This is the 31st post (and I think my last) of a series which begins here.
Thursday 17 – Saturday 19 October 2019
Life is a journey of peaks and troughs – peaks are easy, it’s the troughs that are hard to navigate. Though I can sink to unfathomable depths of doom, being a mother pulls me back from the edge – my sons are instrumental in bringing out the happiness from within me. I remember their unbridled joy as they chased each other butt-naked round and round the giant sofa in our old living room, their carefree laughter so infectious I’d find myself laughing too; then small bodies launching themselves at me, knocking me over to give me cuddles or lick my cheek, weirdos! These boys give me purpose in life. But hillwalking sees me through too.
Serendipity. The weather is half decent. I’ve been itching to summit camp on Sgurr na Stri for ages, I decide the time is now . . . it’s exactly twenty-two years since Mum died, and two years since I finished my own cancer treatments (recent checks were all clear).
I love the drive to Skye. Offshore is playing through my speaker and I admire the presence of autumn as leaves swirl down from trees that line each side of the road. I suddenly feel an injection of joy – and I’ve not even started walking yet!
At 1.30pm I heave on my pack and leave the parked car. It’s not long before noise and civilisation is behind me on the walk deeper into the glen. All I now hear is my feet connecting with the stony trail and the creak and groan of my pack. Inside it is my down mat, exped sleeping bag and silk liner, a spare top, winter down jacket, food (M&S Harissa chicken and couscous salad, two Avanti bars, a banana, an Aero and a packet of crisps), 2,750mls of water and 500mls of milky hot chocolate, my head-torch and spare batteries, she-pee, wet-wipes, map, compass, gloves, ipod, ear-pops, a pen I’m not going to use, my good Nikon camera and my two-man, four-season tent – aka a veritable shittonne of weight. My arse will feel this in the morning.
After several kilometres I reach the end of the watershed. On my left, Blaven’s Western face looks impregnable. To my right the Cuillin Ridge, Sgurr nan Gillean’s spires and Am Bastier’s tooth looking all Tolkienesque.
The route is straightforward and it’s awesome to be on a good path. Although I haven’t caught sight of another human I’m spotting pretty fresh looking footprints in boggier stretches. ‘I really hope I’m not sharing the summit with some fucker,’ I say to myself. In fact, I say this out loud every time I spot a print and make up stories about whose they could be. I stop for an Avanti bar before starting the up. It gives me an extra boost to reach the Druim Hain ridge – the view from here down to Loch Coruisk is finger-licking good and another surge of joy courses through me. What excitement. I yap away to myself.
‘Noooooo doubt about it. Fresh air and exercise help alleviate depression, stress and anxiety. Like, the slog up is hard, but once I get the ridge and reach the peak – man those endorphins, what reward! A natural high!’ I say. It’s absolutely true. All trace of internal conflict is erased. Up on the hills I don’t seek out acceptance or feel the need to be understood. I’m just happy being here.
The path leads up to the col below Sgurr na Stri’s western summit. It’s 5pm and I’m delighted. The mountain is mine alone! I relieve my back of its load and spring about the top looking for a suitable place to pitch.
I’m completely distracted by the beauty of my surroundings. The entire Cuillin ridge circles Loch Coruisk.
There’s a small stone wall beneath the summit – perfect for a bivvy, but not big enough for my tent. However, I throw my tent up close by. Pegs drive into the ground securely which makes me feel happy that I won’t blow over the cliff if the wind picks up. Organised. I take my dinner and sit on the edge of nothing in the stillness. Darkness isn’t far away.
Looking out over the water I see stark outlines of Eigg, Rum and Mull. I see the flash of a lighthouse (I think?) and I feel totally separated from life below. From the summit the last of the setting sun’s rays cast their warm glow on the tip of Blaven and outlying hills. Loch Coruisk and the Cuillins appear other worldly in deep shades of indigo and blue.
The tent is my shelter but this whole place feels like my own personal sanctuary. It’s as close to heaven as you can get. I take my flask to the summit and raise a hot chocolate toast to my mum. Aero bubbles dissolve in my mouth and warmth rushes into my core. I’m immersed in the beauty of the natural world around me, feeling grateful to be fit enough and healthy enough to appreciate all this wonder.
Wind outside makes the tent fabric flap loudly. I listen to tunes on my ipod. Lies. I listen to Lost Without You on repeat and think about Mum. The lyrics resonate and memories flash. Wrapped in my sleeping bag I shuffle to the tent door and unzip just enough for my head to stick through. I stare onto the mountain shadow shapes and I look up into the inky night. The hills are my safe haven now, and my memories keep me company.
I feel a drop of rain on my face and then another. I suck my head back inside and lie down. Sleep comes but I wake at midnight. I poke my head out the tent again. Too cloudy for stars but I breathe in the night air and enjoy being here . . . I feel incredibly present on the mountain. This place has captured my heart.
At 6am I see Orion and the Plough, then a shooting star and a satellite. Perfecto.
Light doesn’t begin to creep in from the east till well after 7.30am.
I tear myself away at 9.30am, descending the ridge carefully. Aware of my heavy pack. Aware I didn’t sleep much. Aware I’m distracted by the Cuillins and loch. Aware I could stumble more easily. Black rock is wet and I skid anyway. Jaysus! I don’t want to end up like Captain Maryon, I think. I take a small detour to check out the memorial built by his friend. I read that the Captain’s dead body lay here, on this spot, undiscovered for nearly two years. Still, if you’re gonna die, what a place to go. I wonder about the Captain, and then I leave.
Trekking back along the glen I pass a lone male walker, then two. In total I count sixteen day trippers. I feel lucky and privileged to have had the mountain all to myself for as long as I did. Laden cloud smothers Sgurr nan Gillean’s spires. I see the rain coming and feel luckier still – I’m going to get a bit wet, but nothing near the utter soaking the poor sods I passed are in for. Haw haw. ‘But feeling uncomfortable is a good thing,’ I say out loud, ‘because then you appreciate it even more when you are comfortable.’
Life is about balance. Without the rough there can be no smooth. When problems begin to weigh mountain walking and the views they offer remind me that the world is a beautiful place. Nature gives me hope. Nature reminds me what is really important in this world. And I think the best things in life truly are free: exercise in the fresh air, family love and laughter, good health, memories, seeing the sun as it rises and sets – and tonight a good night’s sleep!
Just Another Mountain MY BOOK Find it here. It’s got some super lovely reviews.