SKYE “T
here you go, what do you think?” Mountaineering Instructor Lou Reynolds pulls to a stop as a towering mass of rock looms from the murk. The noise that comes out of my mouth is guttural uncertainty. This is my first look at the Inaccessible Pinnacle, high up on the Black Cuilllin range, on the Isle of Skye. Emotion
rises – possibly excitement, probably fear. What’s not helping is that there’s a film camera in my face, capturing every grimace and grunt. “I can totally understand why people want to climb it…” I stutter. “I’m 100% not sure that I want to climb it.” Then I laugh, but it’s a dry-mouthed oh-god-why-am-I-here kind of a laugh.
This adventure started 18 months before, when I mentioned to someone at the BMC that I’d love to climb the Inaccessible Pinnacle. At the time, I could only remember how to put on a climbing harness with help and didn’t know what a belay plate was. But I’d heard of the Inaccessible Pinnacle. The tales of the Black Cuillin intrigued me. Inaccessible: what a goal to work towards. Eventually. Perhaps hypothetically. But then my bluff was called – Yeah! said the BMC, we should make a BMC TV film about it. Lots of hill walkers want to tackle the Inn Pinn. How long do you think you need to build up your skills? And so I was committed, held to my idly spoken, egotistical words. And now here, I was, gazing upon the inaccessible. What a marketing coup, to call it the Inaccessible Pinnacle. It’s the
only Munro that demands a graded rock climb to reach the summit (Moderate one side, Severe the other), so there’s no shortage of climbers, Munro baggers and folk like me, ready to pick up the gauntlet thrown down. The very name is a jeer. ‘Inaccessible’ has made this bizzare, slanted fin of rock a trophy to be had. The first ascentionists were the Pilkington Brothers, Charles and Lawrence, and their trusty local guide, John Mackenzie, in 1880. Climbing was then an activity for the posh lunatic fringe, rather than a respected Olympic sport. “People might come into the hills if they’d lost their sheep,” Lou muses, “then some geologists and
botanists came to study…and mountaineers followed, looking for challenge.” Confronted by the black, jagged teeth of the Cuillin, I can understand why folk in the olden days wouldn’t choose to come. Why would you? Nothing to eat, plenty of places to die, the realm of Gods and Monsters. It’s folly, ego and 19th Century marketing that have got me here. I’m a fool. In this part of the world, contour lines can be inked so tightly the mountains turn orange. The only map that seems to make sense of the mass of ridges, pinnacles, chutes and coires is Harvey’s Superwalker - 1:25,000 on one side, but 1:12,500 on the other. The 15m contour intervals, helpful purple shading of the ridge and boxes of information about the unreliability of compasses (the rock is magnetic – take a GPS or a guide or both), are useful. The ‘Points on Safety’ written by Gerry Akroyd, the Skye Mountain Rescue Team leader are sobering. “The Cuillin is the most difficult and dangerous true mountain range in Britain. On a par with the Alps, apart from the height difference,” he says. Gulp. The weather is fickle, the rock slippery, the height gain punishing (every route starts from sea level). His final note is to “Fear them, maybe doubly respect them, and you will have many great mountain days within their aura.” My brain stops processing at ‘fear them’.
I know the stats for the East Ridge – the route 95% of people use
for ascent of the Inn Pinn. It’s 65m, graded as a moderate rock climb, and not all of it can be safeguarded. If you slip at certain points, you’ll swing off the fin and over the abyss. The crux is about half way up, and requires careful deployment of fingers and toes on appropriate matchbox-sized holds. Easy for climbers, tricky for me. I don’t want to be an idiot, getting manhauled up somewhere
that I have no right to be, putting other people at risk. Making films doesn’t give me a free pass. If I don’t have the skills then I don’t deserve to go. So over the months, I’ve tried to build fitness, I’ve joined climbing friends at the indoor wall, and trundled round Tryfan building skills on grade 1, 2 and 3 scrambles. By the time I hit Skye my stiff-soled boots are at least respectably broken in.
“AN OVERHANGING AND INFINITE DROP ON ONE SIDE, AND STEEPER AND FURTHER ON THE OTHER.”
54 | CLIMB. WALK. JOIN.
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