First acquaintance was, I think, in 1968. August school holidays with my parents in north-west Scotland. By now, my father probably regretted deeply the moment when he first introduced me to mountains: now, while he wanted to read his newspaper in peace, and my mother potter about the holiday cottage or caravan, I was champing at the bit to climb a few more peaks.
One warm, grey afternoon (typical Highland fare in August), my patience ran out, and I took off alone. I followed a dry and narrow stalkers' path winding through the heather. After what seemed like hours of snaking across lonely moorland, I suddenly found the ground falling away in front of me. An awesome prospect opened up below and beyond. It was as if I had stumbled upon some unknown, or at least long-forgotten, paradise, a shangri-la placed to one side by modern civilisation. A broad but deep valley stretched out below me, containing a lone distant dwelling place, beyond which the enormous shapely spire of a mountain lifted upwards. The mountain was green - all was green - unlike the rocky landscapes I had become accustomed to around Torridon further north. Everything was still and silent; I stood entranced, for once my hyper teenage soul at peace.
A few years on, I went into self-imposed exile, renouncing the mountains and wild places in favour of a life dedicated to truth, realisation, and other big words based in the big city. For thirty years, the vision remained buried beneath the untidy pile of urban life. Until, one day about six years ago, the wheel revolved full circle, and I found myself taking up residence not a million miles from Shangri-la.
I declared the best part of my first year of living in the Scottish Highlands a sabbatical. I was in truth an urban refugee, bruised by too many years of the big city nightmare and by the death of both my parents. Into the open space that I had created slowly re-emerged the vision of that solitary walk more than thirty years ago. It was a memory etched more deeply into my mind than any other from my teenage mountain years. Surreptitiously, I set out to rediscover the location of this magical place. Poring over the maps during the long Scottish evenings of winter, I eventually had a hunch.
In mid-January, a period of cold, crisp, heaven-blue weather descended upon northern Scotland. The wind was from the east, which meant that the skies would be clearest on the west coast. Feigning nonchalance, I suggested to Martha an overnight stay in a place she hadn't visited before (always an irresistible carrot), with a little walk thrown in for good measure. The die was cast; we were soon on our way to Strathcarron.
The ground was frozen hard as we started off through the heather. The colours were pristine, surreal, and soon we were passing through landscapes with a real remote, untouched quality about them. The serrated outline of the Cuillin Ridge on Skye appeared sharp on the western horizon.
It was not so much a walk as a slip-and-slide; progress was slower than anticipated. Huge flat slabs of ice and frost awaited us as we finally left the world of light and squeezed through the defile of the Bealach Alltan Ruaridh, a place the sun's rays never get to penetrate during the months of winter. A herd of deer disappeared silently up the hillside, and the vision opened up in front of me. The valley seemed slightly less deep than in my imagination, but I still stood there entranced; this was the magic place. A wisp of cloud hung playfully over the top of the mountain, and the hillsides, while brown in their winter raiment, seemed to glow diaphanous from a source within.
During the ensuing months, the mountain began to crowd in on me. It seemed that I couldn't climb a single hill without its distinctive cone appearing on some distant skyline or other. The mountain was mocking me. In the end, I had no option: I had to get up close - which means climbing to the top. There was one problem, however. The books will tell you that, along with its neighbour, the mountain is one of the most remote of the Scottish Munros (the highest peaks in the country). However I looked at it, I couldn't see me getting there and back in a day. Besides, the mountain demanded greater respect. So I invested in a lightweight sleeping bag and bivi-tent (a dark, rustly, condensation-prone roof over your head so tiny that you cannot sit up inside) fit for purpose. And Saturday, August 26th, 2007, was earmarked as the day for the expedition.
I radiated optimism as I approached Inverness bus station in mid-afternoon, a few light clouds racing across the wide blue sky far above me. My mood darkened, however, when the bus I was catching failed to materialise. A diminutive elderly lady shuffled across the pavement in my direction. 'Are you waiting for the Lochcarron bus? It leaves at four o'clock on Saturdays now, not three. They haven't amended the timetables yet. Very bad.'
Yes it was very bad, since the days of long evenings are well past by the end of August; I realised how tight my schedule was. The omens continued to be unfavourable when we finally set off an hour late. The blue skies above Inverness quickly gave way to a pall of grey, and by the time we reached the small settlement of Achnasheen the rain was coming down. I was disgorged from the minibus at Strathcarron station, where it was nearly dark. On hearing that I was camping out for the night, the bus driver looked back at me with an extremely odd expression. 'I wouldn't fancy that' he remarked. 'You'll probably get your tent ripped apart by a stag.'
I set off up the hillpath like a bat out of hell; or a bat into hell, more like. Ink-dark clouds scudded across a glowering sky, and the evening was punctured by a smattering of sharp showers blown in on the brisk wind. Approaching the bealach in the long, dull twilight, I could see that everything in the direction of the mountain was obscured by heavy, grey cloud. I descended to the broad, green floodplain, which proved to be swampy and less conducive to bivi-pitching than it appeared from a distance. There was also the presence of considerable numbers of tent-demolishing deer to be taken into account......
It was completely dark when I finally set up camp by a stream, where another squally shower started up as I tightened the insubstantial-looking guy ropes by the light of my head torch. The wind flapped the walls of the bivi-tent in the early night mercilessly, and sharp showers continued to punctuate any attempt I made at a decent sleep. Around 2 a.m. I ventured outside to add to the growing sogginess around, only to discover that one of the tent pegs had completely disappeared. I had camped in a rapidly-expanding quagmire of peat.
By first light, almost all energy had been sucked from my being. I had pretty much given up on climbing the mountain. As I poked my head out of the canvas, however, the wind had died, and the cloud was beginning to lift. Packing up my soggy abode, I headed straight up the hillside, which was rough, tough, and boggy. As I approached a craggy section, the cloud came down again, however. Rock faces appeared fleetingly, before hiding once again behind swirling masses of thick grey, creating the impression of a landscape of incredible complexity. 'Not good' I muttered to myself. Then another voice, maybe that of a guiding spirit, spoke: 'Chill out. Relax. Just be.'
I came off the hillside, and adopted the leisurely and mindful style, venturing still further into back-of-beyond country with my senses wide open, and stumbling upon what looked like a secret and more simple route onto the mountain. In the meantime, the magic place of power had taught me a vital lesson: respect.
