The mist swirls around the jagged summits of an ancient volcano. Occasionally it draws back, offering tantalising glimpses of corries and lochans below only to close back in, reducing the world to blackened rocks soaring into pinnacles and a jumble of boulders underfoot. Sounds echo through the clag – the clatter of dislodged rocks, a perpetual drip and trickle of water, clinking of climbing gear and disembodied voices echoing off the rock walls. Ravens lurk, hidden but waiting patiently for anyone to leave a rucksack unattended long enough for them to cleverly undo the zips and extract carefully packed trail mix. Here and there people emerge from the mist, a runner with bloodied knees and a lean and intelligent collie checks with a passing guide that she’s on the correct path to her intended summit then continues her scramble upwards; a young couple, well equipped, leaf through a guide book; a hill walker sits down to eat a pork pie and wonders what on earth he is doing in this god forsaken place while his guide wonders how to motivate him over the next obstacle; a mother and daughter are having a heated discussion about who’s stupid idea this was while their guide, a veteran of both the Cuillin and teenagers getting stroppy on mountaintops patiently suggests that maybe they just put on their harnesses and crack on.

A few months ago my daughter approached me after school. “I’d really love to do the Cuillin ridge with you, once my exams are over – as a treat before I leave for Uni”. Deeply touched I took about 5 nanoseconds to get onto the internet to get a guide booked and then spent some quality time reading up about the intricacies of the ridge traverse and making lists. Skye attracts some appalling weather so in general if you go for a guided traverse you book a guide for a few days then go for the two that look best for the weather – generally the hope is that you get two decent consecutive days and bivvy out on the ridge overnight. I’ve read that only around 10% of people manage a full ridge traverse on their first attempt. As our trip approached I felt that our chances were less than 10%. Daughter had been busy working hard for her exams (and also busy with a new boyfriend) and although she goes to the gym she hadn’t been out in the hills at all. The weather forecast suggested that two nice days on the trot were highly unlikely and before we set out I’d chatted to our guide, a wonderfully laid back Cumbrian, and we’d decided that a bivvy out was off the menu and we’d just see how far along the ridge we got on day one.

Even getting to Skye is an oddessy. I managed to wangle an earlier finish to work so we could beat the worst of the traffic but it was still well after 10pm when we rolled into Glen Brittle campsite. In the fading light and low cloud we couldn’t see the Cuillins properly, just a hint of something massive looming behind the campsite. We couldn’t see them the next morning either but having rendezvoused with our guide we headed on up. Our first stop was in Coire Ghrunda, sitting by the lochan surrounded by a dramatic amphitheatre of vertical rock, cascading water and boulders. The tops were shrouded in mist but every so often we glimpsed jagged towers of rock high above. It was a beautiful but slightly menacing place.

First target of the day was the munro of Sgurr nan Eag, which as an out and back meant we could dump rucksacks (having put rocks on top of them to deter any hungry and cunning ravens). It had some easy scrambling but in the main was a bit of a boulder hop with occasional views down to Loch Coruisk to add interest. Then a reverse boulder hop back to the bags and onwards. I noticed my daughter was getting ominously quiet. A 6am start is rarely welcome to the average teenager, her boots were rubbing and so far the going had been hard with little to enliven it. I started to worry that she was getting well into into type 2 fun territory. I kept asking her if she was OK, only to get a slightly hostile “I’m FINE!” back.

We stopped beside a small dripping wet cave (surely the most un-preposessing of bivvy spots) to don harnesses. I tentatively voiced my concerns to my daughter “You don’t look very happy”

“I am NOT HAPPY”

Oh God. The guide withdrew slightly and fiddled with his climbing gear.

“Um” I said cautiously “Are you ok to carry on?”

“Yes, I’ll keep going but I am NOT HAPPY”

Then I stupidly said it “Don’t forget, this was your idea”

“THIS WAS NOT MY IDEA!! You asked ME if I wanted to do this, and like an idiot I said yes”

I was non-plussed. That wasn’t how it happened was it? But now I thought about it, her version of events did sound more likely. Bugger.

“Best just put your harnesses on” said our guide tactfully “and let’s crack on”

Finally we’d reached proper scrambling territory and the next stages were really good fun (well I thought so anyway). After the first major obstacle we bumped into another pair with their guide. One of the men seemed in good spirits and asked us how we were doing. “Great!” I replied enthusiastically. At this point my daughter locked eyes with his companion, who was sitting and eating a pork pie with an air of despair. She said afterwards that something profound yet unspoken passed between them, in that instant they each understood the misery that the other felt. The trio moved on, with the guide assuring them that yes, they could definitely make it over the Inn Pin and we took their spots to eat lunch.

Whether it was the more scrambly terrain, or the effects of some food or maybe just the knowledge that there was someone on the ridge who was having a worse time than she was, my daughter’s mood improved dramatically and she even started to exhibit signs of enjoyment, especially on the couple of abseils that we did. However after Sgurr MhicChoinnich she asked whether we could descend which was fair enough – we’d been on the go for 8 hours by then, doing the Inn pin would have added on at least an hour or two more then we’d still have to get back down to the camp site. She’d done incredibly well, especially in managing to turn her mood around and dig deep enough to keep going.

After slithering down scree then hiking back down below the cloud base we eventually emerged back at the camp site and had a coffee at the excellent cafe. The weather forecast for Saturday hadn’t improved so we discussed options for Sunday. “We could go back up to the ridge and carry on where we left off” said the guide.

Deadly silence.

“Or” he said hurredly “there’s some excellent climbing at the Cioch so we could head round there for the day”

This option seemed a lot more agreeable to the Teen so we decided that climbing it was and we ended up having a fantastic day. I started to plan when I could come back and finish off the ridge myself.