White with fear and bleeding from my fingertips, I press my body against the rockface and let out a deep sigh. “You have to keep moving up,” comes a voice from the mist above. “No point just staring at your hands.” But I’m stuck. There are no holds, or none within reach. And Matt, the guide at the other end of the rope stretching up from my harness into the mist, has warned us against reaching too high. The rocks of the Cuillin are dangerously unstable. They can easily come away in your hand – and you with them.
I look to the right, at some ravens hovering effortlessly in the wind. And then I look down. The drop must be, well, all of three feet, possibly four. Fall from here and I could seriously graze my knee.
This did not bode well. We had come to the glorious Isle of Skye, in northwest Scotland, for the most notorious mountaineering challenge in Britain: an assault on the Inaccessible Pinnacle, a hellish fin of unforgiving rock sheering up from the mighty Cuillin. A holy grail for climbers, the almost entirely rocky Cuillin is Britain’s most spectacular mountain range – and the Inpin, as the pinnacle is nicknamed, is its most coveted prize.
But that is for tomorrow. Today, to gauge whether it’s safe to even let us near the Inpin, Matt and his assistant have marched us through the splendour of Glen Sligachan, over its cascading, boulder-strewn river and up to the stretch of Cuillin known as Pinnacle Ridge, which we’re galled to learn we’ll be abseiling off. “Any of you ever abseiled before?” asks Matt hopefully. Embarrassed silence.
The four of us had been feeling kind of cocky, having bagged some big Scottish peaks over the years. But getting stuck on that very first ascent – only managing to free myself by using my left hand to lever my right knee up – highlighted the difference between a meandering hillwalker and a steely-eyed rock-climber.
The first shock was the rock itself, a mix of gabbro and basalt. If you don’t know the difference, they say, you soon will. Brilliantly grippy gabbro is skin-shreddingly tough, drawing blood from my fingertips almost instantly. “It smelt the keyboard,” said Matt. Basalt, meanwhile, is treacherously slippery, particularly when wet, which in our case was all bloody day.
Somehow, despite the rain, we manage the abseil. I don’t think we’ll ever help the SAS storm an embassy but – once you silence that voice in your head screaming about leaning right back into bugger all – it’s a lot of fun. Easy even.
The next morning, after drinking way too much whisky on what felt like our last night on earth, we reach the top of Sgùrr Dearg and there it is ahead: the Inpin, 150ft of climbing mayhem. “A knife-edged ridge,” one early mountaineer called it, “with an overhanging and infinite drop on one side – and an even steeper and longer drop on the other.” Still, at least the rain’s stopped.
At the base, we’re feeling the way we usually feel at such times. Me: scared. Richard: equally scared. Neil: not quite so scared. Donald: not nearly scared enough. I listen to the pep talks of other guides. “If you fall,” says one, “I’ll catch you. But you won’t fall.” Another just keeps saying: “You can do it.” I much prefer Matt’s approach. “Right,” he simply says after roping himself to me and me to Richard. “Let’s go.” And up he bounds, loudly pointing out supposedly good holds when the ridge narrows to what seems like the width of a block of cheese.
I’m up first and, after 10 minutes of intensely uncertain climbing, I hit “the crux”, as the hardest part of any section is called. “Keep moving up,” Matt shouts. “The ropes between us have to be taut.” This is so that, should one of us fall, he doesn’t find himself “shockloaded” – another great new term referring to the sudden jolt caused by a falling body reaching the end of the slack (it’s right up there with “the European death knot”). Matt’s a wiry guy and I’m sure he’d hold us but, as he ascends, he also loops the rope round any outcrops to hand.
Once again I’m stuck – but this time the drop is massive and I can’t find a single good hold. I’m about as attached to this rockface, I realise, as an old piece of Blu-Tac. Suddenly, something I said to Matt comes back to haunt me: “You must get some right muppets.” Yes, and here’s today’s first, holding everyone up.
Heart pounding, I reach up far too far, only managing to grip with my fingertips. Praying the rock will hold, I start to haul, desperately slowly, scraping away with my toes. After the most terrifying 40 seconds of my life, I end up lying sideways on top of my hands, legs jutting out, having used the not particularly effective pulling power of my chin for the last few inches. So, I think, this is why it’s called the Inaccessible Pinnacle.
At the top, after more scrapes, though nothing as bad as the crux, Richard and I sit in stunned silence, immune to the fabulous view of all the spurs, summits, crags and corries emerging from the cloud. “OK,” he says at length. “That box is ticked. I’m never doing that again.” Then Neil and Donald arrive, altogether chirpier. “That was amazing,” laughs Donald. “I’d go again right now.” As we abseil back down to terra firma, I realise I’m somewhere in between the two – unable to work out if the thrill outweighs the terror, so overwhelming are they both.
Skye Adventure offers 1:1 guiding for £220, with £30 for each extra person and 10% off for multiple days. Single B+B rooms at Sligachan Hotel from £70. Return seats on London to Inverness Sleeper start at £80, berths at £170 (sleeper.scot; 0330 060 0500). Car hire at Inverness Europcar from £13 per day. More details at visitscotland.com.
Easy does it … three gentler Scottish climbs
Ben A’an, the Trossachs A bite-sized beauty on the edge of Glasgow that can be climbed in under an hour. The great stony summit looks out over Loch Katrine, source of Glasgow’s water. Difficulty: 2/5
Stac Pollaidh, Inverpolly You can be up and down this magnificent peak in three hours, though you will probably take longer since the views, from the Coigach to Assynt, are mesmerising. Difficulty: 3/5
Buachaille Etive Mor, Glen Coe The Great Herdsman of the Glen, as its name means, guards the southern approach to Glen Coe. The ridge sweeps south-west from the summit with nothing but mountains all around, most of which you’re above. Difficulty: 4/5
Comments (…)
Sign in or create your Guardian account to join the discussion