The lowlight of the year for me was a horrific struggle in the pouring rain through a wind-thrown forest in Argyll in an attempt to reach the summit of Beinn Lochain (19C). Thankfully I was accompanied by Andy and Tony, otherwise I might still be in there. This was hillwalking at its worst. The gap which we were lured into, after crossing the Lettermay burn and heading up the hill from a concrete weir, might have been a firebreak once, but is not one any longer. It has degenerated into a mess of collapsed mature sitka spruce, which got darker and wetter as we battled upwards. We climbed on and up through a confused muddle of branches, climbing under and over trunks, and squeezing through holes too small for a rucksack'd person. We'd shove the sacks through first then struggle after them, grunting and gasping, filthy and wet, trying to avoid being poked in the eye by numerous objectionably placed branches. For me, this was beyond the pale and I swore a lot. Tony went very quiet and stoical, as is his way. To my great surprise Andy, who strongly dislikes long, traumatic hill walks, seemed to enjoy the experience and kept up a cheerful banter throughout. To him, apparently, it was so completely awful that it held a sort of horror-laden challenge.
When we emerged from the forest, a shocking two hours after we had entered it, we were muddy, lichenous, thoroughly soaked and picking spruce needles from every orifice. The hill and its neighbour, Stob na Boinne Druim-fhinn, are very fine, and eventually we did get some good views from them, but I can remember nothing about my ascent other than those two hours spent in the forest.
Some fine hillwalking on Beinn Lochain (photo: Audrey Litterick)
