Isle of Arran

We concluded a week on the west coast with one night on Arran—a shakedown cruise for Wheaton’s new pack before plunging into the Cairngorms the following weekend. After missing the first ferry to Brodick, we made a late start into the palms and rhododendrons of the landscaped estates.

We came easily to Goatfell along the northern ridgeline, joined briefly at the peak by two seagulls that wheeled and played above the surrounding glens.

There was a vague plan of following the arete north, dropping onto The Saddle, and then summiting two smaller peaks to make camp by a series of waterfalls in North Sannox. With each tor that we faced past North Goatfell, however, we realized the difficulty of the narrow path we’d chosen.

At some point, we found ourselves hauling Luxi up sheer granite by a length of cheap rope tied around her waist. We’d take turns as sherpas, carrying the packs ahead and then falling back to guide her down channels of scree and along half-visible paths over the 800-meter drop to the glen’s floor of ice and heather. At the worst moments, you’d look down despairingly only to be mocked by the footprints of sneakers and small dogs—traces of the light, old Scots skittering along the same arete that morning with ease.

Scouting farther down the ridge, I startled a Glaswegian photographer balanced on an outcropping beneath the next peak, Cìr Mhòr. James and his girlfriend had been stuck there for two days and hadn’t yet found a path up. Their own first attempt of The Saddle had been cut short a year prior when ice and a named storm forced them to ground on the shoulder of Goatfell. He directed us down past his tent, where his girlfriend pored over an OS map for routes to the large cave visible on the Corbett’s side, and then right at the crossroads, dropping into Glen Sannox to make camp.

Despite the Scots’ assurances, the descent seemed more treacherous than the ridge. After a false start onto scree, we doubled back and lowered ourselves into the Whin Dyke, an eroded channel coated in snowmelt, which formed thin sheets of moss as it trickled down into the glen.

At 8:45, we stepped onto flat ground in Glen Sannox and plunged our heads into a broad, ardent stream that ran down from Cìr Mhòr to the sea. Wheaton urged us on, promising a treeline two miles ahead where he could string up his new ENO hammock system. When we reached the trees, however, they proved useless: scrubby and misshapen, emerging haphazardly from black pools set down amidst the ruins of some early agrarian lifestyle.

It was past ten now but the light went slowly. Wheaton’s new paraffin hurricane lamp, a Feurhand “Baby Special” in fire-truck red, warmed the camp as the peaks that had bested us fell into deeper blues on the horizon. We cooked an immensely satisfying meal on the Svea: mugs of stream water, a rich beef stew, and spiced Irish Brambrack with slices of røgbrød and smoked cheddar.

At dawn, it became evident that we had slept just beside a golf course. I removed a shard of granite lodged deep in my palm and broke camp, walking down to the coast and Brodick’s ferry station, where the long journey to Edinburgh would begin.