Day 328: Ben Macdui & Cairn Gorm

Ben Macdui is the second-highest mountain in Britain, oft-shrouded in mist, silent apart from the footsteps of the Big Grey Man stalking lone explorers. Should I be worried?

To avoid adding six miles of road walking to the official hiking route, I catch the 07:30 bus from the campsite to the lower station of the funicular railway that runs up the mountain, allowing a short walk up to the summit of Cairn Gorm — naturally frowned upon by Munro baggers. My path begins at the base of the dormant ski-lift, waiting for the winter snow.

I’m soon overtaken by an older man accompanied by two young men built like bullocks and wearing shorts despite the cold. I don’t see them again, so I assume they are on a more challenging journey.

The initial climb ends below the dramatic Coire an Lochain with the Great Slab — a glacial moraine deposited by the UK’s last glacier, possibly still in existence as recently as the 1700s.

The path continues up the shoulder to the right. Arriving on the plateau, clouds drift across the precipitous slopes falling away into the popular Lairig Ghru mountain pass.

The trail vanishes into a boulder field.

The mist closes in. A hush falls. Am I alone up here?

In 1925, the highly respected mountaineer Professor Collie recounted a tale to the Cairngorm Club of his climb 30 years earlier. Walking in the summit mist, he heard crunching footsteps behind him. He could see nothing, but the footsteps followed him. Terrified, he ran for miles to escape the pursuer. The legend of the Big Grey Man was born and fed by subsequent sightings. I prefer the more comforting theory of a Brocken spectre, the magnified shadow of the observer cast in mid-air upon a cloud opposite a strong light source. Science or superstition? Perhaps science wins in the comfort of your home, but out here, right now, my imagination is mischievous. Are those footsteps heading in my direction?

A figure appears out of the gloom, thankfully a Red Man. He’s returning from the summit cairn, but appears from an unexpected direction. Surely he’s strayed from the path? He gives me rough directions. I’m not convinced.

The mist is thicker now. There are cairns at regular intervals, but I struggle to see the next one. It’s easy to see how people lose their way. Turning in a circle, there is not a single landmark to indicate the right direction. My phone touchscreen has frozen in the cold wind, so I can’t use the OS app for directions. Of course, I have a paper map and compass. I may not need them for my coastal walk, so far, but I always bring one for the mountains. For a moment, I consider retreating to the last cairn, but a rough compass bearing should set me in the right direction back down to the broad plateau, so I plough into the mist. It’s not long before the summit cairn and trig point loom.

I have a decision to make. I can either retrace my steps before branching off to Cairn Gorm on the “moderate” route or descend steeply into Loch Avon and climb back up to Cairn Gorm on the “severe” route. Given the shifting visibility and the long day, I opt for the former.

The weather changes so quickly. Dark, threatening clouds loom in my direction.

Lochan Buidhe sits on the plateau, the most significant landmark. The sky has cleared and I can see my incoming path on the left and my return path round the lochan on the right.

There’s a moment of stillness by the tarn. A small depression, where I’d watched people taking down tents earlier in the day, battling against the wind, was the site of a disaster in November 1971, when five fifteen-year-old students and the group leader’s young assistant perished from exposure. The story makes for terrible reading. Stranded in a blizzard, they were forced to spend two nights in the open, protected only by sleeping bags and bivvy bags, unaware that the marginally sheltered area was a major accumulation area for snow. One can only imagine their terror as the snow piled up deeper and deeper. A search and rescue helicopter eventually spotted the group leader crawling on her hands and knees across the snow in a desperate search for help.

The abyss to my right looks spectacular, although I’m glad I decided not to descend into it and climb back out. I’ll hike in another time via a glen.

Burns plunge over the edge.

The path crosses exposed ground with Coire an t-Sneachda falling away to my left. The crosswind is fierce, buffeting me towards the cliff edge. There’s no way I’m getting any closer for a photo, evidenced by the large amount of solid earth in the foreground.

People who have ascended via the railway pass me on their way down from the summit of Cairn Gorm to the plateau. They don’t look appropriately dressed. It’s hard to imagine how wild it is up here compared to the base station.

Reaching the top, several people shelter from the bitter wind. The summit cairn opposite is more exposed, so I don’t pause for a picture, patting it before moving swiftly down the mountain.

A steep path runs down to the train station, where a lovely cafe serves the best venison chilli I have ever tasted, washed down with a celebratory beer. The seats by the windows have superb views. I rest for a good hour before opting out of the rather dull-looking zig-zag descending path under the ski lift for the train.

Justice is served, as there’s a two-hour wait for the next bus, now forced to walk the three miles back to the campsite.

Munros nine and ten summited. An exhilarating and enjoyable day, but these mountains are grim, inhospitable places. They were here long before humans first explored them, and will be here long after we are gone, no more significant than the other animals that brave their slopes. Tomorrow, I continue south to meet up with Hayley for the rather prettier Yorkshire Dales section of the Coast to Coast Trail.

Date of walk: Wednesday 27 August 2025.

Walk distance: 12 miles.

Total distance: 5,341 miles.