Ben Damh: Sidekick of the Torridonian giants

Day 2: Ben Damh
Torridon, at the head of Upper Loch Torridon is a lucky hamlet. And, not just because they had Robert DeNiro and Michelle Pfeiffer cooped up in the Loch Torridon Hotel, awaiting their turn to trip the light fantastic for the upcoming Hollywood spectacle 'Stardust'. I kid you not...


(Upper Loch Torridon)


(Torridon trembling at the foot of Liathach, The Gray One)

After being chastised by Slioch, I was having severe misgivings about my present, and future, as a hill-walker. How could a mere 1000 m. hill get me down in perfect weather. Hell, I used to skip up these Earthly protuberations like a goat's own. Was it the unwieldy boots? The heavy rucksack? Or, shudder, age? So I dumped the pyjamas and the underwear, and chose a hill that was high enough, but snow-light (not snow-white), so I could grade myself against past triumphs on similar slopes.

This meant that I cancelled Ben Alligin (Gaelic for 'The Jewel', and it is a beautiful hill)


(Note the remarkble vertical-walled cleft right in the middle. It is like a beauty spot.)

and Ben Eige



for they had too much snow on top, and gave Liathach (Gaelic for 'The Gray One')



a miss, because the Am Farsinen (The Talons) pinnacles (the jagged stuff in the middle) would be beyond my technical capabilities, and my garden-variety nerves, to traverse in Arctic conditions, and settled on (almost a Munro) Ben Damh.



Progress was fast. The views, though great, were not terribly well lit. This may not have been a drawback for the great photographers, but for average Sharma's like me, it was one hell of an ask. So, indulge me.



The corrie of Ben Damh is quite a sight. All Scottish hills, owing to their glacial origin, tend to have corries - excavated cups that look like dirty leftovers of once ravenous glaciers.



The coy compass: Having reached the saddle that separated the main peak of Ben Damh from it smaller frontpiece, I thought I would at least attempt the top of Ben Damh. It was covered with snow, and even though I was lighter, my heavy trekking boots made walking on snowclad rocks feel like walking on greased popsicles. The nimble-footed Sharma of last year's vintage, who leapt from crag to crag, had been reduced to an equilibrium-challenged, doddering old man by a mere boot. However, I marched on. Halfway up, the clouds came in, but I didn't worry. I had my trusty compass, and my loyal map. Especially the compass. It was a darned expensive one - so expensive that it bordered on the expansive, and compelled me to query the retailer whether at that price it would climb the hill for me as well. Coming back to ground zero. I patted my pockets for reassurance, but they remained unresponsive. I had left the compass behind. In consternation I stumbled over an inconveniently placed rock and heard something jangle in my backpack. I heaved a sigh of relief. All was not lost yet. I had brought a bottle of multi-vitamins along. So, while frostbite may get me, I will not go down with Beri Beri.



The Intruder: I retreated when still fifty metres from the summit. With time on my hands hounding a wounded ego, I decided to scale a peak that occupied Ben Damh's front office.



It promised great views of Loch Damh, Loch Coultrie (the little one on the left) and Loch Kishorn (in the far back)



and Loch Torridon (the copious amount in the background) feeding Loch Shieldaig (on the left) and Upper Loch Torridon (on the right)



All this while, I had been alone. A grand feeling. Of course, inconsequential compared to the feelings of those who weren't with me. I had also made good time, wasn't a bit tired, and so was feeling pleased with my hill-walking. Then this aged dame of sixty odd years strides up 'my' hill, along with a couple of dogs and remarks, "Lovely day for walking, isin't it?".
Dashed, damn, drat and darn.