Day 5 - an absent island, weary legs and a tight fit
"Vomit Island's gone!" Sue looks with astonishment at the new track as it goes under the railway.
Camp by the Allt Rhuaidh and West Highland Railway
We both have memories of this spot. Mine are quite benign - a cold camp after a long journey on the late train and a glorious clear frosty morning. Sue's are a little more dramatic. In 2006 she had joined Steve Smith here. He spent the night vomiting in the midst of a violent storm. He and Sue woke to find themselves on an island about to engulfed by a raging torrent. After a thigh deep wade they escaped to Corrour where Steve took the train to Fort William. Remarkably two days later he returned to Corrour and walked twenty miles a day to join us in Clova and finish in Montrose. It's one of those heroic "beat the odds" Challenge tales that inspires. Right at the moment it's making me feel inadequate. I've walked about fifty metres from our campsite and I feel shattered.
We walk across to Loch Ossian. Initial low cloud is fast burning off and it's turning into a scorcher. Despite good tracks I can't find a rhythm. Any chance for a break is embraced and a curious sign in the middle of the moor just has to be photographed.
Inscription on Peter's Rock Peter's Rock provides another diversion. A touching memorial to a 30 year old who fell through ice and drowned in Loch Ossian. I am surprised that a tragedy that only happened 30yrs ago he has already been immortalized by the Ordnance Survey. Above us is a gentle, but tedious, heathery slope that lead to Carn Dearg. The best that can be said is that it yields ever more spectacular views and it is topped by a well built elegant cairn.
Carn Dearg We sit in its lee with a wonderful vista over Rannoch Moor. Far below us a train chugs along the West Highland line. It looks like a tiny toy. If I could just summons enough energy to lean forward I feel I could pick it up. I would happily sit here all day drinking in the view in deep soporific drafts but Sue has her practical head on and cajoles me into movement. I keep pace with her down to the bealach but as usual she is faster uphill. I see her sitting by the cairn and feel she is reeling me in on an invisible line.
Sue waiting on Sgor Gaoibre On long winter nights, perusing the maps, the ridge north from Sgor Gaothe looked rather appealing. Indeed the first top, Tom a'Choinich is a fine pointy peak. Sue and I like it and feel it should be a Munro but failing official approval it becomes a Mrs O! Getting down to the next bealach proves tricky. The northern slopes are steep, convex and covered in snow. Three times we try to descend only to be thwarted by large steep patches. Eventually we reach it and start another long pull up. This top is rounded grassy and featureless. I try hard to find its redeeming feature but the only thing I find is a medium sized rock on its northern flank which is begging to be sat upon. Even Sue is looking weary now. We both look at the next grassy bump with an air of disinterest. "Do we have to go up it?" Sue asks voicing my own thoughts. "We could traverse around it," I suggest though even that prospect doesn't appeal. Time for the emergency goodies - this time its fudge. A few pieces later and we've picked out a route above the worst of the bog and below the steepest slopes. It's rough ground riven with ankle twisting ridges and channels which trouble both my dodgy ankle and Sue's dodgy knee. We're driven by a desire to camp. As we top every ridge we hope to see the Alder Burn but see yet another ridge. Finally we see the burn and a solitary green patch beside it. We stumble down steep slopes hoping it is flat and big enough for two tents. "It's not big enough for both of us," despairs Sue but I'm determined this is home for the night. My Laser is smaller than her Akto and with crossing guys and porches opening within inches of the burn we manage to squeeze on the pitch. It is an idyllic spot with the burn tumbling in a straight line towards distant Loch Erict.
Camp by the Alder Burn After supper I visit Sue's tent for a glass of wine. We are both shattered after two long hard days but there is a sparkle in her eyes. Tomorrow come hell, high water, rain sleet or snow we are going up Ben Alder.
Beware!
Sue and I ponder just what machinery is going to swallow us up as we plod towards Loch Ossian. Under the guise of "something in my boot" I enforce a break near the hostel. It's like Piccadilly Junction. Day walkers stream towards the hills from the station and a group of school kids, half exuberant, the rest despondent, leave the hostel. I feel I'm on the great Glen Way again, nobody returns our smiles despite having had a shower only 24 hours ago!
