Disclaimer: Ian has requested that I mention the fact that he has very successfully navigated to the summits of several munros in his life. In fact, every one we have climbed together, bar Ben Avon, which is obviously ‘cursed’.
Just the thought of attempting to reach the summit of Ben Avon made me grumpy. You see, previously Ian and I had two failed attempts to our credit. The first time, a companion’s babysitting duties (and Ian’s shocking navigation) caused us to turn back early on a beautiful day. You can re-live everything going wrong here. The second attempt I didn’t even feel warranted a mention on this site, because it basically consisted of the following:
- Ian and I arrive at the car park with out mountain bikes, sometime in March.
- Ian and I look around at other walkers who are wearing a gajillion layers, and are equipped with such extravagances as walking sticks and gloves.
- Ian and I (in lycra running shorts and a long sleeved top) both agree that these people are amateurs and that we are far superior (and badass) hill walkers, and smugly set off on our way.
- After an arduous 5 mile cycle, an enormous snow drift blocks our path before we even begin our main ascent on foot. We scramble to higher ground only to realize the entire munro is hidden under snow. It is very windy. I am very cold.
- We meet some walkers who inform us that they checked the mountain weather forecast before they chose their outfits, and they did not seem surprised when we told them we did not do the same.
- Ian gets annoyed that I am unwilling to risk hypothermia/death by continuing, I cry and shiver.
- We turn back, stopping only to locate the Secret Howff that we didn’t manage to find last time.
Unwilling to face failure a third time, and determined to get this over and done with, Ian checked the forecast and took a day off work when the weather looked like it would be on our side. We left early, arriving at the car park at about 10, and setting off for the first 5 miles on the gradual ascent on our mountain bikes.
We both commented on how much less efficient they felt than our road bikes, which have been getting a lot of use this summer thanks to an atypically glorious Scottish summer (featuring special guests, Sun and Warmth). In fact, the mountain bike section was a lot less crappy than I remembered it to be. Hopefully this is a reflection of my quad strength. Once it became a bit too life-threatening to continue by bike (at least for me), we locked them together near a burn (American translation: stream), and continued on foot.
We followed the path that I had wanted to follow the first time we tried (and failed) to reach the summit. Ian, however, had decided to abandon the path and climb the steep edge of the mountain as his map reading skills led him to believe that the path would be the wrong course to take. In case you missed what happened previously, the path would have absolutely been the correct course to take, an opinion I strongly voiced at the time, and for several weeks afterwards, when we checked my Garmin details to confirm where we were.
Eventually, we came to a T-junction in the path as we reached some very steep cliffs. To the right, a steep ascent close to the cliff face. To the left, a steep ascent close to the cliff face. At this point, we realized that we must have had the wind to our backs the whole time, because once we had stopped it felt like we were in a wind tunnel.
“Left or right?” I asked Ian.
“Left.” he replied.
“You sure? The summit definitely isn’t to the right?” I asked, because, you know, I wanted confirmation.
“Yes. We’re definitely going left.” I sensed a little hostility from Ian after questioning his judgement.
Left we went, climbing the very steep section where the path kind of disappeared, eventually making it onto the flatter section leading up to a summit. I looked behind us, mainly to marvel at how steep the ascent was, and told Ian that I was glad we were doing a loop, because I didn’t think I’d be able to go back down because I’m such a wimp with heights and descending steep bits. Especially next to cliffs with very, very, very high drops.
I then looked across to where the path to the right would have led, and noticed a very high summit.
“You’re absolutely sure that’s not the top of Ben Avon, right?” I cautiously inquired. This was met by a frustrated confirmation that we were indeed on the right path. About 10 minutes of steady climbing later, we were at the top, where we took a couple of photos and shared a pack of fig rolls (American translation: Fig Newtons).
Despite Ian’s certainty, I couldn’t help noticing that the summit across the valley we’d just come up from looked noticeably higher than we were. I asked for Ian to point out where we were on the map, which he did, but looking at the gradient around where we were supposed to be, and looking at our surroundings, my heart sank as I became certain that we had taken a wrong turn, and that I would have to go back down the steep path. To prove that I was being paranoid, Ian took out his Garmin edge and switched it on. I sat back and enjoyed the view while it was loading up, and then Ian said, “Oh, shit.”
As if you couldn’t see this coming, we were not at the summit of this shitting mountain. And yes, in order to reach the summit, we’d have to double back. Before that, however, we decided to bag another summit which was a few kilometers away along a ridge, with very little extra climbing, so off we set for Beinn a’Bhuird (I have no idea how to pronounce that, so if you want to find out, go here). I was obviously super happy that instead of a gentle downhill walk back to the bikes like we had planned, we were only halfway through the scary cliff part of the day.
At least now Ian knew which way we were going:
After a couple of photos, we retraced our steps and headed towards the summit of Ben Avon. Again. Going down the steep bit was terrifying, and I made Ian walk in front of me in case I lost my footing – a human shield, if you will. Finally, we were back at the junction, and then we started a long, steady ascent. Again. This side wasn’t quite as steep, but it went on for longer, before flattening out a bit with a clear path to the tors at the top.
Finally, several hours after beginning our journey, we made it to the summit, where Ian forced me to climb on top of the tors for the official ‘summit photo’. I am not standing because there was a very real risk of being blown off the mountain (you may think I’m exaggerating, but I’ve witnessed a kid blown off his feet before, and yes, it was hilarious).
We shared our second packet of fig rolls, and started our descent, running into a few ptarmigans on our way.
Despite being behind schedule, we had decided to go a little bit out of our way to go to the Secret Howff again. Ian’s late father and one of his friends had helped to repair it many years ago, and Ian’s brother had told us recently that he had carved his name into one of the wooden beams in the 60’s. Obviously, since we had missed this the first time we went, Ian wanted to go back and see if he could find the name.
Sure enough, his dad’s vandalism from nearly 50 years ago was there! Although it’s kind of hard to see from a camera phone photo:
We signed the guestbook again, and then hopped back onto our bikes for the luxuriously (mostly) downhill section to the parking lot.
After a hearty dinner, we both slept well that night, and enjoyed a bit of a long lie the next morning. Ah, to be back on my summer holidays…
Today, my first day back at school, was a bit of a shock to the system.