“See that dog, if it’s off the lead, I’ll shoot, I’ll fucking shoot.”
A day of contrasts, I think. Blue sky overhead, a mountain peak etched like a torn curtain as silhouette, and no wind to disturb the flow of the burn wending its way towards the loch.
The parking area is empty despite the benign conditions. However, it is early, it is a weekday, and it is winter. The ruins of an old tower, a crippled witness to past clan aggression, broods in the corner. I wonder if the shotgun wielding farmer has spent too much time in its shadow. I also wonder if his threat is directed at Sam, at me, or both of us.
Sam is unfazed. She has sniffed the air and is full of anticipation. Like her owner. I nod politely at the farmer, acknowledging that there are different interpretations of the right to roam. I can afford to be relaxed. I know that Sam will soon be liberated from her tight rein. I have been here before, and once over the burn and along the track I will be out of sight of all but the scree encrusted mountain wall. And free to reflect at will, my thoughts the abstract parallel to Sam’s ranging far and wide, disappearing in the depths of the undulating terrain, but always returning to familiar territory.
It is a mixed blessing being acquainted with a route, although today I plan what I confidently think will be an interesting variation. Familiarity lends reassurance. But it can also blunt the senses. You’ve seen it all before. Although of course you haven’t. Weather, season, light, mood even, influence vision. And your eye sees what it didn’t the previous time, or sees the same thing in a new way.
I step across the burn on well worn stones, pausing to stare at the water. I am surprised. Meandering through peaty banks, it would normally take on a brown lentil colour, yet today it is blue. But today the still cold air has slowed its flow, giving the water time to absorb the brilliance of the sky above.
I have learned when I look at a mountain scene for the first time, that I am embraced by it, sucked in. The rock overlaid with lichen, the corrie that cradles a lochan, have the same impact. As I take in the scene, I am taken in by it, embedded in it.
The moment I say, I’ve seen this before, is the moment the shutter drops.
I know all this. But I also know it is a lesson learned from experience. On my first hill walk, ill-equipped, inexperienced, caught in thick mist and deep snow, cold and disorientated, I kept going only by the force of my ego. I finally reached the summit cairn, and didn’t linger. I retraced my steps, relieved but still anxious. I was unprepared for the moment when, still high on the hillside, I emerged from the mist.
Below me, ground whose non-descript browns and greens had been unremarkable at the start of the climb, now clamoured in a blaze of piercing colour. Sun slanted from under the canopy of fog, awakening drowsy water that danced in response. The wind, risen, began to shift the mist from the peaks on the other side of the glen, revealing dazzling white slopes and shadowy corries. I was spellbound and learned a lesson both joyous and solemn – nothing stays the same, but some things last longer than others.
I stroll along the track on the side of the burn. Slushy snow bears the boot mark remnants of the previous weekend’s influx. The West Highland Railway runs alongside, further up the slope of the hill. Some constructions intrude, but the railway is a graceful part of this landscape. As are dams, and wind turbines. I recognise that their position is determined by the contours of the land. Like Pictish stones. They don’t exploit, they contribute. And increasingly, from the summits of many hills, I can look out at a flotilla of aerial propellers and feel that they belong as much as the trees on the hillside.
After a mile I reach the bridge over the river. Instead of crossing it, I remain on the true left bank. I know that I will pick up a path skirting a wood, the remains of an older forest that would have covered this area of the highlands, planted for profit as much as for pleasure.
I leave the path and enter the wood. The trees sit in small groups or alone. I approach one and stroke its bark. It is yielding, welcoming, and I wonder what scenes it has witnessed during its long life. Time takes on another meaning when confronted with these relics, in the same way that gazing into the night sky is to be transported into the infinity of the past.
I take a slanting direction through the trees and on to the open hillside. My destination is Beinn a’ Chreachain. I have an etymologist’s fascination with the meaning of hill names – they cast a light on the heritage left by previous generations, the Gaels in particular. Why, I asked myself prior to my first excursion here, should a mountain be named after a shell, especially one so far from the sea? I had read that the name derives from the bald dome-like summit of the hill. When I got there that first time, however, I discovered a much more plausible origin. I peered over the summit into the depths of its northern corrie. A lochan fills the floor, and from above its shape is unmistakeably that of a clam shell. For the Gaels, landscape was integral to their life, whether farming, fishing, or simply exploring.
I had also noticed something else in the corrie, and knew in that moment that I would pay a second visit. For now however, I lingered at the summit cairn and listened to the echoes of these previous visitors.
Sam’s barks vault me back to the here and now. We have reached the burn that comes down from the corrie, and are now in deep snow. My boots scrunch through the soft surface before making reassuring contact with a firmer layer underneath. I stop to look into their imprint, to see the shades of blue they leave, a painter mixing colours on a palette.
I unfasten the ice axe from the back of my rucksack, and remove the leather protectors from its blade. It’s not a modern version. It has a long shaft that makes a good walking stick as well as an emergency anchor, an attribute that has proved invaluable in the past, life-saving even. And was to do so again.
Walking beside flowing water is one of the ultimate pleasures of being in the hills. Water makes noises that can be restful and dramatic, imperceptible and wild. And it can be all of these things in the one place, because burn water is forever on the move and forever renewing itself. To accompany a burn (which to me is the proper hierarchy) is to experience the privilege of hearing a living nature.
The ground leading to the lip of the corrie is set at an easy angle, but the snow is deeper. Light as she is, this made no difference to Sam, whereas my prints now reached mid calf.
But no tiredness can survive the sight that greets us as we enter the corrie. Cliffs rise in black tiered solemnity at the back, white horizontal streaks tracing where layers of rock create an uneven surface. The lochan in the corrie is partly frozen, with fragments of ice rippling at its banks. At the same time, the grass fringing the edges is brittle, and as shards lap against it, the sound is of sleigh bells and prayer bells.
I should have paid more attention to the significance of water melting, especially as I am aware that the temperature has risen. And the sun is now shining into the corrie. But I am already moving round the water‘s edge to reach a recess in the corner. This is what I saw on that previous visit, this is what I have since imagined climbing.
The gully rises in one single step up to the summit plateau, a white pristine sheet slung between the cliff walls. It is steep, but it is a snow couloir. No ominous ice interrupts the smooth surface. It is a straightforward if steep snow climb. I look at my watch. ‘What do you think Sam? Not any more difficult than ones we’ve already done.’
I am already taking a belt out of my rucksack. I fasten it round my waist and move the metal spring hook to the front. Retrieving the lead from my pocket, I attach the wrist loop to the hook. Sam sits with her head to the side as I clip on her lead. I kick in to the snow and move upwards, pushing the shaft of the axe deep, Sam ahead without tugging on the lead.
The world contracts. The universe is now snow contained within dark brooding walls. And the surface is not as unwrinkled as it had appeared from below. Occasionally a rock protrudes, just the tip, and impossible to judge its size. Rhythm takes over – kick hard axe in kick hard axe out pause and repeat. My breath condenses then evaporates slowly. I look back and see we are nearly half way up the gully. Sam moves off once more, but stops, abruptly. I nudge her in the rump. ‘You’ll get more of a view when we’re up there. On you go.’ Then I see that she is trembling, her front paws scrabbling into the snow. I am puzzled. Nothing has changed, the snow rises up and on, the walls of the gully remain indifferent onlookers. I lean forward to stroke her quivering back. Out of the corner of my eye I see a shape tumbling towards us. I duck as a stone bounces past. Sam is now whining softly, a drawn out moan. ‘Good dog. We’d better push closer to the side, less chance of a missile attack’.
Then the snow moves. A shallow fissure opens up horizontally ahead of us. I realise I am losing footing. I push the axe into the snow up to the adze to steady myself, and unhook the lead with my other hand. ‘Down down.’ Sam runs. I know I have to do the same, hoping that my weight won’t precipitate the avalanche. It does, but not before we are once more on flat ground beside the lochan.
It is a sizeable avalanche. The gully is still white, the walls still indifferent, but loose snow lies in deep untidy piles at its foot. Sam is drinking from the lochan. I breathe steadily. I look at my watch. We had been in the gully for fifteen minutes.
I beckon to Sam. She lopes towards me as I squat down to stroke her head. ‘Thank you’. The words are uttered quietly, then repeated.
The tang of height. As so often, Nan Shepherd has found the right expression. An intoxicating smell that lures ever upwards. Her book, The Living Mountain, has inspired many more than just myself to see the mountains in a way similar to wishing to spend time with friends.
By crossing to the other side of the corrie and going up its bounding north east ridge, we will be on the summit in forty minutes. As we approach the cairn, a welcoming silence greets us. The ghosts of the past have moved on.
By retracing steps now, we will be back at the car before dark. We manage this, just. The parking area is still empty, the tower still broods. I retrieve my car keys from the depths of a trouser pocket. I open the door and pick up a towel from the back seat. Then I notice a piece of paper that has been attached to the windscreen under the wipers. I unfold it and read. Sam is anxious to get dried and on our way.
“What do you think of this, Sam?” I read out what’s on the page, a single sentence written in untidy letters. ‘Next time don’t bring your dog.’
Sam shakes herself and jumps effortlessly into the boot.