Strange hours, dawn light, a little-visited Cairngorms ridge

The heavy rain was easing as I set off. It was already 8.30 in the evening. The forecast was for a short break in a week of rain and thunderstorms. Threatened thunderstorms anyway. Every day. Having been out in exposed places in thunderstorms on too many occasions when they’re forecast I stay off the hills.

As I left the woods behind a deep bright chasm appeared in the clouds as the sun neared the horizon. Soon afterwards I watched the sunset colouring the sky.

Continuing on in the twilight I didn’t start looking for somewhere to camp until 11pm. It was after midnight before I found anywhere. The rains of the last week had saturated the ground. Everywhere oozed water. Eventually I found a flat spot slightly above the bogs. I hoped it would have a good view. But that had to wait for the next day. Immediately I wanted a meal and then sleep. At 2am I finally switched off my headlamp and closed my eyes.

Brightness woke me, shining straight into my face. 5am and the sun was rising. A golden light suffused the landscape. I was out of the tent in minutes, marvelling at the world. 

High above the granite tors of the Barns of Bynack shone. Through a telephoto lens I could see the details of these distant rocks.

Looking away from the sun I could see low clouds creeping over the hills. The gold light wouldn’t last. Barely half an hour passed and the sky was grey. I was soon fast asleep again, not waking until 11.30.

Outside rain was falling and the highest hills were hidden, the glory of the dawn long gone. Clouds swirled around the Barns of Bynack.

My plan was to climb Creag Mhor, an 895 metre Corbett, then follow its north-east ridge which stretches over 7 kilometres from the river Avon to the Water of Caiplich. I’d been up the hill a few times before but always just up and down to the summit. I’d never walked that ridge.

The ascent was short and easy, if boggy in places, as I was already at 700 metres. Granite tors decorate the summit and other little tops along the ridge. Up here the vegetation was short and sparse and there were large patches of gravel and flat stones, typical Cairngorm plateau country. The walking was easy, the views splendid despite the racing clouds. There was no path and no cairn on the summit, though I did find one on a minor top. I guess few people come this way. Ravens circled me, curious.

As the ridge declined the terrain became boggy with deeper heather and many tussocks, making the going tough. This continued as I left Creag Mhor to cross the lower slopes of Bynack Mhor to rejoin my outward route. Back in the woods the rain became heavier. In Aviemore it was torrential.

The next day a thunderstorm finally broke over my house. I was glad I was inside and glad I’d seized the very brief gap between storms. The half hour of dawn light would have made the whole trip worthwhile on its own. The fine Creag Mhor ridge added to that.

Heatwave in the Cairngorms

The heat has been extraordinary. 30°C in the glens, 20°C on the summit of Cairn Gorm. And much, much hotter in the blazing sun under cloudless skies. To take advantage of the conditions I wanted a night out in the Cairngorms, and to see dawn and dusk high in the hills. But I didn’t want to climb up there in this heat. I knew what it would be like – exhausting, enervating, a feeling of fighting through thick dense air, the heat almost palpable.

Cairn Lochan

 

To avoid this I decided to head up late in the evening, walking into the half-dark gloom that constitutes night at this time of year. I went for a long gradual ascent without any really steep slopes. Even so the air felt heavy and the walking was sweaty and arduous. Only after 10pm did the temperature start to slowly fall. The cliffs of Cairn Lochan were turning golden brown in the low sun as I passed below them before watching the sun set over Creag an Leth-choin.

Sunset

I camped on wide open slopes in the heart of the Cairngorm Plateau with extensive views towards Cairn Gorm and Bynack More. The air was still. A big moon rose, just one day after full. The ground was dry and crunchy. I walked barefoot and sat outside. The last red haze from the sun stretched across the sky behind Cairn Gorm.

Before sunrise

After a few hours sleep I was up at 3.30am to watch the dawn. To the east the sky was paler. Red, yellow and orange streaks coloured the sky above Cairn Gorm. The air was cool, 10°C, and I needed a jacket. I watched and waited in the silence. Then the sun came, a red disc slowly climbing over Bynack More through thin clouds. 

Sunrise

 

After an hour I retreated to the tent for a little more sleep before the heat woke me. Even with the doors wide open my little tent was too hot once the sun was high in the sky. I sat outside for breakfast. It was 7.30am. A bird called and I could just hear the trickle of a stream. Otherwise silence.

Before departing I spread my gear out in front of the tent. It’s rare to be able to do this at 1150 metres in the Cairngorms. It’s usually too cold, too windy, too wet, or too midgey. Not today. Today was perfect.

By the time I left this idyllic camp the sun was savagely hot. The walk up Ben Macdui, only a kilometre and a 150 metres of ascent away, was draining. The pale stones underfoot felt hot and reflected the heat back at me. On the summit a man in shorts and boots – no shirt, no rucksack – appeared followed by a mountain biker carrying his bike. I met no others all day. I wandered to favourite viewpoints and stared down the Lairig Ghru to the dark outline of Beinn a’Ghlo.

View down the Lairig Ghru from Ben Macdui

On the slopes above the rushing Garbh Uisge Mor were many snow patches, some quite extensive. It’ll be a while yet before it all melts. Beside the burn and in boggy areas the ground was bright red and green with moss and vegetation. Away from the water the land was dry and dusty and bleached by the sun. I was reminded of the deserts of the American Southwest where there is the same pattern of fresh succulent water-given life and parched arid sand and rock but on a much greater scale. I’m not often reminded of hot deserts in the Cairngorms.

The Garbh Uisge Mor

At the top of the slabs running down to Loch Avon, a brilliant blue in the sunlight, I found a seat and sat and watched the landscape shimmering. On Hell’s Lum crag I could see pairs of climbers inching upwards, the sun shining directly on them. It must be so, so hot, I thought.

Crossing the Plateau again I startled two families of ptarmigan that scuttled away across the rocks, heads down, the mothers doing their broken wing act to lure me away, and a cluster of dotterel either side of a burn that relied on immobility as protection.

View down to Loch Avon

Even descending the heat was overwhelming even though there was now a breeze. The usually busy edge of the Northern Corries was strangely deserted for a dry summer day. There were few cars in the Coire Cas car park. Down in Glenmore I found out where everyone was. Loch Morlich with its golden sand beach. Cars were crammed along the verges, every car park full.

I posted the pictures of my gear laid out on social media and received quite a few comments, what tent is that, how do you get your gear so light, that gear looks heavy, what hat are you wearing. A few people suggested I should write about the gear and I will do that in a future post though not for a while as this weekend I’m finishing pieces for The Great Outdoors and then on Monday I’m heading down to Manchester to the Outdoor Trade Show to look at more gear. There was also a suggestion that I should do some YouTube videos. I’m thinking about it!

The Cairngorms At Their Most Magnificent.

Sunset from Ben Macdui

Spring in the Cairngorms can bring alpine-like conditions with bright intense light as the sunshine reflects off the snowfields. The clarity can be startling with distant white peaks etched sharp against a deep blue sky. That’s how it’s been this week as high pressure has brought settled conditions for the first time this year.

View back across the Cairngorm Plateau to Cairn Gorm

A high camp, possibly the last on snow until next winter, seemed a good idea so late one afternoon I headed across the Cairngorm Plateau to Ben Macdui. The mountains were split between winter and summer, half almost bare of snow with the rocks glowing warmly in the sunshine, half still covered with a sheet of white. After a day of hot sun the snow was soft and easy to cross though I did sink in rather far on occasion. There was no need for ice axe or crampons though. Not today.

Sunset over Braeriach

 

The sun was just touching the horizon as I reached Ben Macdui. A couple were camped right next to the summit cairn, with their stove set up in its stones. I wandered west to my usual viewpoint overlooking the great gash of the Lairig Ghru. The sun was setting behind Braeriach, the low clouds above the mountains an intense mix of orange, yellow and red, the snow on the hills tinged with pink. I sat and watched as the sky darkened and the colours grew deeper and richer before starting to fade as the dark blue of the night sky began to dominate.

Camp beneath the moon

 

Turning away I descended a short distance east of the summit and pitched my tent on a vast open snowfield under a vast starry sky. A bright almost-full moon rose in the east. There was no wind and the temperature hovered just above zero. For once there was no need to shelter in the tent and I stayed outside watching the sky. It was a perfect evening.

Sunrise

Dawn came with a red sunrise and a pink cast on the snow. A chill wind now swept the snowfields and I stayed in the tent for breakfast, taking photographs out of the door.

Dawn view from the tent

 

As the sun strengthened and the day grew a little warmer I packed up and set off for the Lairig Ghru. Once across the shoulder of Ben Macdui I descended by the Allt Clach nan Taillear – the Tailor’s Burn. The soft snow of the previous day had gone, frozen hard overnight and I needed crampons and ice axe on the steep upper slopes. Across the Lairig Ghru the great mountains shone in the new daylight.

In the Lairig Ghru

 

Long before I reached the floor of the Lairig Ghru I left the snow for deep heather that made for awkward and unstable walking. I was glad to reach the path and turn northwards to follow the headwaters of the River Dee, sparkling in the sun and racing down full of snowmelt, up to the half-frozen and silent Pools of Dee. Crossing the high point of the pass I noticed avalanche debris below the big cornices on the edge of Sron na Lairig.

Then it was through the rocky ravine of the Chalamain Gap and back below the Northern Corries to Corrie Cas and my car. I’d been out just over twenty-four hours. Twenty-four magnificent hours.

Camp below the stars