As a scrambly summer hillwalk, a challenging run with hands-on interest, or a winter mountaineering round, the Ring of Steall is the archetypal Scottish ridge walk and a stone cold classic in any season. Alex Foxfield celebrates the Ring in all its guises.

The Ring of Steall is a big deal. Whether you're a hillwalker, a mountaineer or a mountain runner, at some point this blockbuster round in the Mamores will draw your attention. As someone who has hiked it, run it as a competitor in the famous Ring of Steall Skyrace, and donned spiky bits for a winter mountaineering traverse, I've experienced a varied trilogy on the Ring. It has uplifted and crushed, delighted and demoralised. And I love it.

Rather than regale you with three standalone adventures, here I've woven this saga together as one: the mountaineering experience is in bold, because winter adventures in Scotland are exactly that. The run is in italics, as I felt like I was going to keel over for much of it. The hillwalking is in standard text, as this is, I guess, the "normal" way to tackle the route.

I'm going to finish in last place. The unwelcome thought worms its way into my head, as runner after runner outpaces my frustrated march along Glen Nevis. I'd been physically unable to do anything but walk since the aid station at the foot of the long, steep, sustained plummet from Sgùrr a'Mhàim. With remarkable naivety, I'd hit the descent with the handbrake off, thinking it'd be a free hit. It wasn't. I now felt indescribably low and a little bit stupid to have burned through so much of my reserves this early into the race.

The Ring of Steall starts showing off long before it rises into the mountains. In the glen, the Water of Nevis carves an elegant arc around Meall Cumhann, the river's ancient and claustrophobic gorge the dividing line between the Mamores and Ben Nevis. At Steall Meadow, the landscape opens and breathes, especially on a good day. This was not such a day – a sheet of gunmetal grey stubbornly hung around the 700-metre contour. Such was its heavy presence, it was as though it were a permanent fixture above the glen. It gave the whole landscape something of the closed-in feel of the gorge, keeping the mountains from the sky.

It'd all been going pretty well. Back in Kinlochleven, the sight of the morning sun riding drifting clouds across Am Bodach's shoulders, coupled with the cowbell cacophony and Valais glitz of the start line had set my hairs on end. I'd revelled in the ascent and subsequent romp across the deliciously narrow but never difficult Devil's Ridge with a little too much adrenaline-enhanced gusto. The descent from Sgùrr a Mhàim was first a joyful gambol, then a more measured trot, next an increasingly weary shuffle, then, in the glen, I hit a wall.

The hanging clag didn't detract from the spectacle of An Steall Bàn. The waterfall's white tendrils cascaded between the slanted crags that form part of An Gearanach's foundations. This first Munro was somewhere unseen in the murk above. A close acquaintance with the waterfall and its gushing stream came after a thrilling wire bridge crossing of the river. While the consequences of a dunking weren't appealing in summer, I considered how they'd undoubtedly scupper an attempt at the famous route during the colder months.

I'd always pictured being here in winter, gingerly working my way across the wire bridge, Glen Nevis under a blanket of white. In reality, it was neither cold enough, nor snowy enough, for the here and now to be anything like the imagined fantasy of the perfect mountaineering day on the Ring of Steall. Winter was several hundred metres above our group of half-a-dozen Londoners who'd been starved of these kinds of adventures by lockdowns and the inescapable roulette of actually getting decent Scottish winter conditions. Well, today there was snow on the ridges and at least some blue sky in the forecast. We took it.

I'd remembered the initial slog up through Coire Chadha Chaoruinn, followed by the pull up An Gearanach's northwest-pointing nose, to be pretty arduous. So, not having snow underfoot until up high was probably a blessing.

The ascent of Coire Chadha Chaoruinn seemed to go on and on. My mood wasn't helped by the fact that that stubborn layer of clag refused to budge. Above the corrie, I entered a world of grey.

I'd sloshed across the river and began the long ascent of An Gearanach. Still feeling completely knackered, the thought of having to get over three more Munros was almost too much to bear. It's remarkable how a wearied mind and broken body can sap the magic out of the surroundings. By this point, I was way beyond awe exhaustion, I just wanted it to be done. That I found myself overtaking a few others, laughing with them at the ridiculousness of our situation, was an indicator of at least some form of recovery. By the time I was back on the high ridges, I could even manage a sort of inelegant run.

the great thing about hillwalking: you could explore the same route 100 times and it'd never quite be the same

Now that we're up among it, it's worth considering what it is that elevates the Ring of Steall to its agreed-upon status of one of Scotland's classic hill walks. For me, it's the elegance of what is a continuously interesting journey. Strangely, the individual Munros aren't particularly celebrated. Indeed, craggy, gully-riven Stob Bàn to the west and the shapely Binnein Mòr to the east are often cited as the Mamores' finest mountains. Likewise, the Ring's two scrambling ridges don't have the cachet, length or sheer drama of the likes of the CMD Arête, the Forcan Ridge or the Aonach Eagach.

Nevertheless, the Ring of Steall is a complete adventure, a consistently satisfying loop that, rather than having one headline act, keeps delivering moments of interest throughout. A tumbling gorge, an exciting river crossing, a spectacular waterfall, a chain of fine Munros and two airy ridges. On a good day, there are magnificent views towards the peaks of Glen Coe, along the spine of the Mamores and to the hulking giant across the glen, Ben Nevis. It's also pitched perfectly as a hiking challenge that's doable for most avid hillwalkers, while still feeling truly epic.

The Ring's calibre as a running adventure is just as notable. The eponymous skyrace was once part of the Skyrunning World Championships and, in 2018, part of the Golden Trail World Series, attracting the likes of Kilian Jornet. That year, the Spaniard won the race in a record time of 3:04:34.

The higher parts of the Ring also form a section of the Tranter's and Ramsay Rounds, arguably the most revered running challenges in the Highlands. Record holder for both rounds, Finlay Wild, knows these mountains better than most. Wild appreciates how repeat visits to the same range can create layers of memory that complement each other, building up a more complete picture of these fascinating places.

By returning to the Ring in winter, I'd be adding another layer to my appreciation of this much-loved route. The Ring also enjoys classic status as a low-grade mountaineering adventure. Two places on the early section had a spicier flavour in winter: The second was the climb to Am Bodach and the first was the narrow spine of An Garbhanach.

The first taste of grade one scrambling on the round, airy An Garbhanach is the barbed sting in An Gearanach's curved tail, its arête sloping away dramatically on either side and plunging particularly steeply to the west. Mixing the crest with the occasional shuffle along a notched slab, I found it to be one of those entertaining scrambles that feels at once thrilling yet safe.

A gap at the onset of An Garbhanach's rocky stuff gave the group pause for thought. I outflanked it by descending and facing into the snowy slope to the left, bypassing the craggy downclimb. Beyond this, the crest was superb. Ahead, the ridge dived and then swept back up to Stob Coire a'Chairn, the Ring's most innocuous Munro. Rising imperiously beyond was the higher Am Bodach, flat topped, austere and beckoning.

After recovering some of the joy of my surroundings on An Garbhanach, Stob Coire a'Chairn's two summits were tackled mechanically and not particularly quickly. I was painfully aware that there was one last big upward effort to come – the ascent of Am Bodach.

On Am Bodach, tight zigzags climbed higher and deeper into the gloom. Without visual stimuli, I noticed the whip of the gusts on the crags and could almost sense the depth Coire a'Bhodaich to the east, just from the sound of the wind ascending it.

As we approached the climb, two figures, black against the white, faced into the hill, descending like crabs scuttling down a harbour wall. That's gonna be steep, I thought. With the tight zigzags of summer replaced by a snow-covered ramp, this was going to be interesting. We probably could have engaged in our own, improvised zigzags, but each of us revelled in using our axes and front points in anger, climbing Am Bodach's northern summit slopes via a glorious direttissima on decent névé. One of my friends absolutely shot up it. When I asked him where the athletic burst had come from, he said that he'd simply wanted to be off it as quickly as possible. I'd had the opposite feeling about this part of the Ring of Steall. I could have happily stayed on it for much longer; it was exactly what I'd come for.

On several occasions during those tortuous zigzags, I'd stopped and, feeling utterly spent, leant against the rocks, put my hands in my head and closed my eyes. But Am Bodach's little cairn eventually arrived and the subsequent bealach marked the start of the long descent into Kinlochleven. After some words of encouragement from the hardy fellow manning the checkpoint, I left the Ring and began to descend. I'd reach the finish line after 7:28:56, 369th out of the 507 plucky runners who finished the course that day. Not my best, but I hadn't finished last, which had felt like a real possibility in Glen Nevis.

After a complete lack of views on Am Bodach, it was much the same on Sgùrr an Iubhair, a peak that has had the indignity of being promoted to the Munro tables only to be relegated again within twenty years. I knew, somewhere beyond this, awaiting me in the gloaming, was the Devil's Ridge.

Perhaps the most revered section of the Ring of Steall, the Devil's Ridge is delicious in winter. Aesthetically stunning, airy, yet never scary, few lines on our shores are as satisfying to saunter along. Technical difficulties are few but potential consequences high; it stands right on the cusp of exciting winter walking and mountaineering.

The grassy arête fell away steeply into murk on both sides and, ahead, it vanished into the grey. My world condensed into this narrow crest, the wind my only companion. As I continued along the ridge, its character brought Striding Edge to mind, though this was wilder, higher, and harder earned.

To the west were the compact but impressive crags of Stob Bàn and my eyes climbed the mountain's South Gully, another objective for later in the week. The last ascent of the day, to the quartzite dome of Sgùrr a'Mhàim, had begun. At our backs, the impressive wedge of Stob Choire a'Mhàil marked the apex of the Devil's Ridge. Dressed in white, it was more a vision of heaven than hell.

I was aware that the bulk of the Ben rose high and mighty directly across the glen from the summit of Sgùrr a'Mhàim. However, it might as well have been Everest for all I could see.

Descent beckoned. I'd enjoyed my first traverse of the Ring, even in the clag. The lack of views had served to draw my focus inward and downward to the character of the terrain beneath my feet. In this sense, the Ring had not left me wanting. But I'd certainly be back.

That final descent from Sgùrr a'Mhàim had felt endless as a run, never mind at the end of a big winter day. However, with the slopes of Carn Dearg turning molten in the late afternoon sun, I didn't mind that one jot.

In the movies, the third part of a trilogy rarely lives up to the promise of the original and the usually darker second instalment. True to form, my second chapter on the Ring of Steall had certainly been the darkest – the Skyrace had well and truly put me in my place. However, it was my third acquaintance, in winter conditions, that cemented my affection for this blockbuster route. I'll undoubtedly be back to add more layers in the future. That's the great thing about hillwalking, you could explore the same route 100 times and it'd never quite be the same.