'On the hill': a phrase found regularly in hill and mountain magazines, and bringing a glint to the eye of many a visitor to rural campsites, modest bed and breakfasts in isolated places, and hostelries in the middle of nowhere.
But what exactly is happening out there, 'on the hill'?
I alight from the train at a deserted station. I've been here before, and the map stays tucked away firmly in my pocket. As I pass through the forest, a wind animates the branches, and flecks of sunlight pierce the canopy above, playing on the rocks and decaying pine needles beneath my feet. I start to attune to this new world I am walking through, sensing its rhythms and ways of being. The eggshell boundary of ego begins to soften; consciousness starts to move to a different frequency where the rocks, trees, and rushing streams are all full of soul, all speaking their own distinctive language. Each stone, each clump of soggy heather, alive and unique, part of a world that vibrates, if only we would stop to look and listen.
I cross a raging stream perilously by stones left by a distant storm, then continue to climb. Worlds different to my own constantly manifest. A pair of deer on a distant horizon stand and watch, part curious, part afraid. Peat bogs, home to frogs, toads, tadpoles; pavements of ancient sandstone, mirrors for the piercing midday sun. Each its own vital realm, parallel to mine, separate yet strangely familiar.
Weird things begin to happen with height; here in Scotland's north-west Highlands, at about 600 metres. Consciousness begins to tune into a different wavelength; I succumb to a curious mixture of wonder, anxiety, and joy. It is as if the pull of element earth becomes attenuated. Strange realms of spirits, elemental presences, make themselves known. The air is clear and pure, even when the peaks are shrouded in mist. For myself, I feel the irresistible urge to utter strange, spontaneous, Tibetan-like mantric sounds. Different realities announce their presence, quietly but definitely. New dimensions, and the timeless void on a good day. Emptiness hums with significance, and intimations of shamanic realities on the mountainside flood the mind.
Every year, people go to the mountains and die. The hordes wonder why, and the newspapers hound their newly-departed souls for being 'selfish' and 'irresponsible'. I know why they go, probably better than some of them ever do, the avalanched ones, the clifftop tumblers. An uplink to wider consciousness; a birthright to be rediscovered, the goal of our striving; our homecoming, the shamanic apotheosis.
But what exactly is happening out there, 'on the hill'?
I alight from the train at a deserted station. I've been here before, and the map stays tucked away firmly in my pocket. As I pass through the forest, a wind animates the branches, and flecks of sunlight pierce the canopy above, playing on the rocks and decaying pine needles beneath my feet. I start to attune to this new world I am walking through, sensing its rhythms and ways of being. The eggshell boundary of ego begins to soften; consciousness starts to move to a different frequency where the rocks, trees, and rushing streams are all full of soul, all speaking their own distinctive language. Each stone, each clump of soggy heather, alive and unique, part of a world that vibrates, if only we would stop to look and listen.
I cross a raging stream perilously by stones left by a distant storm, then continue to climb. Worlds different to my own constantly manifest. A pair of deer on a distant horizon stand and watch, part curious, part afraid. Peat bogs, home to frogs, toads, tadpoles; pavements of ancient sandstone, mirrors for the piercing midday sun. Each its own vital realm, parallel to mine, separate yet strangely familiar.
Weird things begin to happen with height; here in Scotland's north-west Highlands, at about 600 metres. Consciousness begins to tune into a different wavelength; I succumb to a curious mixture of wonder, anxiety, and joy. It is as if the pull of element earth becomes attenuated. Strange realms of spirits, elemental presences, make themselves known. The air is clear and pure, even when the peaks are shrouded in mist. For myself, I feel the irresistible urge to utter strange, spontaneous, Tibetan-like mantric sounds. Different realities announce their presence, quietly but definitely. New dimensions, and the timeless void on a good day. Emptiness hums with significance, and intimations of shamanic realities on the mountainside flood the mind.
Every year, people go to the mountains and die. The hordes wonder why, and the newspapers hound their newly-departed souls for being 'selfish' and 'irresponsible'. I know why they go, probably better than some of them ever do, the avalanched ones, the clifftop tumblers. An uplink to wider consciousness; a birthright to be rediscovered, the goal of our striving; our homecoming, the shamanic apotheosis.
