So there we were, on a fine day with the hills of Stuc a' Chroin and Ben Vorlich before us. The first obstacle was the Keltie Water which was crossed gingerly on a shoogly wooden footbridge, which sadly, is no longer there. From the reservoir we climbed the steep eastern ridge of Stuc a' Chroin and found it hard going. The view from the bealach was worth it, however. Compared to the Lomonds the Stuc and Ben Vorlich seemed massive and dark with foreboding. We picked our way down through the peat hags to the little patch of green at the junction of two burns that was Dubh Chorien and pitched our tent there.
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| The old footbridge over the Keltie Water, 1964 |
showers swept across the dark corrie and
gloomy clouds huddled down over the tops of the hills.
When we entered the mist I had an outbreak of caution. Although Davy was beside me I felt utterly alone, in a remote, hostile place. I also remembered our debacle in the Ochils The ridge was now narrowing with lethal crags on either side and clearly this was no place for wandering, navigational blunders. I had a failure of nerve and decided to go down.
It was not long, however, before I had another crack at Ben Vorlich..
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| Stuc a'Chroin and Ben Vorlich from Gleann an Dubh Chorien, 2015. Mixed Media on Paper. |
Cammy was an engineering apprentice at Rosyth Naval Dockyard and being noted as a strong, likely lad had been sent away for a month on an Outward Bound course. Character building, I suppose.
He came back brimming with confidence and keen to organise an expedition. Cammy and Josh put their heads together and came up with a plan. We were to walk from Callander to Aberfeldy via Lochearnhead, Killin and Glen Lyon. I noticed that apart from the first leg it was all on roads. The other disadvantage, which none of us seemed to consider was we were setting off on Hogmanay, the 31st December. This is a time of year with less than eight hours daylight and the nights long, cold and dark.
There was a problem with tents, as the Scouts had only one rather old and basic hike tent. Cammy decided to take that as a store and cooking tent and we all chipped in to hire two Blacks Mountain tents. As there were six of us going on this trip it meant sleeping three to a tent. This was rather cramped, I thought, as they were only two man tents. They were, however, top of the range 'Ventile' tents as used on major expeditions in high mountains. Cammy assured us that even without flysheets they would keep out the rain. These were bomb proof tents, sure enough, but at 16lbs., extremely heavy.
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| My own Blacks Mountain tent is over 50 years old. Still in reasonable condition as I always used a flysheet. The more expensive Ventile version was paler in colour. |
We arrived in Callander about 11am. The main street was busy with folk shopping for the New Year celebrations. Surprisingly, Cammy dived straight into the Café Rex for a cup of coffee. We were keen to get started but followed him in as he was the leader.
Eventually we got going in a fine drizzle but just before Braeleny farm Pete threw down his pack and produced a large bottle of cider. He had intended to keep it for the New Year but was a heavy burden. We all had a slug and it was quickly guzzled. Refreshed by this we crossed the Keltie and climbed the slope above Arivurichardich in good spirits. The mist was down and there was the usual argy-bargy about which way to go with people wandering off in different directions like random atoms. Having been this way before I had at least a feeling for the lie of the land so kept my head down and plodded on. Suddenly a gust of wind tore apart the mist and the peaks of Stuc a' Chroin and Ben Vorlich appeared, black and streaked with snow. They were silhouetted against the dying light and swathed in cloud, which obscured, then parted giving us brief, tantalising visions.
"Wow", said Josh, "That's something. Do you fancy climbing that?"
"Yes," I replied, "When?"
"Tonight."
"Why not?"
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| The camp at Dubh Chorien. This is a ruin of an old shepherds lambing bothy, used at least until the 1920's |
We camped at Dubh Chorien again and the tents were up and the stoves roaring away. The menu, arranged by Cammy, was
Soup (dehydrated)
Stew (tinned)
Potatoes (dehydrated)
Mixed Veg.(dehydrated)
Tea, bread and whatever delicacy individually carried.
I was looking forward to this and most of the food was hot and ready to serve.
"Can we dish out the soup?" I asked.
"No," said Cammy, "Just Hang on. This is what we'll do."
He tipped the soup into the biggest pot that held the Smash potato then we watched, appalled, as he poured the hot stew and veg. in as well.
Who's got a spoon?"
He stirred the mess vigorously then stood up.
"Stand back!"
To our amazement he started whirling the pot round and round his head.
"He's centrifuging it."
We expected our food to go hurtling into the night but gravity retained the lid and he eventually unwound. He took the lid off to reveal a brown, steaming sludge. It was not attractive.
"Here! Give me your plates."
He served out big dollops of this with slices of bread and in the dark it tasted quite good.
"This is how real men eat."
"Really?" I said. I had my doubts.
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| Cammy whirling the dinner |
The darkness was intense, seemingly exaggerated by the faint glow of a candle seen through the thin canvas of a tent. A raucous game of cards was going on inside as we prepared ourselves for the hill. A bulky figure pulled himself out of the sleeve entrance.
"I think I'll come with you," said Cammy, "It's too cold to hang about here."
We checked our resources. A wooden staff, two torches and an old clothes line.
"That'll do. Let's go."
By the light of dim torches we could see little more than a few feet in front of us. The mist was thick and bounced back what little light there was.
We crossed hillocky moraines then floundered into peat hags, cursing and swearing. Eventually we won on to easier but steeper ground, climbing up the broad shoulder to the summit. It was bitterly cold but now we sweated. It was imperceptible at first but eventually I sensed a subtle change.
"Hi! Stop a minute. Look up there."
"You're right. It's getting lighter."
Soon there was a dusting of snow underfoot and ice crystals gleaming on the rocks. Suddenly the mist parted and we could see the sparking ridge above us and the sky filled with an incredible multitude of stars.
"It's very slippery," said Cammy, "maybe we should rope up."
We tied onto the clothes line as best we could but this was more an impediment to free movement and had slight psychological value. The ridge soon narrowed and we could see the summit trig point ahead.
I'd never seen anything like this before. We stood on the summit and looked down on a sea of cloud. Through a gap could be seen a few twinkling lights of Lochearnhead, the only sign of human habitation.To the north and west the summits of countless snow capped mountains thrust out of the cloud, bathed in the cold, ethereal light of a full moon.
"Wow!" This was something beyond my wildest dreams.
"Have a slug of this."
"What is it?"
"Navy Rum"
"No thanks."
"Come on," said Cammy, "I know it's not the Bells yet but it soon will be. Where could you find a better place?"
"Oh well' alright."
We all had a swallow of rum. The ardent spirit burnt my throat and set fire to my stomach. I'd never tasted it before.
"It'll put hairs on your chest."
"Well, happy New Year guys."
We shook hands.
"Yea, Happy New Year"
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| On the summit of Ben Vorlich |
New Years day 1964 saw us trudging up a boggy glen in heavy rain and thick mist. We were tired, cold, wet and not very happy. There was no discernable track and the mist was so thick we couldn't even see the steep sides of the narrow glen. Navigational chaos broke out as Cammy started to flounder away to the right. Fortunately the mist parted briefly to reveal the bealach just up ahead. I recognised it instantly and we squelched across to Glen Vorlich and Lochearnhead.
Lochearnhead was a loch side straggle of cottages with no shop and a hotel that was closed. We drank some milk from a vending machine and began to climb the road up Glen Ogle. The heavy packs and lack of sleep were beginning to tell. Even the older boys who were carrying the tents were beginning to flag. Pete began to limp badly so we stopped by the side of the road. He was wearing ancient, tricouni nailed climbing boots he'd borrowed from a relation and had developed big blisters. Fortunately he was carrying plimsolls so he changed and we carried on. However, it wasn't long till Cammy called a halt. It would soon be dark so we crossed the fence and squelched over rough pasture to find a place to camp.
The spot we chose had a great view back down Glen Ogle to Ben Vorlich. Too good, as it happened. Above us lay steep boulder fields and the viaduct of the railway. At one point, a blue diesel locomotive, travelling light, trundled roaring up the incline. This mechanical intrusion seemed to increase the solitary bleakness of our situation. It was New Years day and even the nearby road was silent.
After another plate of Cammy's brown sludge we took to our tents. The trouble with sleeping three in two man tents was that it was one turn, all turn. The middle person was squashed but cosy while the outer ones were pressed against the canvas and had that side cold. It was impossible to get comfortable without making the others uncomfortable. We lay in the tents by the light of a candle. There were no card games this night as we were all dog tired. We listened to the wind getting up and the rain blatter down. Soon it was blowing a full gale and more. The noise would drop to a whisper then we would hear it build up, coming from the south, over Ben Vorlich with a roar like an express train. The tents flapped and vibrated and the poles shook. Even with well pegged, sown in groundsheets and boulders on the sod cloths the floor was lifting beneath us.
There was no sleep that night. I went out with a torch to check the guys and could barely stand against the gale. The rain was a stinging, horizontal torrent. The big pegs of the mountains tents were holding fine but the pup tent was blowing like a flag in the gale, with pots and pans scattered in the darkness.
Back in the tent the water was spraying through the canvas. Sleeping bags and clothes were soaked and we used our towels to mop up. At times the gusts were so great that we grabbed the `A` poles through the canvas in fear they'd collapse. It was a long night.
By dawn we were exhausted I crawled out of the tent and watched great sheets of rain sweep up the glen. The good news was that the worst of the wind had passed. There were pools and water flowing everywhere. I chose my spot and squatted down for a dump and Peter came out and did the same, not far from me. We looked at each other and laughed. In these conditions privacy seemed an unnecessary luxury. This was desolation.
It was essential to eat so we got the stoves going to make hot coffee with bacon and beans on bread. This helped restore morale. After breakfast Cammy called us together.
"Has anyone got any dry clothes?"
Silence.
"How about sleeping bags? Are there any dry sleeping bags?"
"I think all our bags are soaked."
"What do we do then? Do we carry on or bale out?"
"Some of us have bad blisters."
"Right, that's it. Who wants to go home then?"
There was a groan of relief.
For some reason I never understood we didn't retreat to Lochearnhead but walked on over Glen Ogle, just prolonging the misery. Fortunately there was a public phone box at Lixs Toll
from where parents who had cars were phoned. After waiting for hours two cars arrived and took us home.
I had spent two nights in the winter hills that could not have been more different. The wild night of misery in the storm was quickly forgotten. Years later, however, I would lie in my bed in London and dream of the moonlight on the summit of Ben Vorlich and the endless sea of snowy mountains stretching to the north. I did not realise it then, but on that night I had contracted Hill Fever, a chronic and incurable condition. This, as many sufferers know, can lie dormant and reappear suddenly after many years.
Lochearnhead was a loch side straggle of cottages with no shop and a hotel that was closed. We drank some milk from a vending machine and began to climb the road up Glen Ogle. The heavy packs and lack of sleep were beginning to tell. Even the older boys who were carrying the tents were beginning to flag. Pete began to limp badly so we stopped by the side of the road. He was wearing ancient, tricouni nailed climbing boots he'd borrowed from a relation and had developed big blisters. Fortunately he was carrying plimsolls so he changed and we carried on. However, it wasn't long till Cammy called a halt. It would soon be dark so we crossed the fence and squelched over rough pasture to find a place to camp.
The spot we chose had a great view back down Glen Ogle to Ben Vorlich. Too good, as it happened. Above us lay steep boulder fields and the viaduct of the railway. At one point, a blue diesel locomotive, travelling light, trundled roaring up the incline. This mechanical intrusion seemed to increase the solitary bleakness of our situation. It was New Years day and even the nearby road was silent.
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| Ben Vorlich from the Ardvorlich track. Feb.2016 |
After another plate of Cammy's brown sludge we took to our tents. The trouble with sleeping three in two man tents was that it was one turn, all turn. The middle person was squashed but cosy while the outer ones were pressed against the canvas and had that side cold. It was impossible to get comfortable without making the others uncomfortable. We lay in the tents by the light of a candle. There were no card games this night as we were all dog tired. We listened to the wind getting up and the rain blatter down. Soon it was blowing a full gale and more. The noise would drop to a whisper then we would hear it build up, coming from the south, over Ben Vorlich with a roar like an express train. The tents flapped and vibrated and the poles shook. Even with well pegged, sown in groundsheets and boulders on the sod cloths the floor was lifting beneath us.
There was no sleep that night. I went out with a torch to check the guys and could barely stand against the gale. The rain was a stinging, horizontal torrent. The big pegs of the mountains tents were holding fine but the pup tent was blowing like a flag in the gale, with pots and pans scattered in the darkness.
Back in the tent the water was spraying through the canvas. Sleeping bags and clothes were soaked and we used our towels to mop up. At times the gusts were so great that we grabbed the `A` poles through the canvas in fear they'd collapse. It was a long night.
By dawn we were exhausted I crawled out of the tent and watched great sheets of rain sweep up the glen. The good news was that the worst of the wind had passed. There were pools and water flowing everywhere. I chose my spot and squatted down for a dump and Peter came out and did the same, not far from me. We looked at each other and laughed. In these conditions privacy seemed an unnecessary luxury. This was desolation.
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| The storm at dawn, Glen Ogle. |
"Has anyone got any dry clothes?"
Silence.
"How about sleeping bags? Are there any dry sleeping bags?"
"I think all our bags are soaked."
"What do we do then? Do we carry on or bale out?"
"Some of us have bad blisters."
"Right, that's it. Who wants to go home then?"
There was a groan of relief.
For some reason I never understood we didn't retreat to Lochearnhead but walked on over Glen Ogle, just prolonging the misery. Fortunately there was a public phone box at Lixs Toll
from where parents who had cars were phoned. After waiting for hours two cars arrived and took us home.
I had spent two nights in the winter hills that could not have been more different. The wild night of misery in the storm was quickly forgotten. Years later, however, I would lie in my bed in London and dream of the moonlight on the summit of Ben Vorlich and the endless sea of snowy mountains stretching to the north. I did not realise it then, but on that night I had contracted Hill Fever, a chronic and incurable condition. This, as many sufferers know, can lie dormant and reappear suddenly after many years.
