It's five weeks since my last visit to the Cairngorms (see April 18th post). During this time the seasons do not appear to have advanced very much. Large snowfields are still in evidence. There is a fresh dusting of snow over the summits, and bucketloads seem to have fallen recently over Braeriach (or Mighty Braeriach, as it is called by those in the know).
I climb, initially steeply (an appropriate shock to the system), the path leading up the left flank from the ski centre in the direction of Cairn Gorm summit. Cairn Gorm itself is a bit of a mess. Its surface is littered with bits and pieces that constitute the skeleton of the winter skiing industry. The path I am following weaves in and out of wooden fencing that is falling over; the general scene suggests neglect. I cast my eye towards the funicular railway that plies its way up the hillside towards the Ptarmigan restaurant high up on the slopes of Cairn Gorm. It has its vocal detractors; for myself, I remain agnostic on the subject. It is far less intrusive than a windfarm, and at least serves a purpose, to introduce people to the mountains who otherwise may never go. Plus, it grants access to those whose bodies are too frail to get up there under their own steam. I may be grateful for its services myself one day.
When I stop for a breather and to take in the scene, I am conscious of the grandeur and spaciousness of my surroundings (photo one, above). The funicular might slide up and down the hillside, the ridges might be plagued by industrial junk, but still the mountain wind blows, the ptarmigan scuttle and squawk, the rarified air of the hills invigorates.
I spot a small party of people ahead, slowly climbing the upper slopes of the mountain, and Mallory and Irving pass through my mind on their fated climb into the mists of Everest, never to be seen again. OK, Cairn Gorm in the middle of May doesn't hold quite the same epic quality. Yet there is something of Himalayan magnificence about the day: the electric blue of the sky set against the newly fallen snow; layer upon layer of cloud scudding at different speeds across the sky. And as I pass the Ptarmigan restaurant (photo five), now small and insignificant in the vastness of the landscape, I am reminded of chortens, stupas, Tibetan prayer flags rattled by the wind.
Onwards, upwards; and I am at the summit of Cairn Gorm. This is another thing. In all the shops and information centres in the area you can see the term 'CairnGorm Mountain'. I even have a cap boasting this title. Purists - or even semi-purists- will point out the linguistic nonsense of this appelation: Cairn Gorm translates (most likely) as 'Blue Hill'. So here I am, standing at the summit of Blue Hill Mountain. Redundant or wot? There is a meteorological station on top (photo two), recording the bizarre phenomena of Cairngorm weather. Today it manifests an extraordinary variety of windblasted snow and ice features on its metallic framework. Today, also, the summit weather measured by this apparatus is in serious wind mode, and I do not linger long at the top before heading on, away from the fiercest gusts at any rate.
The scenery as I leave the summit inspires awe (photo three). I am now in stravaiging 'let's-see-what-happens' mode, and wander vaguely downhill, away from the affairs of humans and towards Coire Raibert (coire: 'a steep-sided glacially excavated hollow in the side of a mountain'). At first the going is easy, over vegetation stunted by the constant winds and general lack of warmth. Near the bottom of the coire, however, I encounter a wide morass of spongy stuff, made spongier still by snowmelt. One false move and you're up to your knees in icy water mixed with purple-yellow-green spongiformity. Having negotiated the morass more-or-less successfully, I now need to cross a considerable snowfield, criss-crossed beneath its uniform surface by a network of underground (or undersnow) streams. I am pleased that I don't weigh 100kg as I tread gingerly yet rapidly across the snow, trusting in its compactness.
When I finally slip over and onto my bum, it is a sign that a proper break is needed and that lunch should be eaten. Fortunately, I am close to the spot I've located for a rest. I perch myself on the rim of the great corrie that has now opened up below me. I can only look down, down, down, into the depths of Loch Avon, gleaming turquoise in the occasional flashes of sun (photo four). I am staring into the sometimes dark heart of the Cairngorms. It is a privilege to be in one of the places in Highland Scotland; anybody wishing to recapture the true meaning of the word 'awesome' should pay a visit to the cliffs above the great trench cradling magnificent Loch Avon.
I scramble down onto some rocks right on the edge of the great precipices. There is just enough space for me, my rucksack, and my sandwiches. Immense snowfields are banked up at the head of the coire and on the steep mountainsides above. I make out avalanche debris, recently fallen, and look in amazement at other places where huge cracks have appeared in the surface of snow, ready to jettison their loads into the valley far below. A corner of this planet that escapes the records of the affairs and goings-on of humankind. A place with its own rhythms, its own comings and goings. Snow, ice, avalanche - all this in the middle of May....
I sit in silence. It is, indeed, silent, as rocks afford me shelter from the scouring wind. I eat, then look, attempting to embody a little of the majestic stillness radiating from the mountain at this moment. Then I arise, adjust my rucksack, and begin my return, in a wide circle, back to the peculiar affairs of humankind.
