East face of the Witch
In the footsteps of Castaneda: no, not literally. That's Neil Kramer, recently returned from a great road trip taking in the Sonora Desert, northern Mexico, home to the many adventures of Carlos Castaneda, Don Juan Matus, Don Genaro, et al. I speak more of following some of the techniques and practices sprinkled throughout the pages of Castaneda's compelling prose.
It's convenient to dismiss Castaneda as mental titillation for the bohemian wing of the student population. 'Wow! Amazing stuff! Hey, who's got the dope?' In truth, the works of Castaneda are among the few of my inspirations from the 1970s that speak more profoundly and eloquently to me today than forty years ago. The wisdom contained therein seems more pertinent and closer to hand than it ever did during the years of my communal youth.
'The Teachings of Don Carlos' is a compilation by Victor Sanchez of practices gleaned from the volumes of Castaneda, along with other techniques he has learned himself. Significantly, he had lived and trained with the Nahua and Huichol Indians of Mexico long before coming across Castaneda and finding striking similarities (thereby lending authenticity to the sometimes disputed wisdom of Castaneda).
Today I am largely concerned with the teachings on walking. The Mexican Indians are, according to Sanchez, masters of the art of walking, having developed the requisite skills during centuries of roaming across vast areas of mountain and desert. In Castaneda's books, time and again the author is taken on a long walk by the aged seer Don Juan, the wise old man moving effortlessly across the surface of the Earth for hours on end, the hapless Carlos puffing and panting, sweating and struggling along behind. The teachings on walking form part of the process of 'stopping the internal dialogue', a prerequisite for moving into the separate reality, other dimensional/density space, call it what you will. The art is to perceive reality directly, rather than thinking about it; direct experience instead of mere description.
I leave Newtonmore station, on the edge of the Cairngorm National Park, and am soon walking above the cascades and plunge pools of the Calder River. The teachings are simple in essence, yet ridiculously tricky to apply with any consistency. Walk rhythmically and silently, concentrating on the terrain near at hand. If you want to talk or look at the wider landscape, stop walking. Stay 'in the body', wear a rucksack and carry nothing in the hands. Remain conscious of breathing, and try to synchronise it with walking. Stay aware of the Earth. In general terms, don't think about where you are going or where you have come from: just be 'in the walk' right now. Follow these instructions and you will gain access to unknown reserves of energy, not to mention opening the crack between the worlds.
It is as I begin to climb more steeply and the terrain becomes rougher that the challenge really looms. As a better-than-reasonable reader of maps and of the landscape, I can easily fall into gauging my current altitude and how many more metres I have to climb. This is largely a reflection of the unpleasant sensations sometimes experienced when climbing - an ascent becomes a disagreeable slog, something to get over and done with as soon as possible. But now, don't think of the top of the mountain. Put away the map, don't consult your watch. Just be aware of moving through the landscape, whatever its nature.
My practice of walking Toltec-style is deeply flawed, yet makes a difference. I cross peaty, conventionally dull and featureless terrain in a mood of contentment. Eventually, I find myself beside the cairn on top of the mountain. A'Chailleach, it's called: the Witch. Who is this witch? Did a traveller through the different densities of the cosmos once inhabit the mountain, maybe inhabiting a cave in the crags below the summit? Was a witch from ancient Celtic legend - the Cailleach Bheur, for example, witch of the storms - reputed to live on the mountain top, or to have created it? Was a witch burnt here during the times of persecution? Does it refer to the mountain itself, endowed with magical and healing properties? Does anybody know?
I continue onwards, across a landscape increasingly remote from the cares of normal human civilisation. The sense of shifting into a different world is palpable as I ascend peat and grass slopes to the top of another hill, Carn Sgulain. In truth, it is a small rise in the general swell of the moorland. Carn Sgulain may indeed be the least spiky of all the Munros, but looks out over the vast sprawling spaces of the inner Monadhliath, and I love it. Distant horizons are obscured by a uniform grey murk, but the sense of expanse is marvellous nonetheless. A place that the witch would feel at home indeed.
This Monadhliath, with its Chailleach and Carn Sgulain, is prime territory for trashing by industrial-size windfarms. Within a few years, the number of these monstrosities in the area will have multiplied. The witches, wizards, and local spirits will not be pleased. As documented elsewhere on Pale Green Vortex, a look below the surface hype and hysteria reveals that logical and rational arguments for this desecration amount to literally zero. Even for someone chasing the chimera of decarbonisation, windfarms are the last thing to be promoting.
I freestyle across boggy terrain, pathless and infrequently visited by humankind, finding hidden cascades and an unexpected craggy aspect to the Witch as I do so. Eventually a vague path appears alongside the stream threading down the glen and leading me back to the world of human affairs. A shaft of warm sun breaks through the greyness overhead as I pass once more along the Calder gorge and spy the little township of Newtonmore close at hand.
