FIRST SNOW
Of the Torridon giants, Beinn Eighe is the greatest. The Am Fasarinen pinnacles of Liathach may be more celebrated, the Horns of Alligin more shapely and the lonely ridge of Beinn Dearg more mysterious to many, but the vast complexity of Beinn Eighe remains without equal. I had spent the previous day on the hills above Loch Cluanie, revelling in the first snow of the season upon A’ Chraileag, looking in wonder upon serried rows of snow capped summits, and yet the lure of Torridon was undeniable, my sights set of the traverse of Torridon’s greatest ridge.
I have only the slighest memory of my first encounter. What was real, fragments of time captured in grainy detail, still sharp between the blurred recollection of childhood and visualisation of tales that have grown old with the telling. And yet the sense of it remains, the vast space of northern skies, salt air, scots pine, heather, peat and rock. The rough texture of a coarse orange cag, sharp black velcro seals, the itch of wool and weight of leather boots, a length of thin static rope, the wooden shaft of an axe worn smooth and yet too heavy for small arms that knew nothing of its proper use.
It was here though that I first learned. How to stop to slide on hard snow. How to cut steps. How to navigate in the blinding confusion of a winter gale and driving snow, counting paces on a bearing. And of the cold misery and later, the joy that follows.
Steep, icy slopes had given way to cold crystalline rock and the incomparable summit of Sail Mhor. Below, the crest of the ridge caught the sun, the Triple Buttress beneath Coinneach Mhor glistening, towering toward blue skies. And beyond, the sharp crest carved in graceful form to Spidean Coire nan Clach. I ran to meet it, and the memory of a young boy facing the abyss, the moment framed by my father, his spirit alive still, among the giants of Torridon.
