Across the Moine Mhor to camp on Tom Dubh

Camp on Tom Dubh

“A pointless and distant top -Stob Lochan nan Cnapan (Tom Dubh)”

Irvine Butterfield           The High Mountains of Britain and Ireland

When Irvine Butterfield wrote his excellent book in the 1980s 918-metre Tom Dubh was listed as a subsidiary Top of Braeriach in Munro’s Tables. A glance at the map shows that this doesn’t make much sense as Tom Dubh is some 6 kilometres from Braeriach’s summit but just two kilometres from Monadh Mor. The latter is now, sensibly, given as its parent Munro. To include it in a walk over Braeriach and its other Tops would mean a long diversion and is probably the reason for Butterfield's comment. It can easily be included in an ascent of Monadh Mor from Glen Feshie.

Recently I went this way and had a delightful camp on Tom Dubh, which Butterfield also describes as “the most meaningless 3000 ft ‘top’ in all Britain”, sitting outside my tent in the sunshine looking at the extensive views. It’s a gentle, innocuous hill situated far out on the Moine Mhor (Great Moss), that huge high-level boggy plateau between Glen Feshie and the higher Braeriach – Cairn Toul hills. Irvine Butterfield wasn’t impressed with the Moine Mhor either – “the ultimate in desolate wilderness, a landscape so featureless that it almost defies man’s ability to use map and compass” and “perhaps the most psychologically intimidating walk in Britain”.  I think he had a rough day here!

Remembering Butterfield’s words as I sat on Tom Dubh I briefly considered whether hills can have a point or meaning. They can’t, of course. They just are. We ascribe those attributes. They are not innate. I guess to some peak baggers Tom Dubh is irritating due to the effort needed to reach it but that’s nothing to do with the hill itself.

Loch nan Cnapan

The name of this inoffensive little hill means dark or black (dubh) knoll or hillock (tom). It’s not particularly darker than other bumps up here though but knoll is appropriate. With the other name, Stob Lochan nan Cnapan, it’s the second half that makes sense as the hill rises just to the south of the loch. Stob is puzzling though as it means a stick or post and anything less like a post than wide, flat-topped, easy-angled Tom Dubh is hard to imagine. Tom Lochan nan Cnapan would make most sense.

Why such a minor hill has two names also seems strange. Neither has been around very long in fact and if it wasn’t for Sir Hugh Munro compiling his list it may have remained a nameless bump on the Moine Mhor. In the original 1891 Tables it’s just called Top above Lochan nan Cnapan. It becomes Stob Lochan nan Cnapan in the 1921 revision and then Tom Dubh sixty years later in 1981. All this time it was listed as a Top of Braeriach, only being transferred to Monadh Mor in 1997. That’s quite a history for such an inconspicuous hill! (Information from Robin N. Campbell’s invaluable The Munroist’s Companion).

View across the Moine Mhor to Sgor Gaoith

I find the Moine Mhor and its hills fascinating and beautiful. I’ve camped on it many times in summer and winter. I’ve crossed it in mist, snow, and rain. It’s vast complex tangle of little stony ridges, mossy hollows, dark pools, peat bogs, and burns running in every direction, rimmed by higher hills is a wonderland of wild nature. In poor visibility navigation can be challenging, especially as walking in anything resembling a straight line is difficult once away from the bulldozed roads that mar the western side.

The welcome spring at the top of the climb from Glen Feshie

On this latest trip there were no problems with route-finding. The risks lay in sunburn and dehydration. I toiled up from Glen Feshie on a hot humid August day, thankful to stop for water where the path crosses the burn running out of Coire Brocair and then much higher up at the bright bubbling spring that is one of the headwaters of the Allt Fhearnagan. On some trips I pass these by. This time I drank deeply from both.

A light breeze provided a little relief from the sweltering heat as I crossed the Moine Mhor to Loch nan Cnapan. After weeks of little rain the ground was parched. Keeping my feet dry up here was an unusual experience, especially in trail shoes. The moor was a wash of golden brown in the sunshine. Close to there were flowers, yellow tormentil, patches of purple heather, the spiky lilac blue devil’s bit scabious in drier places, yellow buttercups by the burns, orange bog asphodel in still damp hollows.

View to Sgor Gaoith from the camp above Loch nan Cnapan

As Loch nan Cnapan came into view the breeze dropped. Pausing to gaze down at the blue water in its shallow bowl I felt the brush of the first midges. I searched round for a rise on which to camp in the hope the breeze might recur. I found a rather rough grassy spot on a bump with a light breeze and a good view of pointed Sgor Gaoith. I pitched my shelter and went down to the loch for water. Back at camp the breeze had faded away and I soon had a mosquito coil burning in the doorway while I made supper. Then I zipped myself into the insect netting inner tent for the night.

The heat builds at the camp above Loch nan Cnapan

Dawn came with condensation and more midges. The night had been clear. My shelter was soaked inside and out. Soon, though, the sun was shining strongly and the temperature soaring, driving away the midges and drying the nylon. The heat was already hammering down. My plan had been to go up Braeriach and Cairn Toul and then camp below the latter. But the thought of sweating up the long slopes to the summits with a full pack under the blazing sun didn’t seem appealing. I could have left the camp and just gone with a day load but the site had proved damper, bumpier and midgier than I’d hoped so I did want to move it.

Just a kilometre away rose the gentle swell of Tom Dubh. It would probably be drier up there and more likely to catch any breeze.  I could then climb Monadh Mor, a hill I hadn’t been on for many years. That seemed a much easier option than Braeriach with less ascent and less distance. So to Tom Dubh and Monadh Mor I would go

Camp on Tom Dubh

First I hauled my gear out onto the grass for packing. It’s always nice not have to do this inside a small tent. Then I rounded Loch nan Cnapan, ambled up Tom Dubh, and set up camp again, this time on a dry grassy site that caught a breeze from the south. It was further to water but I would need to go that way to Monadh Mor and could fill my containers on the way back.

After a leisurely lunch in the sunshine I packed a few items and set off for Monadh Mor. Having planned on carrying a full pack each day I’d brought a shelter that pitched with trekking poles. Now I had to do without them, which was interesting on rough ground. Still, I thought, it’s useful to know I can still manage without them.

I got wet feet fording the Allt Luineag, which was deeper than I expected given the lack of rain, but in this heat that didn’t matter and my shoes soon dried on the slopes of Monadh Mor, Looking back I could see a small green tent pitched beside the river, the only other camp I saw. It was probably less than half a kilometre from my tent but out of sight.

View down Glen Geusachan from Monadh Mor

Monadh Mor – big hill – has an almost three-kilometre-long wide and stony summit ridge that gives excellent views. The best, I think, are a little east of the summit cairn where steeper slopes descend into upper Glen Geusachan. Either side of this wide glen lie the steep rocky slopes of Bod an Deamhain and Beinn Bhrotain while beyond the foot of the glen is the lower Lairig Ghru with Sgurr a’Mhaim rising above it.

Beinn Bhrotain from Monadh Mor

A party of three passed me as I approached the summit cairn then as I sat having a snack two dogs rushed up. In the distance I could see their owner slowly approaching. Having established I was friendly one of the dogs dropped a stone at my feet and crouched down, looking hopeful. I dutifully through the stone. Both dogs raced after it. We played this game for some time until their owner finished his sandwich and decided it was time to move on.

Cairn Toul from Tom Dubh

They were returning to Deeside and so still had a long walk ahead of them. I had no need to hurry, being only an hour or so from camp. I took my time wandering back down. Back on Tom Dubh I ambled about the flat summit admiring the views. It is, I decided, a lovely hill. I was camped on the south side of the hill overlooking the long glen of the River Eidart, a fine remote place itself. A welcome breeze was blowing up from the depths The low evening sun lit up Cairn Toul. The sense of peace and silence was overwhelming.

Sun & heat

Once during the night I woke to see stars. There was condensation again at daybreak but not as much. The sun hit sooner here than at my first camp and the tent was unbearably hot by 7 a.m. I had breakfast outside, not something it’s often possible to do up here, at least not comfortably. A gentle breeze kept off the midges. I was happy to just sit here in the sunshine and absorb the beauty and wildness but eventually I did pack up and wander back across the Moine Mhor, fill up my water bottles at the spring, and descend the long stony track in the furnace of Glen Feshie.

Breakfast in the sunshine

I made a little video of the trip:

A Winter Night on the Moine Mhor

The last few days have seen the first long spell of fine weather in the hills for many weeks, very welcome after a wet, cloudy autumn. With a forecast for warmer temperatures up high than in the glens and a possibility of a cloud inversion I decided to hear up to the Moine Mhor, that vast boggy plateau above Glen Feshie, for probably the last camp of the year.

The air was frosty as I set off, the sun having long gone from the glen floor though it still shone on the hills high above. As I climbed through the woods onto the open hillside I passed through bands of cold and warm air, some very narrow. A strange experience I haven’t had before. Overall, the temperature rose though and by the time I was on the tops, some 700 metres above the glen, I’d shed hat, gloves and fleece jacket.

 

In the west a brilliant red sunset lit up the sky with far peaks sharply silhouetted below. I crossed crunchy patches of snow and slippery icy moss. The light faded, the headtorch came out. I didn’t need it on the snow, but the moss and bog turned into impenetrable solid blackness. Soon the almost full moon rose and bathed the snow dappled hills in its eerie light. There was no wind, no sound at all. The silence was enormous.

Finding a site wasn’t easy. Every hollow was filled with snow, either hard and rippled or soft and insecure. Snow free areas oozed water. Eventually I found a dry stony flattish area. It would do. I had a thick sleeping mat to even out the bumps. I was soon settled in for a comfortable night, boiling water for a meal, reading a novel on my Kindle, writing my journal.

As always when the weather allows I left the tent doors open. At 1 a.m. I woke and looked out to the now high moon shining on the little pointed peak of Sgor Gaoith. I can take a photograph from the porch, I thought. But what’s happening the other side of the tent? I had no choice but to get up and go and see. This was a magical night. All around the moon shone. Stars sparkled. Away to the north a bank of fog hung over Aviemore. I was up for well over an hour before retreating to make a mug of hot chocolate then fall back asleep.

Awake again as the sun rose I was soon back outside. The temperature was a touch below freezing. Chilly but under a clear sky in December I’d expect it to be much colder.

I watched the sun light up the tops of the hills then slowly creep down the mountainsides until it reached the tent. Brightness and warmth enveloped me.

From camp I took a meandering line over to the edge of the steep rocky slopes tumbling down to Loch Einich then followed this round to the spring called Fuaran Diotach. Here a big, cracked snowbank lay on the north side of the grassy hollow. I measured it with my 120cm trekking poles. It was maybe some 30cm deeper and the deepest of the many snow patches left from the first heavy snowfall of the winter just over a week earlier that I saw.

From the spring I headed up Carn Ban Mor. I could see many people on Sgor Gaoith and decided I preferred the quieter slightly lower top. The still air was warm, and I sat in the sunshine, my jacket undone. 

Then it was time to descend, back down the long path to Glen Feshie. On one short section across a steep hard snow slope falling away into a stream gully I put on my microspikes and took out my ice axe. I probably didn’t them, but a slip could have sent me a long way and I was carrying them anyway. Then it was down to the frosty glen and home, satisfied.

 

A Night & Day On The Moine Mhor

The bright half moon looked promising. An evening start meant I knew it would be night before I reached the Moine Mhor high above Glen Feshie. With that moon the walking should be easy. It wasn’t to be. As darkness fell so did the clouds and once on the plateau I was walking in dense mist. There was no wind, no sound, just damp clinging mist enshrouding me. I reached the Allt Sgairnich, that long river that runs from high on Carn Ban Mor at the north-west corner of the Moine Mhor, almost splitting it in two before tumbling down the southern slopes into upper Glen Feshie. It’s one of my favourite Cairngorm rivers. Here, not far from its source, it’s a narrow stream. Surrounded by peat bogs it was still running strongly despite this dry summer. 

 

I followed the river upwards a little way, picking a route through the bogs. They were drier than usual but I still got my feet wet. It doesn’t take much moisture to penetrate mesh trail shoes. I didn’t mind. It wasn’t cold. Casting round for a camp site I found one on a low dry knoll. I knew where I was, but I still wondered what I’d see in the morning. In this black night I could have been anywhere.

I woke at 5.45 a.m. Pale light crept under the door. I looked out. Dense mist. Back to sleep. 7.45 and still the mist. More sleep. 9.45 and heat woke me. Stifling in the sleeping bag I was up quickly. The higher summits were still in cloud but it was breaking and a thin sun shone through the last remnants. The air outside the tent was cool. I was in the heart of the Moine Mhor which stretched out to distant hills in every direction, old friends all – Braeriach, Sgor an Lochain Uaine, Cairn Toul, Monadh Mor, and today’s objective, Sgor Gaoith.

It was noon before I broke camp, the time spent watching the hills and the clouds, marvelling at the subtle colours of the summer moor, the tips of grasses turning red, the white nodding heads of cotton grass, yellow tormentil, tiny violet touched white eyebright, cloudberry leaves turning a red-purple, spots of heather, green and red mosses. It’s a complex world up here. Two grouse skimmed the ground noisily. Quite high up for them. Amongst some rocks their mountain cousin, the ptarmigan, scuttled. Two ravens flapped lazily past, calling loudly. A dipper flashed up the burn, rapidly beating wings skimming the water. 

Pack on back I departed for the rim of the moor, where its northern edge plunges down broken slopes to Gleann Einich and shining blue Loch Einich. An old path follows the rim here, wending its way along the edge of the steepness towards Sgor Gaoith. A fine airy path, on the brink of two worlds. Tiny figures headed up Sgor Gaoith, the first people I’d seen. Soon they grew in size, one of them posing atop a rock block with a mountain bike. From my lower path they seemed to be walking a narrow arete, rather than the broad hillside they were actually on.

The classic view from Sgor Gaoith down some 600 metres to Loch Einich with the bulky ramparts of Braeriach beyond it was looking good, the drifting clouds and their shadows giving depth to the landscape.

Turning away I took the path over Carn Ban Mor and back down to Glen Feshie. As I set off a reindeer trotted past, far from its home in Glenmore. I passed it again on Carn Ban Mor where it was sitting in the grass, nonchalantly chewing.

Twenty-Four Hours of Winter Perfection

Sunset from the Moine Mhor

Winter conditions in Scotland are erratic and unpredictable most years but have been exceptionally so this season. Cold weather and snow has only come in short bursts, followed by longer periods of milder wet and windy weather with rapid thaws. Making the most of the times when the snow is crisp and the sky clear has meant watching the forecasts and seizing any sign of calm. When there was such a prediction for the very end of February with maybe twenty-four hours of settled cold conditions an overnight trip seemed a good idea.

Glen Feshie was cold and still as two of us hefted our packs on our backs and started the long haul up to the Moine Mhor. The snow in the glen was thin and patchy. A walker coming down said there was a strong bitter wind on the tops but by the time we were there it had died away to nothing. Ahead vast snowfields stretched out to distant summits. Under snow this is always an amazing place with a real feel of the arctic, a sense of huge wildness. I love it!

Crossing the Moine Mhor

We tramped across the snow, sometimes sinking in shin deep, sometimes just biting into the surface. The clouds that had swept across the sky as we climbed began to dissipate, creating beautiful patterns in the sky. Out west there was a wide strip of cloudless blue. The sun would soon be shining there, lighting up the snow and the clouds. I paused, letting Mark march on far ahead. As the crunch of his boots and click of his trekking poles faded I was enveloped in silence. Not a sound anywhere, not a single tiny sound. The world felt huge and pure and ecstatic. For that brief moment there was perfection.

After sunset with Venus high above

The sun cut under the clouds and the mountains and the snow glowed. Slowly it sank into the far west and the sky began to darken through shades of blue. As we began to descend the planet Venus appeared big and bright in the sky ahead. With no wind we didn’t feel cold while moving though the temperature never rose above zero. 

A starry camp

Down in Glen Feshie headlamps came out for the walk through the woods to find a spot to camp. Once the packs were off the cold began to bite. Tents up we were soon inside making hot drinks and soup. Then the night sky lured me out to stare at the brilliant starscape above the silhouettes of the trees. A wonderful night. Still virtual silence, though I could just hear the trickle of the river and occasionally an owl called.

A frosty morning

Dawn came with a hard frost. The tents were white. The temperature was -7°C. A real winter’s night. Soon the sun came and the world brightened. Wandering down the glen we admired the magnificent old pines and the youngsters below them, well-established regeneration bringing health and continuing life to the ancient forest. 

Erosion

Two day walkers talked of avalanches. I wasn’t sure what they meant but on reaching the confluence of the Allt Garbhlach and the River Feshie I knew. Here a high cliff of soil and stone, the side of a moraine sliced through by the ever-changing river, was eroding before our eyes. As the sun melted ice in the cliffs rocks, stones and pebbles were released, tumbling into the river and sending spurts of water into the air. We watched fascinated then walked on to the finish. By early afternoon we were in a café in Aviemore. I looked out of the window. Snow and sleet was sweeping down the street. The twenty-four hours of calm had been just that and had given us a memorable winter trip.