WILD: Climbing all of Scotland’s Munros in a Single Winter

In 2020 Kevin Woods become the third person to complete a round of the Munros in a single winter season, completing the round in the most unexpected of difficult circumstances. We’ve an extract from his new book on the round – WILD: Climbing all of Scotland’s Munros in a Single Winter.

Day Off, 22 February

In the small hours of the morning, I woke up to a singular deafening bang all around me in the van. I sat bolt upright, and still barely conscious, jumped out of bed and went to look out the window. Waking up fully, it wasn’t clear what I was expecting to see. It had been a crack of lightning, presumably directly overhead. Instinct had sent me flying for no good reason, so I returned to bed with the sound of thunder rattling in the night, and another uncomfortable reminder of the tumultuous summits still to come.

The day’s forecast did not look any better. Gusts were forecast over 80mph, with frequent or constant snow and hail, the risk of thunder and lightning, and localised flooding. Whatever the weather was doing, I should nonetheless hold to a plan until something forced a stop.

The drive into Glen Shiel was shocking, with wind, hail and snow all playing together in a way I’d hardly seen until then. One moment, the hills would look reasonable. Turn away and they would suddenly become consumed by tornadoes of spindrift and great curtains of hail. By the roadside, the trees and shrubs were being jostled and bent toward the ground, while hail hammered the windows of the van. And in the back of my head, the previous night’s thunder was a humbling reminder of what could happen up on the summits.

I thought of the bigger picture. My options were essentially constrained to The Saddle and Sgùrr na Sgine, which although they climb directly above the road, have some complex ground. There weren’t a whole load more choices, at least not without losing a lot of time.

A decision emerged agonisingly slowly. Could I risk it? And was it a waste of time? Could I do it in these conditions? It seemed as though I’d be sailing close to the limit by going out. The thunder in the night had put me right on edge.

Not going out should have been an easy choice, but in truth, the back-and-forth decisions were exhausting. I’d hold on to anything that might make it realistic to go out, but circumstances produced a mental block through which I couldn’t pass. The eventual choice was not to go out at all.

North Shiel Ridge, 23 February

The following morning, I was walking into the foot of Sgùrr Fhuaran, the first Munro on the north side of Glen Shiel. It’s also the central and highest of the so-called Five Sisters of Kintail, which are a rooftop procession of summits set impressively over the glen. The forecast provided a glint of hope, with an easing into the afternoon, and I was making a dash for the seven Munros strung across the north side of the glen.

Sleet showers were blowing hard on a headwind – walking with my head bowed into the sleet, I was simply despondent. When will these conditions end? And how will you do it, when it’s like this?

But climbing the side of Sgùrr Fhuaran offered some much-needed momentum. It packs just over a kilometre of ascent into a treadmill from straight sea level to summit. Steep open slopes led to a rising arete, and in turn the summit cairn arrived. Beyond this, six more Munros lay in a chain running east, and gaining the first banished some of the despondency of the morning.

The sense of airiness on these mountains is astonishing. The ensuing descent of Sgùrr Fhuaran surprised me, and prompted me to get out the axe and crampons for Sgùrr na Ciste Duibhe.

With mist and blowing spindrift, it still felt wild, and I had to laugh at the absurdity of it. This was what a seven-Munro forecast looked like? It seemed as though my sense for severity was so dulled that anything other than extraordinarily awful had become acceptable.

But the weather did settle in the end. Winding down the long ridge east of Sgùrr na Ciste Duibhe, milky grey breaks opened in the cloud. Ahead, were another trio of Munros. As I reached Sàileag, at last the cloud lifted, with shafts of sunlight breaking on the ridges across Glen Shiel. With four Munros completed and a rising afternoon, success on this link of seven seemed almost guaranteed.

Momentum rose in sympathy with the weather and I took intense joy from seeing the summits go by. I went north for my last Munro, Ciste Dhubh, running a lot of the descent before hammering up its southern slopes feeling incredibly fit.

Coursing with energy, I was ecstatic on top. I’d barely eaten all day, yet I always felt good. After the tricky start in the morning, improving weather had spurred me into incredible power. And what a difference. Conditions didn’t even have to be good. It only required reasonable conditions to make dramatic progress. This optimism had to be remembered. I should not be so hard on myself – it was down to nothing more than the luck of the seasonal draw. If today was what it felt like to be moving over the mountains, I wanted more of it.

And there was more cause to be glad, because although I didn’t realise it at the time, Ciste Dhubh was my 200th Munro of the winter. Darkness rolled over in the snow-choked glen that led to the Cluanie Inn. At the same time, the skies cleared to stars and a calm night ensued. The lights of the inn appeared, and here I met Ken MacTaggart who had kindly come down from Inverness. He’d been keeping a close eye on my winter and we shared dinner at the Cluanie, while he quizzed me with an interest for which I was massively grateful. Afterward, he ran me back to the foot of Glen Shiel, and dropped me back where the van was waiting.

The Saddle & Sgùrr na Sgine, 24 February

The Saddle is a complex peak with many spurs, ridges and tops, and is one of the most logistically interesting mountains in the area. A crucial link from the summit down the eastern flank is not only hidden from view from the road, but can become loaded with snow on a westerly wind.

It was a curious day; the hills were found to be concealed by mist, blotted out by a silent white covering. Meanwhile, a steady fall of snow was plastering the hills. Instead of going directly up the dramatic Forcan Ridge to the top, I began to traverse underneath it, intending to arc around to the eastern flanks. I wanted to see the east flank from a defensive position to understand what the snow was doing. In due course, the mist thinned and opened to reveal the Forcan Ridge in profile.

Bealach Coire Mhàlagain is the saddle that separated my day’s two Munros. From here I spotted what I was looking for: a curving spur underneath the top of The Saddle that was scoured of snow and free of the avalanche risk of the other flanks. I headed up the spur, happy that there was nothing between me and the top.

The crags were steel-grey with snow falling and an eerie, windless atmosphere. It hadn’t been this calm on a hill for a long time. I climbed straight on to the foretop of The Saddle, which, although crowned in a trig point, is very marginally lower than the summit immediately east. With the summit gained, I reversed to the trig point and dropped off the hill the way I had come up. There were no views, and no sound, but for a distant stream and the far croak of the ptarmigan.

On Sgùrr na Sgine, the light turned dusky in the late afternoon. Night arrived as I reached the top, at which point the mist broke open to a muted sunset. With two Munros completed, I followed my prints back out under the Forcan Ridge, and descended directly into the glen, breaking to a jog on the steeper sections. In a calm, muted darkness, car headlights moved through the glen and the skies broke open to stars.

Having arrived back at the road, I drove west in need of food, and fuel for the van. In Glen Shiel, nothing was open. Kintail Lodge Hotel was also shut. Just around the loch was a petrol station, which turned out to be shut as well. Oh well, I might as well go to Kyle for food. But when I got there, everything was closed except for the Co-op, and I still needed fuel. I might as well just go to Broadford on Skye to fill up the van.

Half-way to Broadford, I suddenly thought, “Ah – Mike’s place.” His Skye Basecamp Hostel, being in part for climbers, might still be open in this midwinter period. After all, I could recharge flat battery packs, refill my water bottles, and take a real bed for the night.

I was relieved to find it open and available. Moreover, I walked in to find John King, Richard Kermode and Mike Lates all around the communal table, having a good social evening. At first Mike quizzed me on the winter: plans, intentions, ideas – when was I doing the Cuillin?

“Not sure yet.”

“Go tomorrow.”

“What?!”

“The ridge is in.”

And so came about one of the best happy-chance moments of the winter. Before long, we had a plan for the southern Cuillin ridge, starting at the Inaccessible Pinnacle and travelling south for a total of five Munros. Mike Lates would give me all the access to local knowledge that I might ever need – an ideal chance meeting.

For all of that, nobody went to bed any earlier. I was only asleep by 2am, with the alarm set for two and a half hours’ time.

WILD: Climbing all of Scotland’s Munros in a Single Winter is available at Kevin Woods’ website.