Photo Journal
9th December // The White Moutains
The Cuillins // N57.220 W-6.241
Days like these are some-kind of magic. Sitting back in my van as I write this I feel nothing but gratitude to existence itself, and the privilege I get to live it.
Today marked the start of the “real” adventure. Leaving the safety of the gentle slopes of the Southern Highlands I had journeyed the night before to Skye. This would be the real test of my abilities on the snow, though being the first day out of three I had chosen myself the easiest and most gentle route to reach the ridge line of the Cuillins.
Setting off late (due to helping rescue a couple who’s car had been stuck overnight in the mud) I marched along, side-stepping the icy path which has not yet felt the sun after last night's frost. Soon my path diverged and after navigating the hillside and up an icy scree slope, the snowline came abruptly and I equipped my crampons. The ascent was, for a while, easier, as I climbed higher up the snowy mountainside as the clear skies of the morning were soon lost to the clouds, catching up with me and soon enveloping me in their snare.
The hope I felt from the clear morning was not lost, as floating atop the clouds Sgurr Thuilm stood, proud, and basking in the same morning glow of sun as it did early in the morning. I checked once more the forecast, clear summits.
I reached the first plateau, still far below the summit with a view clear of clouds as I watched them spill into the glen in front of me, framing the mountain peaks between sky and the cloud below.
The summit of Sgùrr na Banachdich was still not yet visible.
I continued upwards and the crunch of firm snow soon turned into soft powder and every footstep was a struggle. Some barely broke the surface and others my whole leg plunged deep below the snow. I was glad when it passed. There were no paths here. I weaved my way upwards, best reading the snow until I emerged from the deep snow drifts to the rocky approach to the summit and I could hear the crunch of snow beneath my feet once more.
The timing coincided with breaking free from the thick layer of cloud I had been consumed by earlier, and I welcomed the sight of shadows once more on the mountainside. This was in fact the first direct sunlight I’d felt all morning.
Beneath me was an ocean of cloud, but I had no time to stop, not quite yet, pushed upwards by the same rising current as the clouds, I raced them to the summit.
Here, finally, I reached the ridge line and cautiously I peered over the edge to see the full extent of the Cuillins. The continuous rows of jagged peaks stood covered in snow. The sharpness of their inclines painted by patterns of windswept ice atop the dark volcanic rock where no snow would stick. Each peak stood as part of a continuous ridge, undulating like the waves of the surrounding ocean some 1000 meters lower. Between the ocean and the frigid mountain peaks was a layer of cloud spanning as far as my eyes could see in every direction. The far away summits of the mainland too surrounded by the same billowing white.
Save for one patch of the world below which looked back up at me; Loch Coruisk, darkened and distant, like a sink draining the light. It looked both close and inconceivably far away, pulling me too in.
Further along the ridge line, the figure I'd mistaken for another hiker on the opposing mountain revealed itself now I was more clearly in the light as the inaccessible pinnacle, who’s out of reach summit marks the only point along the ridge where the murky transition between scramble and climb becomes clear.
Even further from the Inaccessible Pinnacle was Sgùrr Alasdair, a familiar friend of mine bagged many summers ago. Its sharp scree slope sent me back into distant memories, ones where I was young and filled with a naïve sense of bravery, that I have since shaken.
The spectacle brought forth by these particular conditions lay back along the ridgeline that stood in between Sgùrr Alasdair and me. The ridge stood like a fortified wall in defence of the oncoming clouds from the West. Its defence was, however, not entirely impenetrable. Two points of structural weakness at its two lowest dips allowed the clouds to pour over, where upon hitting the well of cold air, plummeted downwards in cascading cloudfalls.
It was as if I was watching the very work of the Gods, playing in their snowy sandbox as I sat above the clouds at the top of the world.
A few people came and passed who shared conversation and insight, inspiring me to stay until the last light left the mountaintops. As I waited, the clouds ebbed and flowed, rising and falling, dancing with the light as the sun swayed further and further towards the horizon.
I too danced as I ran back and forth along the ridge line, desperate to take in every view at every moment until it was gone forever.
As the orange light of the clouds below slowly faded, the light began to move upwards towards the mountain peaks, shifting through white, to yellow, orange, red, and pink until the only light left was the reflection of the faint orange glow on the horizon.
As the light faded I made my way back down into the snow and clouds below ready for the long walk down the mountainside back to my van, to repeat it again tomorrow.
