On The Hillpaths

Ah yes, the hillpaths. Not any old hillpaths - these specific ones. I have walked them eight or ten times, and never met another person on them (save my own companion, on the few times I have not gone out alone). They don't climb up the hills as such (though they do reach a height of 1500 feet above sea level) but more lead right into the hills. To the heart of things; into the belly of the beast, even. As such, they enter land more lonely, wild and mysterious than many-a path that leads to a giddy summit.

The track sets off from behind the tiny village as one, before bifurcating a few minutes' walk up the hillside. The paths were originally deerstalkers' ways into the wild places, built during the Victorians' craze for such pursuits. Nowadays, from what I have seen, stalkers travel mainly in swanky modern dark-green all-terrain vehicles across marshland and moor; on a good day, they probably don't need to get off their bum in order to bag a stag. In truth, these old deerstalkers' paths have seen better days, and some are in danger of falling into total disrepair. The hillpath I chose last week alternated between stretches of clear stony terrain and deep puddles, before occasionally getting lost altogether in bog and temporary baby lochs. The west coast of Scotland had clearly experienced a little precipitation over recent days.....

I hadn't walk this particular hillpath for several years. While some of it was familiar enough, other sections seemed new to me; and the hills can be unrecognisable from season to season. At one point, the pencil-thin track through the heather took a sharp turn to the right, and began to climb steeply above a deep, narrow gorge accommodating a rapidly-flowing mountain stream. This didn't seem right at all, but I continued anyway, just to see where it actually led. Ten minutes later, it became clear that this was indeed the path, as I emerged onto flatter ground that my memory banks recognised from five years past.

As I climbed further, landscapes opened up around me. Behind me, the unmistakeable jagged outline of the Cuillin of Skye appeared. While sunshine was in short supply all around me, the Cuillin were bathed in the low ethereal glow of mid-autumn sun. It does happen from time to time.

A pregnant, almost disturbing, silence had accompanied me all the way. The hills hereabouts have the ability to unnerve and unsettle the individual, particularly in certain weather conditions. Around now, though, the silence began to be punctuated by a distant piercing bellow, followed by another spine-chilling roar. Stags were out on the hills, and not too far away. I scanned the hillsides, then scanned again, but nothing. Maybe they were really close, but their coats would merge seamlessly into the colours of the autumn around. Then I heard the sound of scree moving down a slope to my right: two deer were crossing the hillside, but females. I continued to walk quietly and attentively. The roars continued to ring through the air. Then, halfway up the hillside to my right, I saw one. He stood still, as is the way of deer on the hill, and looked. I too stood still and looked. He was a magnificent specimen, and I pondered how, should there be a fight between stag and human, there would be only one victor. Then, as if fatigued by this mutual gazing, he turned his back and moved away. Swiftly yet silently, with grace and dignity, and without the slightest sign of anxiety or panic.

I reached the top of the pass. The afternoon sun was already beginning to set over the Cuillin skyline. I looked into the glens and mountains below and beyond me: some of the most isolated peaks in Scotland, normally requiring an overnight camp to be visited properly. I climbed to a small nearby peak before retracing my steps out of the wildness. Several deer peered down at me from a ridge above, a bit like cowboys out for an ambush in a 1960s spaghetti western. Twilight was descending as I rounded a corner and saw the familiar and somewhat comforting outlines of the few dwelling places of the village. I gave thanks, crossed the little river by the haphazard collection of rocks loosely arranged as stepping stones, shed a final glance hillwards, then was gone.



        



     

The Empire Strikes back

  Image found on Neil Kramer's Facebook page

Here we go round the mulberry bush. Again. And again. And again. Apparently, in the original, it was a bramble, not mulberry, bush; and this barbed image may well be more appropriate.

We have recently witnessed that annual gathering of the Wise, the True, and the Holy, otherwise known as the Conservative Party Conference. Prominent among the speakers was Not-at-Home Secretary, Theresa May. Our own local Green Tara, Mother of Mercy, Tory Bodhisattva of Infinite Love and All-Seeing Compassion announced that, should the Conservatives win the next General Election, they would be introducing 'Extremist Disruption Orders'. Folk who represent a threat to 'the functioning of democracy' could be banned from speaking at public events, from broadcasting or protesting.

Shortly beforehand, David Cameron had spoken at the U.N. In his speech, he stated that non-violent conspiracy theorists are just as dangerous as ISIS. That, I take it, includes Pale Green Vortex. Read while you can, folks: we won't be around forever.

It is plainly obvious what the whole thing is about. It is a full assault on 'dissenting views', a vague term that could be extended to include anything outside the Lib-Lab-Con, Republicans-and-Democrats paradigm. This is the barely-hidden subtext, and one that Cameron has been particularly keen on. Remember catching paedophiles as a pretext for increasing internet surveillance? Rarely have I come across a politician who is so transparently a hollow puppet for other people's agendas as David Cameron. Whenever I see him, I am reminded of this bendy rubber rabbit toy I had when I was a child. It could be twisted and manipulated into whatever shape you wanted. It eventually got old and was thrown away....

The war on terrorists is a dream come true for politicians. Since terrorists can pop up anywhere and everywhere, it's a war that can never be properly won, hence delivering a state of perpetual fear and attitude of constant warfare. Thus we will always need politicians to defend and protect us, and to introduce more and more measures to help us control the bad guys. So a lot of it is just that: a pretext for increased control, silencing voices that disagree or, more to the point, see through the whole bloody charade.

Meanwhile, yesterday evening, BBC aired a programme seriously challenging the official version of events surrounding genocide in Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. If the BBC were to present more programmes questioning the official version of reality - on things like the Arab Spring and the windfarm fraud, for example - I would readily review my opinion of the corporation. As it is, while western governments gaily announce war in the Middle East on a regular basis, they idly stood aside while literally millions died in Rwanda and DRC (where, in the eastern regions, things remain far from stable even today). This is the kind of reality that gives the game away. It's not about Mother of Mercy. Not at all. It's about far sinister stuff, much of which the pathetic puppets of Obama, Cameron, and the rest are probably only faintly aware, if at all. It's a long, slow process whereby the tentacles of control are intended to reach out further and further, to squash independent thinking, freedom of speech, free spirited living. This is the long game: it behoves us to be awake to its many low tricks.



              

The Wisdom of Doctor Who

          Doctor and sidekick - welcome into the Vortex!

I don't watch television very much. I watch Doctor Who even less. The Doctor's rapid breathy mutterings, the quickfire witty one-liners, not to mention the quality of sound issuing from our ancient television set, mean that things pass me by before I've had the chance to realise that I've missed them.

I caught some of last weekend's episode, however. The Doctor and sidekick Clara touched down in Sherwood Forest at the time of Robin Hood. Strange things were afoot, as they tend to be in this programme. Eventually, the Doctor sorted it out. A bunch of robots from far away had landed and transformed their spaceship into a castle (disguise your nefarious intentions with a cloak of respectability). They had recruited the Sheriff of Nottingham as their human emissary/puppet leader. He was the public face, so that the ordinary folk didn't realise who was really behind everything, or what their true motives were. The robots were eventually revealed to be what they really were - robots, shadowy enemy figures, not human, in fact inhuman.

Thus far the programme presented a reasonable description of how lots of things really happen in the world of human affairs. Things got even more interesting, though, when the Doctor continued to insist that Robin Hood was a robot, too. Robin, champion of the masses and the Great Good - surely not. Naturally enough, he denied the accusation. The Doctor explained his reasons. Bad guys like the robots need to establish some good guy as apparent opposition, to give the ordinary folk 'the illusion of hope, and for them to keep on working.' It was Lenin who famously stated that the best way to control the opposition is to be it, and the notion of 'controlled opposition' is well-known in alternative research circles. Actually, not just the notion, the reality: check it out in Ukraine, the Middle East, almost anywhere that strife flares up which the Western governments take notice of. Things begin to make a bit more sense. Controlling the opposition, becoming the opposition, is a major ploy, it would seem, in moulding world affairs to your own pattern.

In the end, Robin Hood turned out to be a proper human being, not a robot after all. Yippee! But I found it curious to see the notion of controlled opposition being rolled out on the BBC, on a Saturday evening. Is this a mocking of public stupidity? Shove it in people's face and they still don't realise what's going on. The Doctors gets it. Why doesn' t everybody else?  

 

Wider Perspective

At the end of August I spent a couple of days in the far north-west of Scotland. Beyond the little port of Ullapool, the countryside of Highland Scotland changes dramatically. Trees generally give up the ghost in an unequal struggle for survival. It is a bare landscape, almost constantly battered by the wind, a terrain of moorland out of which weirdly-shaped mountains appear, as if scattered randomly on the scene. Begin to climb, and you soon appreciate that this apparent carpet of heather and rock is illusory. The place is as much water as dry land: a multitude of lochans dapple the landscape opening up at ones feet, on a sunny day glistening brilliantly.

It was on one such day, with not so much as a cloud in the sky, that I climbed one of the region's strange extra-terrestrial peaks. With every step onwards and upwards, the landscapes opened up all around me, daring my consciousness to reach out, absorb, and embrace this expanse, this almost infinite space. Nearing the summit and clambering over boulders and bare rock, I found myself thrown about by the wind characteristic of this unique corner of the planet. And on the way down, I sat for a while and looked out northwards across this magnificent scene of mountain, rock, and water. The colours I beheld gradually became more pristine, as if emanating from a place that we rarely contact. At one point, it seemed that the green-and-golden land reclining between two long lochans was breathing, the inhaling and exhaling of Gaia herself. The rhythm of my own body appeared to synchronise with that of the land, forcing me into concentration, into feeling my unique presence in this precise and present moment. Simultaneously, as may occur in such times of minor epiphany, the normal affairs of humanity fell naturally and effortlessly into their rightful place in the bigger scheme of things. They were revealed asgenerally  trivial, while being lauded as critically important down in the town, the city, the marketplace.

At 600 metres above sea level, gazing out across some of the oldest rocks on the planet in mid-afternoon at the tail end of August, I fancied that I perceived the distinctive rhythm of the natural world as it goes about its particular business. And foremost amongst the trivialities of human affairs as experienced from this perspective was the subject of the day, the matter of independence for Scotland. Suddenly everyone must have an opinion on this topic of topics. Funny, since until only recently we were all happy to go about our business without giving the question a moment's thought. Then some smart dude began banging on about how important it was, and what a difference it would make. And now everyone has to have something to say. This, I submit, is a classic example of mass mind manipulation; I reserve the personal freedom not to have an opinion should I decide not to do so.

The bottom line is that, whatever the result of the referendum, the Empire will get in, with its own set of assumptions, prejudices, and lists of what is really important. The notion of 'independence' may appear superficially attractive, but its major proponents have shown themselves to be a bunch of dark clowns, who rarely have a clue what they are doing or are going to do. Instead, they revert to every low trick in the handbook of amateur mind manipulation. The sad thing is that there are folk out there who actually fall for it.

The streets of my home town are plastered with placards and posters of the 'Yes' campaign, the final last-gasp bit of brainwashing of those without a brain. It is noticeable how a certain portion of the 'Yes' supporters resemble religious zealots in their style and emotionality. Independence has become for them a religious matter; they have turned into political fundamentalists, embodying all the dangers that fundamentalism incorporates. It is an evangelism that I find disconcerting, and leads me to the observation that some people readily embrace a cause. In fact, they are desperate for a cause. There is a notion - quite correct - that something is not quite right in our planetary project. But this particular response to this uncomfortable feeling is totally inappropriate. Find a belief, embrace a cause. In this state of despair, such people do not examine closely the object that will bring salvation. To do so will probably be self-defeating anyway. The important thing is to have a cause, a campaign, a belief that will take away the pain, will make things better. A cause - any cause to save the world from its own horrible self. Religion will still do for some people, but for many this has worn a bit thin, so we're out in the world instead. Politics, green issues, health issues. Save the planet. Save the seagull. Save the lowly worm from the seagull. Almost anything will do. And it's all to no avail - pretty much, anyway. Things don't really work like that.

I continued to look out over the rocks, the lochs, the mountains. A homecoming and totally alien at the same time. It is an irony that, on this, the theatre of independence has been completely silent on both sides. What is Scotland if not its ancient landscapes? Intrinsic parts of its history, prehistory, and cultural heritage. Its peoples viscerally moulded by sea, wind, hill, and its strange beauty. On preserving this elemental aspect of Scotland nothing is said. And, believe me, it needs preserving - urgently. No. Not a word. You see, the agenda is programmed, pre-arranged, and the ordinary folk flock to speak and bleat, like lambs to the slaughter. The 'independence debate'?: a surreal play enacted in a theatre of darkness by a bunch of ne'er do wells spouting bullshit.



      

  



              

Casey Hardison Lives!

An extremely well-written and heartfelt piece from Casey Hardison following his release from prison and deportation to the U.S.A. It speaks for itself, so I shall say no more.

https://www.erowid.org/columns/metanoia/

Photo: erowid

On Silver Peak

Mountain Amnesia

It's a few weeks back now. A Monday, four o'clock in the afternoon. I sat on a large rock and looked up at the steep hillside rising in front of me. 'One of the finest peaks, not only in this area, but in the whole of the west' declares the book. Massive slopes of thick, tussocky grass, bracken, and varied other vegetation, hiding sharp, angular rocks and invisible holes, led up to the ridge proper, snaking towards the summit beyond. And all pathless. 'I can't do it' I moaned to myself. Not, mind you, 'I could do it if I felt like it, but I'm not in the mood so I won't.' No. I couldn't do it. Literally.

Not so surprising really. Over three hours of travel from home on a number of buses - I'm not a good traveller. Sinuses playing up. A uniform leaden sky above adding a vague suffocating gloominess to proceedings. The sheds of the new fish farm beside the loch didn't help matters either. And I'd walked for ninety minutes with the load of a night's camp on my back already.

I took another swig of water from my flask and looked up at the mountain. What was I to do? I could bugger off back to Fort William. I could slink back home. Just as the demon of despair was quietly making an entrance, I recalled what I had written about before. I was not here on a predetermined path of make or break. I was here in freedom. I was here to stravaig. I stood up and immediately threw my rucksack onto my back. I was free to walk, to come and go, exactly as I wished. I would do whatever I pleased. I was in a moment of great privilege, and to fail to honour this state would be error indeed.

I knew not where I would go, though I knew where I was going. I returned along the lochside path, a new-found spring in my step. I headed up the valley beyond the water's head, passing under the famed viaduct and into the hills bordering arguably the roughest land in all upland Scotland. As evening descended, the clouds broke in tune with my mood, and soft light suffused the world. My sinuses, I noted, had cleared. A weary-looking couple passed me, coming off the hills. 'Far rougher than the map indicates' was their verdict on their cross-country overnight camp. I watched them trudge down the track in the direction of the viaduct and a welcome pint beyond.

I set up camp at the base of a mountain I knew a little from a few years back. A little path, built courtesy of stalkers in days long gone, threaded its way up the hillside to the distant summit. Maybe this would be my fate on the morrow.

I rose at 5.30. While I never sleep properly in the wild (not even in my swanky new Zephyros 2 Lite tent), it is a wonder and a privilege to be out and about in such places as the day begins. I packed up the dew-soaked tent, splashed my face in the waters of the little waterfall tumbling nearby, and began to walk. The path climbs at an easy angle, miraculously weaving its way up and through the rocks and tangles of vegetation. Then, at a certain point, it is as if you pass through a door, and you are walking through a truly wild landscape, rocks thrown around at crazy, chaotic angles. I spy a deer raked on the hillside; we stop and stare at one another. Then I am on, climbing steeply to the top of the first peak, then over terrain more fitting the Moon than planet Earth. Then I am on the true summit on the mountain.

It is only nine o'clock, but the sun is already warm. A few clouds bubble up over the highest surrounding peaks, but the air is soft, clear and stable. I leave the rucksack beside the summit cairn and wander around, taking it all in. This is one of the most magnificent mountain views I have had the fortune to witness - participate in, even. I peer down one side of the mountain, which falls in one great swoop to the head of Loch Morar, uninhabited, unfrequented, and sparkling deep blue in the morning sun. To the north, the craggy peaks of the Rough Bounds. Westwards, the sea and the outlines of the distant western isles.

I stay absorbed in this wilderness of rock, sky, and water for a good ninety minutes. As I begin to return to the glen far below, I meet another human on his way up. He is dressed in shorts, and has big cleg bites on his legs. He has almost completed his 'Munro round' - only five or six to go - but, he tells me, has climbed this particular mountain four or five times. 'I think it's the best view of all' he states. I don't use the word synchronicity, but tell him that I was thinking precisely the same about this peak, which goes generally unheralded in the books. We exchange tales for a few minutes, then bid one another farewell, fondly recognising one another as kindred spirits.

The snaking path, a welcome drink at the waterfall; the viaduct, a few tourists, and the world of humans with its peculiar endeavours. A tiny bird, a finch, joins me at my table, familiar with this human lark, as I enjoy coffee and a cake in the little cafe beside the tourist route. It quickly gobbles up the crumbs I leave, before flying off into the bushes nearby. I dawdle off to wait for a bus. Then I am home.