Nevis in the Mist
Ben Nevis, back in the day, way back before everyone had super-smartphones with instant everything, I'd done Pen y Fan, then Snowdon, and thought, ‘Yeah, Ben Nevis. That’s next.’ This was 2012, March. Picture it: overnight drive from South Wales, knackered, arrive in Fort William. Google Maps was basically witchcraft back then, and phone batteries lasted a mighty 3 hours, tops.
Next morning, 7 am, car park. ‘Sunrise’? More like ‘grey smudge’. Low clouds clinging to the mountain like chewing gum to the underside of a desk. Couldn't see a thing. A few other nutters were milling about. I felt…well, like a hiker. Nervous, buzzing, you know? One small step, etc. This was as close to the moon as I was likely to get.
Off I toddled, following the general direction of others and a handy signpost. Phew, right way! Passed the Ben Nevis Inn – they’ve got this ‘weather predicting stone’. Always accurate, it was wet and slightly hazy, it said ‘wet and misty’. Nailed it. Through a gate, and the ‘scramble’ began.
As always, I hadn't exactly researched the path. It looked well-trodden, so I figured, ‘How hard can it be?’ Famous last words. Within minutes, I was puffing like a steam train. The constant uphill, the damp air…my poor, untrained lungs were screaming. The path was a relentless mix of steps, steep slopes, and sharp zig-zags, all pointing in one direction: up. After an hour or so, I risked a glance back. Between the clouds, the view was…wow! Seriously impressive. Couldn't believe how high I'd gotten so quickly. Saw a waterfall, tiny people even further up. Then, poof – clouds closed in again. That was the last view I got.
So, I plodded on, into the grey soup. Found the waterfall – or rather, the torrent of icy water blasting across the path. ‘Stream’ is a bit of an understatement. My ‘no research’ policy came back to bite me. Were my boots waterproof? Who knew! I waded through, fingers crossed. Miraculously, dry socks.
More zig-zagging, more grey nothingness. Then, snow. Proper snow. One step forward, half a slide back. Progress slowed to a crawl. The wind picked up, a cold that took me right back to being a kid in those awful knitted gloves, gear now keeps you warm and dry. Then, the ice. A vast, shimmering sheet of it, covering the path. It wasn't just slippery; it was treacherous. People were sliding down on their backsides, some looking genuinely worried. I tried a few steps, each one ending in a near-fall. My heart started to pound. This wasn't just a bit of fun anymore; this was dangerous. I was stuck. Utterly stuck. A wave of despair washed over me. This was it. My Ben Nevis adventure was over, defeated by a patch of ice. I sat on one of the few rocks poking out of the snow, completely deflated, reaching into my pack for the Mars bar I’d been saving for the summit...and then I felt them. Those stretchy crampon things! I’d completely forgotten I’d packed them. It was like a lifeline.
Clipping them on was a revelation. Suddenly, I was sticking to the ice like a fly to flypaper. The ice was no match! Why hadn't I remembered them earlier?! The relief was immense. I gave my fellow adventurers a smug look and bounded up the icy slope, feeling like I'd cheated death.
After that, the path more or less vanished. Just these tiny stone markers, barely poking out of the snow, like little grey teeth in a white grin. You’d spot one, trudge towards it, hoping against hope you’d see another. The wind was brutal, giving me a proper headache. Finally, I reached a flat bit. The top. I'd been so focused on those tiny markers, I hadn’t really registered, I’d made it. Suddenly, there it was: a small platform, level with the snow, the trig point standing proudly atop it. I simply stepped onto it. A photo. A quick look around – I saw a shadow. It turned out it was the remains of the old weather observatory, but with the fog, snow and icy wind, I didn’t hang about.
The descent, usually quicker, was agony. Those steps were killing my knees, but I made it. Celebrated with a massive meal at the Ben Nevis Inn. The steak, chips, and Irn-Bru (whilst in Scotland…) at the Ben Nevis Inn tasted like the best meal I'd ever had.
But here’s the kicker. Years later, I went back. Determined to actually see the summit. Those marker stones I’d been desperately searching for in the fog? They’re about six feet tall. The trig point platform? Four feet high. I’d just stepped onto it from the snow the first time. And the worst bit? When I was blindly stumbling around close to the summit in the fog, I was this close to a sheer drop. I had no idea. Returning years later, seeing the summit in all its glory, it was like looking at a completely different mountain. The first time was a blur of white and grey, a test of endurance. The second time, it was a revelation. But both times, I stood on top of Britain. One climb a chaotic blur, the other a clear, triumphant view. But both times, that feeling – of standing on the summit, of having conquered the highest peak – is something I’ll never forget.