Though stunningly beautiful from a distance, John G O'Dwyer soon found out that Scotland's Cuillin Hills are one hell of a climb
Day-dreaming in the office, it seemed like a good idea. On a forthcoming work-related trip to Scotland, why not add on a couple of days and a compelling challenge? Now, spinning through Glen Sligachan on the romantic Isle of Skye this vague idea had transformed to a wondrous prospect. Soaring above to a feathered sky was a seven-mile ridge of jagged pinnacles and rocky towers surrounding lonely Lough Coruisk. The bleakly beautiful Cuillin of Skye are indeed mountains apart - a convoluted jungle of naked rock and jagged ridges offering the only Alpine scale mountaineering on these islands. And amid all this chaos and grandeur lay my objective, the Inaccessible Pinnacle - by common consent the hardest mountain on these islands.
Now, I knew it wasn't meant to be easy. Mention of the In Pin - as it is commonly known within the climbing fraternity - sends a tremor of dread through many aspiring Munroists.
Munroists are individuals who have set themselves a jaw-dropping objective - reaching the summit of each one of Scotland's 284 Munros (mountains over 3,000ft, or 914m). All but one of these tops can be reached using conventional hillwalking skills; but for the Pin, rock-climbing technique is required. And these techniques are put into practice above what one climber described as "awesome death-defying drops to one side and even bigger drops on the other". Hence the relief of most climbers when they finally put the In Pin to bed; they can leave a persistent nightmare behind.
Still, I felt quietly confident. I had spent summers hanging around with "rock-jocks" and fancied I knew a thing or two about rock-climbing. And I wasn't totally new to the mountains of Skye, having already ascended a couple of Munros at the north end of the Cuillin Ridge.
Furthermore, my guidebook dismissed the ascent of the Pin as merely a moderate grade rock climb. On artificial climbing walls and in the Burren and Co Kerry I had done harder. Indeed, somewhere in the back of my mind lay a fantasy where I would romp easily up the Pin offering words of encouragement to the struggling, jelly-kneed hillwalkers along the way, top-out with style and, as a final pièce de résistance, abseil elegantly off the other side.
The following morning, rain spotted my face as I headed up the grassy slopes from Glenbrittle. Tattered clouds raced past bleak summits, and it was discomforting to notice that I had few companions on the ascent. Higher up, as the path gave way to a narrow ridge, the wind became stronger, the rain more persistent. Instead of the dry weather comfort of good friction there was now the nightmare of boot-skidding wet rock.
I met a Dutch pair descending. Sadly, they shook their heads and told me the Pin was out of the question today. Nevertheless, with what I then considered admirable determination, I continued upwards, now totally alone, my world confined to a ring of mist 20m in diameter. Soon I was traversing what I hoped fervently was the Squrr Dearg West Ridge, while grimly hanging on against a howling wind. All thoughts of elegant rock-climbing now evaporated. Finding the Pin was my foremost concern, since the magnetic Cuillin rock makes reliable compass navigation impossible.
I struggled to a high point and pulled out a map in desperation. At that moment, a golden burst of sunlight shafted the mist and there it was straight ahead - the unmistakably elegant obelisk of the Inaccessible Pinnacle. The vision faded quickly, but it was all I needed.
Re-energised, i rucksacked the map, descended some slabby rocks and worked my way along the base of the Pin. The "moderate" rock climb described in the guidebook was now above me, disappearing intimidatingly into swirling mist. I made to move upwards but the wind caught my rucksack like a sail, making me fight desperately to hold onto the slimy basalt. I was now learning the hard lesson of climbing on Skye. A moderate rock climb on a sunny, low-level crag may indeed provide few difficulties, but high on the Cuillin in bad weather, it was a horse of a totally different hue. Without a partner to protect my ascent by rope, it would clearly be crazy to attempt the Pin in such conditions.
Defeated by the elements I retraced my steps sadly. Even the descent proved long, arduous and not without its dangers. Almost three exhausting hours later I reached the car, fervently hating the Cuillin and all those slimy rock slabs and knee-jarring gabbro boulders.
But Skye does curious things to people and makes it difficult for you to stay low for long. Back in the maw of civilisation and heading towards the twinkling lights of Portree and the promise of a warm shower and a square meal, my sense of failure evaporated. Suddenly I felt elated. I had battled against those elemental forces for which the Cuilins are famous, and while I had not won I had survived unscathed, and that was a victory in itself.
And the following day, still on a high, I gazed upwards at the Cuillin as I left Skye. They were teasing with unthreatening white clouds above clear summits as they had on my arrival day. And it was then I vowed, as most departing climbers do, that soon I must return and do battle once again with the unforgiving Cuillin. You see, once sampled, it is difficult to escape the magnetism of Skye.
• John G O'Dwyer is a hillwalker and mountain leader. For Scotland information see visitscotland.com and skye.co.uk