‘And suddenly my shadow jumps huge miles away from me’.
So ends Norman MacCaig’s iconic poem about the ascent of Suilven. The moment he describes is not the attainment of the summit itself but the instant, after hauling himself up the interminable plod of this treadmill hill, when he reached the ridge atop the Bealach Mor gully and the wondrous panorama to the south exploded into view.
It is the instant when you truly fall in love with this stubborn mountain, so overwhelming that it steals your breath and when you regain it the toil and ache of the gully climb has dissolved to distant memory, replaced by sheer jaw-dropping elation. You step up onto the narrow ridge path and pause a while, absorbing the scene below you, endless mountains and void and water and space. It’s hard to find the words I need.
However, Suilven still has some tricks to play on those who then choose to turn their attention to the true summit, as we were to find out.
Suilven is not a Munro (Scottish mountains over 3,000 feet high). At 2,398 feet it is not even a Corbett (mountains over 2,500 feet), but it is without doubt Scotland’s most extraordinary mountain. It terms of category it is a Graham, being between 2,000 feet and 2,500 feet high. It stands in splendid isolation, miles from any vehicular access and taunts you with its shape-shifting games. From the west it looks like a huge rounded pillar rising vertically from the boggy wilderness (the original Norse/Gaelic name Sula Bheinn means ‘Pillar Mountain’); from the east it looks more like a pinnacle or spire, Matterhornesque and threatening.
From north or south the full extent of the mountain becomes apparent, the Caisteal Liath summit topping the dome to the west and the jagged peaks of Meall Mheadhonach, Meall Beag and beyond stretching the ridge over a mile to the east. It has variously been described as looking like a beached whale or a grounded galleon, a lion or a sugar loaf. It is a magnificent monolith of a mountain, Torridonian sandstone sitting on a plinth of Lewisian Gneiss.
I have wanted to climb Suilven for far more years than I care to remember and while I’ve walked extensively in the area many times the opportunity to do so has eluded me, other commitments, time, procrastination or weather allowing me too easily to have put it off for another day. For this reason the ascent had achieved something approaching mythical status in my mind, qualifying it for inclusion on my bucket list (in truth I hate the connotations of the phrase ‘bucket list’, but I have offset the inferred finality of it all by ensuring the last entry on mine reads ‘Start new list’).
It was the current list that prompted my son and his wife, Josh (the Bearded One) and Becca, to gift me the expedition as a most excellent birthday present, their offering including planning and accommodation and, most importantly, their company for the challenge.
We travelled north the day before our planned walk, staying in a delightful Airbnb in Ullapool and willing the gods to bring us good weather for the ascent. A pint in the Ferry Boat Inn, a Seaforth chippie and a relaxing game of Photosynthesis helped wind down the evening and we retired early in recognition of the task ahead.
Having experienced the usual eclectic mix of weather over the preceding few days it was with some relief that we awoke to blue skies, calm air and very acceptable temperatures for the time of year. Breakfasted, bundled and briefed we drove the remaining miles to base camp.
Lochinver harbour shimmered like a mill pond under the clear sky. We parked just west of Glencanisp Lodge at the point beyond which no unauthorised vehicles are allowed. From here it is an undulating six mile walk in before any ascent to speak of is required.
Suilven stands in the distance like a great domed cathedral, daring us to approach. It towers above many square miles of peat bog and silvery lochans.
The mild weather brings the area to life. Along the way we encountered one and later another adder, a surprising first for all of us. They each raised their hissing heads in mock defence as we tried to photograph them and slithered away into the undergrowth. Further on flocks of geese soared high above us in their hundreds, their incessant chatter clearly audible and splintering the silence around us. Every few steps there were beetles and bugs and caterpillars venturing across our path, red deer on the hillside beyond and birds I wish I could have identified with greater certainty appearing and vanishing depending on their moods.
A couple of miles in there’s a left fork to the Suileag bothy, a well-maintained and sizeable shelter where some walkers prefer to overnight before tackling Suilven or the walk through to Elphin. A peek inside revealed the sleeping bags and paraphernalia left here by a group who were no doubt by then well ahead of us on the hill. We took a break and ate some of our plentiful supplies, chatting to a friendly chap who assured us he has been ‘up the hills a few times previously’ but on this occasion he has just strolled up to the bothy to sit on the bench and read and enjoy the weather. He certainly picked a good day for it.
Wishing him well we set off once again with four miles or so still to cover to the base of the mountain. As we head east Canisp, Suilven’s nearest neighbour, dominates the north-eastern skyline ahead of us, her quartzite pyramid catching the welcome sun.
But it is Suilven resplendent in all her glory to the south who steals the show. The scale and detail grows more apparent as we approach, although the access path requires us to almost pass the mountain before we turn off the stalker’s path at a cairn which marks the route to the base of the Bealach Mor gully.
I pause to tip my hat here to the John Muir Trust who have been doing some excellent work to improve the path across the peat bog to Suilven. The work is in progress and the first stretch is complete, saving us from picking our soggy way south and hastening our progress. More work is scheduled which will only help those who follow.
Once across the level bog there is a rather sharp though short pull up onto the plateau below the gully. We crossed the plateau and found a suitable stopping point by the water, Suilven’s bulk reflected on its mirrored surface. As we eat our lunch our task ahead comes into focus; the gully rises ahead of us.
With the weather much warmer than anticipated we re-jigged our packs so we could leave the majority of our extra clothing layers and the supplies for our walk out in the largest rucksack to await our return, tucking it into the heather to the side of the path.
And so began the ascent of the gully. Suffice to say, the climb up it is the true challenge of climbing Suilven. It is all things at once, satisfyingly close to the vertical at long last (we’re here to climb a mountain after all) and yet soul-destroying in scale; challenging enough to know we are achieving something special; monotonous enough to drain enthusiasm. As we gained height different perspectives came into view, notably Quinag to the north and Ben More Assynt beyond Canisp. These milestones offered respite from the endless haul up the gully. Would the top ever get any nearer?
I’m tempted to write paragraphs about this gully, dull drawls of nonsense to capture the tedious effort required to reach the ridge. The path, if we can call it such, is loose and scrambly in places and then it teases with achingly high steps of rock. Hands get gritty as they help and, strangely, the heat increases with altitude. Suffice to say the gully is the real toil required to bring the ultimate reward
Climbing Suilven
I nod and nod to my own shadow and thrust
A mountain down and down.
Between my feet a loch shines in the brown,
It’s silver paper crinkled and edged with rust.
My lungs say No;
But down and down this treadmill hill must go.
Parishes dwindle. But my parish is
This stone, that tuft, this stone
And the cramped quarters of my flesh and bone.
I claw that tall horizon down to this;
And suddenly
My shadow jumps huge miles away from me.
Norman MacCaig
It is that step from the tedious blank of the gully wall endlessly inches from your face into the startling infinity of the space beyond the ridge summit that punches the breath from you. We turned to each other and intuitively shook hands. The view is spectacular; surely one of the finest in all the land.
We wandered along the ridge path, free for now of the ache of ascent and relaxing in anticipation of the remaining haul to the summit itself. The views were staggeringly good; neither my words nor my pictures can capture the sense of space and distance around us as we headed west towards the cluttered scramble to the top of this beast. I search for the word to describe my emotion even now as I write up the experience.
It was not far until we reached Suilven’s bizarre little secret. A few hundred yards west of our point of ascent there is an outrageous and not insubstantial dry stone wall, its two arms draped across the ridge of the hill and extending steeply down for a hundred feet or so in each direction before stopping abruptly where the hill plunges vertically into oblivion. Bearing in mind the human endeavour required to build a wall at this altitude, such constructions are normally reserved for rare and remote points at which adventurous sheep need to be protected from cliff edges and suchlike. In this case the wall is surrounded on all sides by sheer precipices so its purpose remains a mystery, basically protecting nothing from anything. Personally I like that there is no rational explanation; long may it stay that way.
A narrow ungated gap in the wall allowed us access beyond. Ahead lay Suilven’s final trick, a test for those who want to reach the true summit. There was little more than a hundred and fifty feet or so of ascent to the top but it involved weaving and scrambling on weary legs, grasping with our hands for security as the path teetered above mighty drops. There is a land bridge at one point, perhaps four or five feet wide and twelve yards long, so theoretically comfortable but the near sheer drop of a thousand feet or more either side brought understandable wobbles to tiring limbs. It is not technically difficult scrambling but you need a head for heights to venture further.
The remarkably good weather meant we discarded fleeces, jackets and rucksacks as we climbed, leaving them for collection on our return and enjoying the warm sun
The reward for braving the ever-narrowing ridge is worth the effort and brought us our goal, the summit itself. Having scrambled up the last few steps of exposed path we were suddenly presented with the unexpected plateau atop Caisteal Liath. We placed our hands in turn on the top stone on the summit cairn, whooped with success and settled to half an hour or so of relaxation and contemplation of our surroundings.
The summit plateau is roughly oval, slightly domed and perhaps around the size of a football pitch so you can walk around at your leisure and wonder at the views in all directions, this ultimate peak having nothing near enough to it to obscure the view. At the edges of the plateau the mountain literally falls vertically to the moorland below; gingerly we crept close to peer over the edge.
I had the strangest urge to stay up there forever.
Needless to say our awareness of the passing time and approaching evening brought us back to our senses. We collected our memories and our various abandoned belongings as we slithered back down the vertiginous boulders and dusty paths of the topmost shoulders of the mountain and padded back through the gap in the wall towards the top of the gully.
We knew its descent would be twice the effort of the original climb, the path loose and the steep twists and turns pressing our feet to the tips of our boots, burning our toes.
For those with more youth and experience in the art of hill-walking perhaps Suilven is just another scalp, albeit a rigorous test for anyone. For me the years of intention had raised it to another level, a challenge I had started to doubt I would ever achieve. Josh and Becca’s gift brought me more than a goal achieved; it brought me a personal fulfilment on a completely different plane and a solid reminder that I’m far from done yet.
As my companions set off down the dusty scuffle of the gully descent I had made some mumbled excuse about sorting scrambling gloves from my rucksack or some such thing to explain my hesitation to leave the ridge. In truth I just wanted to turn once again and look at the whole extraordinary scene, to take it in, surreptitiously removing a tear or two of unbridled joy from my eye to spare my blushes before joining them for the euphoric labour of our return trek.
I won’t dwell too long on the walk out. It was a simple necessity to complete our triumphant expedition. The gully descent, like the ascent, was endless; we retrieved our other pack and polished off much of our remaining supplies; the dip on the lower plateau seemed more irritating than we remembered and we walked the last two hours out in the dark, head torch beams bobbing ahead of us. Occasionally we would stop and extinguish our lights to marvel at the million stars in the clear sky above. Mostly we quietly wished we were back at the car, the goal achieved and the simple function of returning limp in comparison.
However, the jubilation of our achievement was undiminished. I had climbed Suilven. Of all my walking experiences this was undoubtedly the best.
I thank Josh and Becca for making it happen and for experiencing it with me. It was exhausting, precarious and exhilarating; magnificent; spiritual.
Yes, that’s the word I’ve been looking for: spiritual.
Roghadal or bust 
Well done! I think at the age of close to 67 years I will give this mountain a miss. I have climbed Quinag using hands and feet to ascend and coming down used a fifth part of my anatomy!
LikeLike