I’m a fan of resolutions. Each New Year’s Eve, I gather my family around the table and we make lists of changes we intend to make in the coming year. My list usually runs the gamut. Vowing to close excess browser tabs. Making a will. Running a half marathon. Being a nicer person. This year, I resolved to swap any Taylor Swift songs I’ve added to Spotify playlists for Taylor’s Version, where possible.
I also resolved to climb 160 Scottish mountains this year. Here we are in mid-March, though, and I think I may have over-committed. I mean, that’s 13.33333 mountains a month and I don’t even live in Scotland.
Let’s unpack my problems a bit.
In fact, they currently number 276. I’m keeping careful track. My problems are Munros: the 282 Scottish mountains of at least 3,000 feet elevation. They come with names like Sgòr an Lochain Uaine or Aonach Beag. Some names repeat, like Ben More or Ben Vorlich. Munro-related websites abound, with links to hiking tips, preferred routes, and, thankfully, correct pronunciation. Some Munros are quite well known, like Ben Nevis (the highest mountain in Scotland, at 4,406 feet) or Ben Lomond.
People enjoy climbing Munros and then talking about it. I am a natural at the latter—just ask, well, anyone. If you’ve been anywhere in my vicinity over the past few months, you’ve heard me wax enthusiastic about Munros.
Do you know many geographers? We’re a diverse group—if not demographically, then in other important ways. We’ve got physical and human geographers. Social and cultural and economic and urban and population geographers. Qualitative and quantitative. Critical and…whatever the opposite of critical is. Some of us are Marxists.
Geographers share a common interest in the role of space and place in understanding the world around us. Unsurprisingly, this interest often spills over into our everyday lives.
It’s not uncommon for geographers to introduce themselves to others as the kid who sat in the backseat with the road atlas on their lap on family vacations.
You might also be a geographer if you’ve ever made a map of all the US states you’ve visited—or, especially, if you’ve been party to an argument about whether time in an airport counts as a “visit” (answer: no). To me, one of the most fascinating subsets of this genre are the folks with specific and very niche geographic goals that extend well beyond visiting every continent or country. For example, legend tells of geographers aiming to see every US county (there are over 3,100), or, weirder, the highest point of every county. I’d bet money on someone having visited every mean center of population in the US.
Munro Madness
You can probably guess where I’m going with this. Six months ago, I’d never heard of Munros, but a long weekend in Perthshire, Scotland, and a casual query at the hotel about local attractions put an end to my ignorance. One long and windy walk to the top of Ben Lawers, a little bit of googling, a little bit of whisky, and an epiphany: only 281 more Munros to climb and I’d have done A Thing. That’s because people not only like to climb a nice Munro at the weekend, but they also like to climb all the Munros. Accomplish this task and you earn the title, “Compleatist.”
I should just stop right here, because if ever a title called to me, it’s this one: Rachel Franklin, Compleatist.
Summiting a Munro is referred to as “bagging.” The day after Ben Lawers, full of the enthusiasm of the converted, I eagerly searched for a southern Munro reachable from the route home to Newcastle to bag. That is how Ben Chonzie became my second Munro.
Cheeky Munros
Lots of folks climb Munros and there are many Compleatists. This shouldn’t be a problem for me, and yet…
Here’s the deal. I’m aiming to climb all the Munros before I turn 50 and I turn 50 in less than two years. I’m a reasonable person and a good planner and recognise the importance of not leaving them all until the last minute. That’s how I arrived at the resolution to get at least 160 out of the way this year.
Some people aim to climb all the Munros in 100 days. Some do it running. Someone apparently climbed Ben Nevis with a piano. Surely, I thought, I can manage 160 Munros in a year?
Here’s the part where I admit that I’ve managed four this year—about 23 off from where I need to be, if I want to stay on track.
First this year were Ben Vorlich (Loch Earn) and Stùc a’ Chròin, a very nice Munro twofer that I managed in just over five hours at the end of January. This isn’t an adventure essay, so I’ll omit the parts about scrambling up rocks, boggy descents, and howling winds.
I will note, for posterity, my failed attempt to manage Beinn Ghlas on the day before. This Munro, which in fact lies on the route up Ben Lawers, isn’t even particularly difficult—but in the heavy mists I missed the path the first time and then the second time was flattened, almost literally, by heavy winds.
The third time was finally the charm with Beinn Ghlas, in February, but my vanity levied a heavy toll. Winter mountain hiking involves crampons, ice axe, and gaiters. Two out of three of these are epically cool. The third—gaiters—are anathema to my aesthetic and I refused to wear them, subsequently ended up navigating through snow, got wet socks and massive blisters, and learned a valuable lesson.
The fourth Munro—Càrn an Tuirc—was sheer perfection: I wore gaiters, visibility was excellent, and I hiked with an experienced guide (shoutout to Hillgoers out of Braemar, who were fantastic). I also dialed back my expectations around winter Munro climbing. It’s not for novices.
I am sensible, after all. Winter walking requires lots of practice and skills. For similar reasons, I’m leaving the Munro summit on Skye referred to as the Inaccessible Pinnacle—or Inpin—for the very end. A 50th birthday present, if you will.
Talk Less, Climb More
Of the 67 tabs currently open on my phone browser, about half are to do with Munros, especially how quickly they can be climbed, but also avalanche reports, weather forecasts, and arcane information about wild camping and bothys. I’m especially partial to articles about how to bag multiple Munros on one hike. We call that spatial optimisation where I come from.
You can imagine, then, my disappointment with myself at my slow progress towards my (self-imposed) 2022 Munro goal. I feel like a failure and we’re only a quarter of the way through the year.
On the other hand, I own an ice axe now. Ice axes are cool. Crampons are pretty badass, too, and I’ve also got some of those. Gaiters don’t look badass, but I am the belated owner of those, as well.
If you like to hike mountains in Scotland, hit me up. Help Rachel climb 160 Munros in 2022.