contragrip sole,
goretex and sorbothane inserts. We packed up and headed out into the grey
morning. I remember being slightly apprehensive at the start because not long
after leaving the bothy, the hill’s grassy sides slope into the loch quite
steeply and my crap trainers had no tread to speak of. What followed was a long
wet day. I don’t remember being cold, in fact I think it was quite enjoyable
for a while. Every so often there would be a dead sheep or deer on the track,
seemingly intact until you saw the big hole and realised it was a hollowed out
carcass. I can’t recall how many times I wished for a speedboat to motor up the
loch. I’d even have settled for a canoe or a rowing boat.
Close to Ben Alder Lodge, not
long after we reached the Land Rover track, the rain started again. It rained
and rained and rained. Miracles do happen sometimes. My feet were soaked but I didn't get a blister. I just kept on walking and walking and walking. And it
rained and rained and rained.
After a long day with 2
outstanding hills under our belts we returned to bikes and demolished what food
we had left. It seemed reasonable that we would cycle the flat and the downhill
and walk the uphill sections. The ride back took a wee bit longer than the ride
out. I was feeling tired, thirsty and slightly annoyed that I couldn't catch my
wife up but it felt good to be cycling along the track that I had trudged along
all those years ago. Fat tyres and suspension soaking up the bumps. Food and
drink stashed in the car, heading home after my 200th Munro. And
this time, a little bit sunburnt.
