Photo Journal
10th December // High Above the World
The Cuillins // N57.246 W6.210
Fueled from yesterday's hike, I upped the challenge for today, though still a straight forward hike this one was rated a “half boot” harder on Walk Highlands.
I set off just before sunrise and watched beams of light emerge from behind the distant peaks as the clouds were illuminated yellow. As I headed westward following the river, I jumped and weaved around bog, trying my best to avoid wet feet, as yesterday I had been warm save my cold wet toes.
The soft warm light motivated me, but I was approached by a thick band of cloud and soon I was in the middle of it, the landscape completely transformed. I still had a way to go before I started my ascent, so in the cloud I wrote a short poem:
“The only life left running across these barren and desolate plains is the River Eternal. Its deep grooves and scars frame what's left of a once-living greater being.
The green has long since been torn from the earth, now left rotting and returned to the soil.
How long has it been since this ground heard the wolf's howl at night?
I do not walk the earth; I walk the dying place, left hanging on in hope, as I trample through the mud without a second thought.
What if, instead of being lost in my thoughts, I were lost amongst the wild, unable to see and examine every corner left exposed? Once all that's left to be discovered has been seen, what remains for me?
That is not to say there is no beauty in these lands. But these lands are a fragment of a whole that no one can remember. So changed are we and it, that we can only see the room in which we sit. Our window view keeps hidden all that lies behind its frame.”
As was the case yesterday, the real show began as I climbed upwards towards the Cuillin Ridge. I exited the clouds and walked along trodden footprints in the snow, leading the way. It was much easier today with no trail to break.
My memories of the Cuillins do not include the summits, as both times before when I've visited Skye there’s been clouds hugging the peaks, so when I got my first look at the sheer rock formations that litter the ridge I was in awe, and especially so wondering how mountaineers were able to traverse the entire range over these.
On the horizon I noticed a strange phenomena, a Fata Morgana, or mirage, turning the far off peaks of the mainland into flat topped hills. This was as surprising as it was confusing, and I really hoped I was able to capture the illusion with my camera, as my 150mm zoom lens didn't quite have the resolving power I needed.
As I did yesterday I sat perched above the ridge below and waited for sunset. I used my ice-axe to carve myself a seat once I had found the right spot to set my tripod up at. I could sense my confidence on the snow increasing the more I moved around. At the start I was untrusting of my crampons despite seeing numerous other hikers' footprints along the ridge, in areas I was not brave enough to walk on. Being by myself in the mountains always brings with it caution, even walking further along the ridge without my backpack I have a voice in my head warning me that I wouldn't have any of my first aid supplies if something went wrong. Really being up here is a test of my skills and confidence as a winter hiker, so I’m glad I eased myself into it.
With the words of a fellow hiker ringing in my ear, I still wanted to stay beyond the sunset, to when the glow of the horizon would reflect off the snow but I was cautious about one particular bit of the route near the summit, where the snow was loose and thin. So I made the decision to make my way down before it got too dark. Looking back for a few final photos I noticed the inversion below rising upwards where it began to spill over the ridge, and I knew I had to get back to the summit or I’d miss my chance to get this photo, so I ran as fast as I could, managing to set my tripod up and get the photo before once again, making my way to my van in the dark.
