Ben Nevis

At the end of the week, we were all cosy and established in a Bed & Breakfast in Fort William, and we decided to undertake the task that we had planned for months in advance: climbing Ben Nevis, a 4,500ft tall mountain, the highest peak in the British Isles. After a very filling Scottish breakfast, we suited up, and headed out, ready for anything.

Now, there is only one path that begins the trek up the mountain, and it is a relatively steep but well-worn one that leads up to a small loch in the mountainside, which is where mom decided to spend her day, which turned out to be a wise decision. My dad, my brother, and I all forged boldly ahead, away from the main path. You see, the main path continues up the mountain in a challenging way, but a way that is not as challenging as the other possible way, which is... frankly, more dangerous. Thus, the main path has been dubbed the ‘tourist trail’ or the ‘pony path’ by the locals, and those names make more intrepid explorers shun the path, despite its difficulty.

So we set off in the opposite direction of the tourist path, circling around the mountain to a valley (pictured at the top) where we could look up at its snowy peak, and around at all of the gushing streams and rugged terrain, dotted by sheep and deer alike. We quickly discovered that there was no discernible path through this valley or up to the peak from the valley. None whatsoever. So, we ventured the length of the valley, and looked up around us to discover that our only feasible option was to climb up a very steep slope in order to reach its ridge, which we could then walk along up to the peak.

Lucky us, the slope was covered in scree. Not just small loose rocks, but big rocks the size of my head that looked quite solid, but would give way just when you most needed them. The three of us made very slow progress, climbing on all fours, all but scaling this slope. About halfway up, my dad knew that it had been a bad idea (as he told me later, thankfully) but he also knew that the only worse idea would be trying to go back down. So, we forged ahead foot by foot, rock by rock, and breath by breath. When we reached the top, we exhaustedly collapsed and broke out the Kendal Mint Cake, which is essentially a block of flavored sugar that UK mountaineers use, and that I would never eat in a normal situation - but in that situation, it was the best thing ever.

As we rested, a Scottish couple came casually trotting along the ridge with their dog bounding on ahead of them. My dad asked them how they had come up on the ridge, looking so effortless, and they responded that they had taken the path, of course. They pointed down the ridge, which eventually tapered down to a place at the very beginning of the valley - which we had ignored when we headed directly into the valley. Oh. We just climbed up... never mind.

Sugar rushing through our systems, we stood once more and ventured along the ridge. This ridge:

I hardly knew how to separate Lord of the Rings from reality here, and part of me didn’t want to. Luckily, there was no Saruman trying to BRING DOWN THE MOUNTAIN! Mom had given us all rules when we departed for the peak: no frolicking, bird watching, or unnecessary rock climbing, which corresponded to each of us in particular - I’ll let you guess which one corresponded to which person. We didn’t do terribly well there, and I was accused of breaking the first rule when I started scrambling across the ridge, giddy with LOTR and mint cake. After the ridge, we were greeted with another rocky slope entirely devoid of a path, but this time the rocks were secure. All the same, we were just so tired...

But suddenly, there it was. The summit sprung up on us quite unexpectedly, and it was actually quite flat, and came complete with the ruins of an observatory that was maintained at the end of the 19th century. It was also covered in snow, and we very much appreciated the cool winter setting in the midst of the warm May day. We took the tourist path back down (because we aren’t completely insane), and on the way down both my father and brother frolicked a bit - and I have proof!

It wasn’t just me.

At long last, we descended the mountain to find my mother, quite anxious due to the two rescue helicopters that had been called to the mountain that day, and due to the fact that we were gone for seven hours. But we reassured her, collapsed into the car, and were swept away to a pub, where we ate a hearty meal, and I ordered a glass of rum, on the rocks.