How to solve a problem like the Inaccessible Pinnacle

The Inaccessible Pinnacle. A 50m long shark’s fin perched on top of Skye’s Black Cuillin ridge. It’s the only one of Scotland’s 282 Munros (mountains over 3,000 ft) that requires a graded rock climb to reach the summit. For that reason it haunts the dreams and nightmares of your standard issue Munro bagger (sturdy outdoors type who spends their weekends trying to tick off all 282 peaks) unfamiliar with the end of a rope.

I first remember contemplating the pinnacle during a trip to Torridon in 2014. I could climb indoors and was comfortable scrambling over low grade ridges in the Lake District, but the Isle of Skye is a different ball game, the closest thing to an Alp on this side of the Channel. On a cloudless September day in Applecross (west coast of mainland Scotland), I looked across the ocean to the shimmering peaks on the far shore. It would be seven years before I saw them again.

Times change

Fast forward to summer 2021 and I was in better shape for an ascent. My first tentative steps into the world of trad climbing (climbing unbolted routes using removable gear for protection) were underway, and I was living in the Cairngorms among a group of adventurous trainee activity instructors. We still didn’t really have the skills for a route of such remoteness or length, not to mention at least one of the party conducting a retrievable self-abseil from the summit. But sometimes in life you just have to turn up and see what happens. At the very least, I wanted to go to the base of the pinnacle and see the whites of its eyes.

The drive from our base in Newtonmore to Glenbrittle camp site on the southern shore of Skye took three and a half hours. But you don’t really notice that when you’re soaring along empty roads surrounded by Harry Potter scenery and weather conditions more commonly found in the Costa del Sol. Being outdoor instructors and therefore serial cheapskates, we eschewed the conveniences of the official camp ground and tramped over tidal flats, cowpat strewn fields and a small river to find a flattish wild camp spot. This would be our base for an attempt on the pinnacle.

Whisky galore

Scotland wouldn’t be Scotland without Scotch. Though scrimping on other expenses, the budget had stretched to two rather quaffable bottles of single malt. These had been meant to last us through the trip, but amid the ambience of a crackling camp fire and a cool breeze keeping the midges at bay, we polished them off in a single night. At around 1am, I deposited one of my fellow revelers in his tent after he had been violently sick. Politely, I asked whether he wanted the zip flap done up. A grunt in the negative came back from the supine form, and so I departed considering my civic duties at an end. Unfortunately, the wind dropped later than that night, and the midges ate him alive.

Morning came hot and cloudless, and seldom a sorrier group of adventurers have been seen to limp from their tents. Far from spry and eager to tackle 3,000 ft of ascent, the most we could manage was to stagger round to Glenbrittle cafe to imbibe coffee and croissants. Revived by this and a short, sharp dunk in the ocean, we felt almost ready to put on hiking boots. Though days in the highlands are still pretty long at the end of August, 2pm is not usually the recommended time for setting off up a mountain. But the ridge was within touching distance, and it seemed rude not to at least stroll in that general direction.

The other reason you don’t set off for a summer walk at 2pm is because it’s damn hot. Within minutes of beginning the ascent, alcohol was forcing its way out of every pore I possessed. We stopped to douse ourselves in the frequent streams intersecting the path, but still it was hard going and I could sense mutiny in the ranks. Mercifully, we made it around a flank of the ridge where the ascent continued in shade. By the time we reached Loch Coir’ a’ Ghrunnda at around 700m, it was gone 5 and everyone wanted to go swimming again. To the south, our vista stretched to the blue hills of Rum, like the world’s most sensational infinity pool. But to the north, the crumbling buttresses of the Cuillin Ridge still towered, eluding me.

Decisions, decisions

Thursday morning found us back at the cafe. No hangovers this time, but still there was trouble in paradise. We had woken late, and if we attempted the pinnacle, we would have to drive back all the way in the dark. Clay, our driver, wasn’t keen. And the day after, all four us were supposed to be in attendance at canoe training. It seemed we would be heading home, defeated by our own self-indulgence, but there was one last card to play. With a twinge of guilt bred by 13 years in the UK school system, I suggested we bunk off canoeing to make our bid for glory. The motion passed unanimously.

At first, the path we chose was gentle, and we bounded up at twice the rate of the day before. As we went up, a group of deer paused to regard us, an adder slithered out from a rock next to Clay and a couple of fighter planes tore through the sky above. If these were omens, I hoped they were good ones.

We walked deep into the glacial bowl at the head of Coire Lagan, ringed on three sides by a crescent moon shaped section of the ridge. Intense afternoon sunshine had turned the boulders into a baking stone oven, and we laboured up steep cliffs of fluid scree. To avoid knocking rubble onto those below, we spread out in a line and climbed the slope in lockstep, like an advancing military column. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the valley receded and the ridge line inched closer. Then it was upon us, and I half-climbed, half-ran the final steps to gain a vantage point atop the dragon’s back.

Now we turned westwards along the spine of the ridge, taking care to study the possible lines and avoid climbing into blank sections of rock. A couple of times we thought about roping up, but there were always just enough ledges and fault lines to keep pushing on solo. Finally, we came to a section where an outcrop jutted into empty space, requiring an awkward step over a yawning drop to regain the main ridge. On the other side lay the In Pinn.

A siren’s call

I recognised it at once from hundreds of pictures plastered over maps, postcards and travel guides. But no image compares to seeing it in reality. I felt a shiver of fear as I imagined scaling the dark tower of basalt without any protection. We had carried a rope and trad rack all the way from camp, but none of us knew how to use it to protect four people simultaneously, nor how the final person left on the summit could abseil themselves down. We huddled round as group. Immy wasn’t keen on any of us making an attempt, and Clay and Lewis decided they’d rather live to fight another day.

But I couldn’t let go of this chance. Conditions were perfect – golden evening sunshine bathed the island from shore to mountaintop and there was hardly a breath of wind. As though in a trance, I put on my rock shoes and began to climb. I didn’t rush, but neither did I stop, focusing on one hold at a time, conscious that anything I ascended, I would have to be comfortable getting back down. 10 metres, 20 metres, 30 metres… to my left the sheer drop just kept getting higher, and the thought of it threatened to snap my concentration with a flood of adrenaline. I forced my fingers to relax and apply only the pressure needed to hold me in place.

So laser-eyed was my focus on the next hold that it came as something of a shock when the ground leveled out. I strolled to the summit and said hello to a couple of roped climbers who had come up a more challenging crack on the side of the pinnacle. They were kind enough to take a few snaps of me as I swam in a daze of endorphins and natural splendour.

All for one and one for all

Down at the base, Immy was busy befriending a guy called Andy who had just shown up on his two-day traverse of the entire Cuillin Ridge. He was about to knock off the In Pinn before settling down to dinner and a bivouac. Needless to say, he did know what he was doing. And, in the spirit of camaraderie one sometimes finds in wild places, he was willing to take us along for the ride.

So, I found myself climbing the In Pinn again, this time with the comfort of a rope running above me. All five of us were tied into it, and whether it would have protected us in the event of a fall or dragged everyone over the edge, I’m not entirely sure. Luckily, there were no incidents to put this to the test, and, two pitches later, we all stood conquerors on the summit.

Coda

Why climb a mountain? Down the years, practitioners of the sport have been asked this question endlessly by everyone from baffled relatives to inquisitive psychologists. Responses have ranged from the quattro-syllabic (“because it’s there”) to entire novels. For myself, up on that sun-soaked turret at the top of the world, I knew the answer. I wish I could tell you. But it’s one of those where you just had to be there.

Photo credits

Reasons to stop drinking – Clay Chisholm

Loch Coir’ a’ Ghrunnda – Clay Chisholm

Adder in the stones – Clay Chisholm

Taming the dragon – Clay Chisholm

Group pic in front of the In Pinn – Clay Chisholm

Soloing close to the summit – Clay Chisholm

Round 2 – Clay Chisholm