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A NorthWest Passage

Words and Pictures by Danny Carden

November 28^th, 2022

The most vivid memories from my outdoor life are often linked by that belly-tickling feeling of facing something nervy, new and unnatural. Leaving an Alpine bunk before dawn. Matching a torqued axe. A night alone in a bothy. It’s like your brain fires open new synapses to deal with unfamiliar challenges. Perhaps that’s what young children deal with every day, and why so many childhood experiences still feel influential many decades on.

I hadn’t expected those childlike nerves about this trip: a long walk from Ullapool in the Northwest Highlands to Evanton in the Cromarty Firth. Read on....

But there was definitely some anxiety in the air as we stood beside Loch Broom, posing for an awkward timer shot while puzzled fishermen looked on. My mind was focused on our lack of long-distance walking experience, on my gammy hip and on the un-springlike April forecast of days of heavy snow and sub-zero temperatures. My shoulders could already feel the last-minute additions to our rucksacks: crampons, axes and down jackets.

Two good friends and I began planning this trip back in 2019. We plotted an aesthetically-pleasing route that crossed almost no roads, topped three Munros and negotiated unavoidable high ground. Our coast-to-coast route was about 100km long, through country that was entirely new to us. By splitting it over five days, it seemed an interesting but achievable challenge.

New babies, injuries and Covid meant that it wasn’t until April 2022 that we got under way. And rather than walking in a three, it was just my mate Doug Kemp and I stepping out of the sea on a driech day in Ullapool.

Day One: Ullapool to Coiremor Bothy

We left the shingle shore at 9am, still bleary-eyed from the pre-dawn drive from Edinburgh. As often happens when embarking upon longer journeys, we had a bit of a false start. A comedy two-man roadside fight with my rusty telescopic walking pole. With the benefit of brute force and spit, we were on our way.

An industrial quarrying road led to Glen Achall, a pleasant spot that I’d not heard of before planning this jaunt. We gently gained height, initially on tarmac, through beautiful-but-dwindling remnants of native birch and pine woods. After about five miles, I took off my rigid and heavy B3 climbing boots and strapped them outside my rucksack. On went some light fell shoes and my achy feet felt instantly blissful, but I did wish I owned some winter walking boots.

I was so relieved to have thrown in those trainers at the last minute. In fact, I felt a bit angry at myself, knowing I could have jeopardised the whole trip by stupidly not packing them. My mind began to wander to all the potential things that could go wrong. I even muttered something to Doug about how, on balance, we probably wouldn’t complete the walk. What an uplifting walking partner! In contrast, Doug had declared that we’d ‘practically done the thing’ within an hour of leaving Ullapool.

We arrived at Loch an Daimh surprisingly quickly. An open fishing hut gave shelter from the thickening drizzle. Its glass windows looked out on a barren landscape. Only a lone honking swan provided some sign of life. Doug lifted our spirits by unwrapping a two-day-old margherita pizza. I treated him to the first of many stirring renditions of Stan Rogers’ Northwest Passage:

“Ah, for just one time I would take the Northwest Passage. To find the hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea…”

Perhaps it was an attempt to shut me up, but Doug suggested a good plan; to ditch the planned night at Knockdamph Bothy and push on to Coiremor Bothy. This section was a real highlight, following single-track stalkers’ paths and crossing a squelching, colourful bog. Negotiating the tanking Corriemulzie River was moderately buttock-clenching, but entering the cosy confines of the empty bothy felt a great reward for the extra effort.

As we approached the bothy, a large group of men had disappeared into the attached Magoo’s Bothy. Perhaps they weren’t up for a chat. Obviously, we were desperate to talk, just so that we could nonchalantly mention that we were walking coast-to-coast.

We were tired and keen to get eating. It was my first experience of modern dehydrated food, a 1,000-calorie curry. Verdict: surprisingly good.

I passed on Doug’s ‘starter’ of mushroom pâté, which he coiled out on to the back of his hand, then licked with delight.

Lightening our rucksacks was a good excuse to let whisky fuel a good night’s rest. My feet were toasty in ‘fresh’ woollen socks, found abandoned on a bothy peg. We banged the door shut on a dramatic view of Seana Bhràigh’s pointy side. A colourful riot of cliffs, bog and oozing water. We slept well.

Day Two: Coiremor Bothy to Glenbeg Bothy

All that colour had gone by morning. Overnight, the hill had donned a puffy winter coat and the drumbeat of gushing water had stopped. The wind had dropped and everything felt still. It created that rare feeling of Scottish in winter wonderland mode.

The summit remained in view, just 600 metres above the bothy. The mountain seemed so much bigger, bloated under all that fresh snow. We’d been worried about re-crossing the river, but the cold snap had lowered the water level to reveal a series of large stepping stones just beneath the surface.

The conditions made it an easy decision to discount the steep scramble up Creag an Duine’s dramatic north ridge. We instead followed the broad scenic ridge of Creag nan Gobhar, which in hindsight was the right call regardless of the weather. It felt plenty hard enough with our big rucksacks.

Thick clag soon enveloped the summit, meaning slow progress with compasses in hands and snow up to our knees. Spotting Seana Bhràigh’s cairn emerge from the mist was joyful. Despite the lack of a view, we knew we’d completed one of the cruxes of the entire crossing. There is no easy alternative between Coiremor and Gleann Beag.

Axes came out for the steep drop out of the cloud towards Glenbeg Bothy. We carefully linked slippery turf ribs that divided dozens of snow-filled gullies into a Zebra-like pattern across Sean Bhraigh’s broad south side. The ground beneath the melting snow was at peak saturation and sunballs whizzed past us. We didn’t take the crampons off until reaching the Abhainn a’ Ghlinne Bhig. It was a delight to reach the river, remove layers and lozzack in a brief spell of late afternoon sun.

Glenbeg Bothy was less delightful. Rat shit was everywhere and snow was falling through its broken roof. I can see why it seems to have been written off as un-fixable.

What was left of the old bothy book offered a wild read. We learned how the original bothy burned down in mysterious circumstances. How a woman’s horse called Honey got stuck in a nearby bog only to be ‘righted by a passing fighter jet’. And how a young Frenchman survived a ten-day solo stay, armed with only sandwiches.

Day Three: Glenbeg Bothy to Loch nan Amhaichean

We swithered over breakfast about whether to tackle our second planned Munro, Am Faochagach. It would mean wading through the snow drifts on its remote northern flank. Alternatively, we could bypass the mountain via low-level tracks that run east through Gleann Beag and south alongside Loch Vaich. We took the easier option and had no regrets.

The first few miles to reach the tracks were painfully slow. Am Faocagach would have been disastrous. We enjoyed the sightseeing tour of Gleann Beag, which contains numerous eye-catching boulders and crags, including a remarkable half-domed cliff. Any climbers with e-bikes and a sense of adventure could fill many days there.

Eventually we turned south into Strath Vaich, as snow showers again drained all colour from the scene. We’d feared this would be an industrial-feeling glen, hence our reluctance to avoid Am Faochagach.

In fact, the east bank of Loch Vaich is quite an uplifting place. We watched a golden eagle soar above the miles of regenerating pines that can hopefully one day be unshackled from their protective fences. Many dozens of red deer lurked just beyond the fences. Their numbers are wildly inflated by the lack of predators and the manmade feeding posts that littered much of our journey. Those wee trees wouldn’t stand a chance.

We snuck into a derelict farmstead at Lubachlaggan, getting there just in time to dodge the latest smashing of snow. It was a useful moment to make a brew and lay out the map on its deer dung floor. Our plan was loose from here on, with no definite night stops in mind.

Perhaps it was the caffeine, but we began to feel confident that we could push on into the Easter Ross uplands before nightfall. The winds were dropping so we decided to aim for Loch nam Amhaichean, about a 12km walk from our lunch stop.

At the south end of Loch Vaich, we spotted a lone runner in the distance. We paused, praying that they would jog our way, just so that we could mention where we’d walked from. We’d even practiced how the conversation would go. We’d get in early with ‘Where you going today?’ just so that we could later casually drop in, ‘Oh us? Yes, just Ullapool to Evanton this time.’ It was probably for the best that they spun back down the glen before reaching us.

We made good time through Strathrannoch and into the upper reaches of Allt a’ Choire-rainich (photo below), a useful gateway to the high expanse of the Kildermorie Forest. Lots of wee birds darted about, with their chirping providing a pleasant soundtrack to our suffering. I belted out some more Stan: “Tracing one warm line through a land so wild and savage. And make a Northwest Passage to the sea.”

We left the burn and trudged up the final 150 metres of deep snow-covered heather to a shallow col. We were glad to yet again have strong north-westerlies on our backs and pleased that we had flipped our start point to the west, rather than finish in Ullapool as originally planned. At the windy col we got our first view of distant Ben Wyvis, its summit looming between horizontal bands of fast-moving clouds.

In the foreground lay Loch nam Amhaichean. The scene was stunning, with ribbons of ice clinging to granite craglets and ravens crawking above the sheltered teardrop-shaped loch.

A tiny sandy beach gave just enough room to pitch our tent, one inch above loch-level (below). We knew the loch wouldn’t rise overnight given the remarkably cold spring conditions. It was one of the finest spots that either of us had camped.

Day Four: Loch nam Amhaichean to Allt Coire Misirich

We woke early to a rich gold glow reflecting upwards through the tent’s thin grey skins. I unzipped the door in time to catch the sun rise over a remote Graham, Beinn nan Eun.

It was a blissful start to the day. Forcing our mashed feet into frozen boots ruined the vibe a bit.

But we were soon warmed up by the knee-wrecking descent of Abhainn Beinn nan Eun, over pumpy peat hags and heathery moraine down to the west end of Loch Glass.

I cursed myself for having only brought one walking pole and wondered what the doctor who had injected my knackered hip full of steroids a week before have would make of this escapade. It was a testing start to the hardest day of the trip.

I’ve heard people say that Ben Wyvis is an uninteresting, easy Munro. But as we approached its less-frequented northern flank on our fourth day, it looked an intimidating hulk.

Via a combination of tracks and heather bashing, we reached a beautiful old stalkers’ path at Loch nan Druidean. We were immensely grateful for the path’s narrow zigzags, which led us efficiently through the snow-covered boulder field to Carn Gorm (742 metres). The path wound upwards a further 200 metres to Tom a’ Choinich, where we paused briefly to consult the map.

We were pretty much on top of the hill, but beginning to feel a bit spent. It was disheartening to fully realise the scale of the journey to reach Ben Wyvis, regain this spot, then follow the curving ridge of Leacann Bhreac south-east towards lower Glen Glass. Neither of us mentioned it, but I guess we’d both calculated that it meant a further 10km of walking and 350 metres of height gain before bed.

The weather had settled into a pattern of 20 minutes of sunshine quickly followed by 20 minutes of howling spindrift on repeat. It added to the mildly serious feel. It didn’t help that we were yet to seen anyone – or even a snowy footprint – except that distant runner and the shy bothy-goers.

Our long strides of Day One had reduced to a waddling plod on the final push up Ben Wyvis. Just as on Seana Bhràigh, the clag rolled in for the final stretch to the top.

We came across false summit after false summit.

“Watching cities rise before me, then behind me sink again. This tardiest explorer, driving hard across the plain.”

I hear you, Stan.

Finally we hit the trig point, took a quick photo then spun on our heels. As we descended the cloud lifted to give our first sight of our end point at Evanton. Beyond, the rusty oil rigs of the Cromarty Firth looking eerily magnificent.

Moving into the ecological wasteland of Ben Wyvis’ eastern reaches was a depressing end to an otherwise wonderful day. Head-height peat hags made progress hard. Numerous all-terrain vehicle tracks had left deep scars across the bog. Attempts had been made to build rudimentary roads to drive shooters up the hill. In the late afternoon sun, these tracks had predictably turned into burns and were flooding with peat-stained snowmelt.

Near our riverside camp spot next to the Allt Coire Misirich (right), the rubble surface of one of these hunting roads was being noisily swept into the tanking river below. Exposed bedrock showed where deep peat had once been. We didn’t see a single living animal on that descent. Regardless of your views on shooting animals for sport, surely there must be a better way to treat our uplands than this?

We both felt quite angry about what we were seeing. It was a stark contract to the hopeful journey through Strath Vaich the day before. It was probably for the best that we arrived late at this, our final camp spot of the crossing. We smashed down our final 1,000-calorie ‘meals’ and went quickly to sleep.

Day Five: Allt Coire Misirich to The Sea!

It was good to wake knowing that we simply had to get downstream on a mixture of forest trails and minor roads to the sea.

After getting slightly lost on the forestry tracks above Glen Glass, we made it the glen(right). It felt strange and sore on our achy feet to hit tarmac, so it was a relief to soon leave the road and gain a fun riverside path through Black Rock Gorge.

A few happy families nodded brief hellos, before a young woman and her mother approached. “Those are big bags. Where have you been?” Finally, we could tell our tale. They did a great job of sounding suitably impressed and not mentioning how much we stunk.

With our egos inflated, we followed a series of wooded trails to the pretty back streets of Evanton, across the roaring A9 and along pleasant paths towards Kiltearn Castle.

We marched down the sand bank, across the mudflats, over the bladderwrack and into the sea. Big hugs. We’d done it!!

Our crossing was extremely short by “through-hiker” standards. Many people walk three times this distance on the TGO Challenge each year and we only topped two Munros in five days.

But to us, it felt a big adventure, where success was far from guaranteed. I suspect that it will be imprinted on my memory for a very long time. I hope to always remember that Easter Ross sunrise – and to perhaps get just a little better at embracing that belly-tickling feeling of trying something new.