Photos: same place as in Part One, different season......
Neil Kramer encourages us to seek regular contact with nature, which should be in as pristine a state as possible (interview on Hundredth Monkey Radio, July 17th 2011). This immersion in a world that is not created by the ideas of human beings allows certain processes to take place that cannot in an environment that is synthetic, he suggests. He might also include the perceived effects of climbing upwards: how, as one enters the realm of the mountains, the skin containing us within one particular type of experience becomes more permeable, and the realisation that we are multidimensional beings in a multidimensional universe becomes more apparent (this is the theme of my first ever post on Pale Green Vortex). On the mountains, what is first interpreted as an encounter with 'Other' slowly morphs into an experience of 'Self' in its truer, broader form, free of the artificial constructs of human ideas. Paradoxically, it is when we are away from the world of human inventions that we can feel our humanity most deeply. Factor in the personal coefficient - of a place in the mountains that had first issued an invitation to me over thirty years ago - and it is no surprise that I was back on the hillpaths at the first available opportunity, en route to the mountain of power.
As twilight descended, I clattered into a bothy (a small hut), waking up two other mountain people already curled up in sleeping bags in the process, and managed to grab a few hours' sleep. Then, with the other residents still in the land of dreams, I headed into a fresh but overcast early spring morning, intent on following the route I had stumbled on the previous year. The decomposed remains of a once-magnificent stag deer straddled the sides of the gorge I followed up to the col, the gap between the two mountain peaks. I turned right, into cloud and utter silence, and began scaling stony slopes towards the summit - of the mountain named Lurg Mhor, incidentally. Strange shapes emerged from the mist; the divide between form and formlessness became indistinct, irrelevant. I passed a tiny upland loch on my right, cradled in the arms of low crags, then hauled myself up more steep rocks. At last, I made out the summit cairn through the gloom. Circumspectly I approached, before finally standing on the very top of the mountain. Nothing. Not a sound. Nothing to see, apart from a few undistinguished grey rocks. No animals or plants. Not a movement. I did not care. I had done what I needed to do.
The following spring found me in the grip of a personal crisis. Giving up my day job, I voluntarily entered what Tibetan Buddhists call a bardo, a kind of gap or interval between one state or stage and the next. It can feel like suspended animation, as if the ground has been pulled from beneath ones feet. In this state of extreme mental discomfort, I knew there was only one thing to do: go to Lurg Mhor. By the time I reached the foot of the mountain I was already exhausted, but I was nevertheless certain that this was the right place to be. The peculiar quality of the area began to impress itself on me more strongly than ever as I began the slow climb. Finally reaching the col, I looked out over neighbouring peaks from a truly magical spot and allowed new, strange influences to impinge upon my consciousness. Once on the mountain summit I lingered long, then ventured out along its rarely-visited eastern ridge. At last I managed to pull myself away from the mountain top environment. Beginning my descent, something inside me gave, and tears started to roll down my face. By the grace of the mountain gods, a crack was opening up in my psyche, allowing me to shed whatever I needed to relinquish from the past, and catch a glimpse of a new life ahead.
This year I returned to the mountain once more, in less turbulent circumstances (coming off a mountain with your eyes swimming in tears is no easy matter!). Having put my tent up on a remote and lonely lochside the evening before, I emerged into the total silence of the place soon after first light. A smattering of rain greeted me rudely as I packed up my belongings before starting up the steep slopes that lead onto the west ridge. This was a new route, a tough one, and for a short time I considered abandoning the climb altogether. What is a man doing, at 7 o'clock on a Sunday morning, struggling up slopes of deep heather, slippery peat, and thick wet grasses? Then a reflection of the early morning sun streaked fiercely over the top of the ridge far above, where a group of deer appeared silhouetted on the golden skyline. Motionless, they peered at me, and motionless I returned their gaze. At that moment, I knew why I was there. In a curious way, I had come home........
