04/02/2026
30 years to the day since I first quested my way up Sgurr nan Gillean, discovered that I actually liked exposure and consequence and became a mountaineer. Despite a few hiccups, that still endures.
To add a bit of depth and context, in 1995 the penny had dropped that my wild 20s were becoming a bit self-destructive and that I needed something more wholesome and spiritual in my life. So I rediscovered a long-dormant pleasure in hillwalking, just me and my soul finding peace, exercise and fulfilment on the peaks.
I started to collect the Munros again (my first had been when I was 11, before I found beer and parties). In those days it was just the hills I could reach by train, bus or bike, so the options for local days out soon started to reduce and I found myself forced to look west to the Cuillin.
That seemed a big deal. Plenty had told of their precipitous nature and the increased risk and challenge of even their easiest routes. I took that onboard, as a single walker without a rope, partner or very much of a clue, I was right to.
And yet… there was Sgurr nan Gillean looking majestic across the moor from Sligachan every time I travelled the Portree road. The primal urge was there, undeniable. And further research revealed it had a “Tourist Route” up the SE ridge. A plan evolved..
The first attempt was an ignominious failure. I got lost in the mist and couldn’t even find the start. My bus from Kyle had been a bad choice anyway, too late in the day to give me all the winter daylight I needed. I retreated to lick my wounds, further chastened when a friend told me he’d been onto the tourist route and had found it to be anything but. “I probably shouldn’t have been there” he said. Should I?
Notwithstanding, the urge didn’t go away, and the next time my logistics were on point. A pre-dawn bike ride 7 miles to Kyle, then I aired my thumb at the bridge and got an instant hitch all the way to Slig. The game was on.
In perfect thin but bright winter sunshine I this time found the right path and followed it correctly all the way around to the back of the mountain. No problems there. But as I was overhauled by a pair of cheerful fellow-travelers, and asked them about the ice axes on their backs, some new doubts arose…
“Might not need them, but looks like a bit of white, might be verglas”. This was a foreign language to me. My brain briefly imploded but rightly or wrongly, I kept moving up. For the first of what has since become many times, I installed the rationale: take a look, see how it evolves, don’t go up what you can’t get down, and be prepared to turn around at any time. Qualified curiosity. It was the right choice.
As one ascends the SE ridge proper (let’s stop calling it the tourist route) the scrambling becomes progressively more interesting and hands-on. So I was led into the scrambling dance gently but persuasively. There was indeed white stuff, frost and possibly verglas, but rather wonderfully this was all on the dark NE side of the ridge, whilst I was on the crest and west side on sun-kissed and grippy dry rock. The mountain gods had decided to overlook my novice-like preparation and grant me a path through.
I accepted that with relish. I discovered that day that lunging about on rock with terminal drops below me was not something to be scared of and to do only reluctantly to reach awkward Munros, but something rather wonderful and exhilarating, to subsequently be sought out as an end in itself. And as the ridge narrowed and the exposure ramped up on the final section, I swear I had what others have described as an out-of-body experience, as if I was able to look at what I doing with a mixture of disbelief and admiration. I’ve never climbed for external kudos, but I guess my own personal self-worth was important, then as it is now.
Summit gained, joy unconfined. Anyone who has stood atop Gillean will know that the summit is a small and lofty perch, with air all around and one of the best views in Scotland. It’s a summit that I’ve enjoyed many times since, and have been happy to share with some great people, clients and friends alike. I munched malt loaf and let it all sink in. 30 years later I can’t quite assemble the complex thoughts that almost overwhelmed me, but I do remember wishing I had the means to write it all down. There was definitely a tear in my eye.
I knew with certainty that I would make it down, that the Cuillin was now a place of opportunity and not of fear, and that something had changed, a switch had been flicked and that life would never be the same again. The journey of the following 30 years has been a rollercoaster, with many ups and downs (that’s mountaineering…) but I wouldn’t change it for the world, and I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Thank you to the mountains and the mountaineers who have (and who continue to) make it special.
