Red Deer hind seen just before encountering Mackem

It is the twentieth day of April, 2011 and my rucksack and tent are lying alone and unattended in the middle of a hinterland of peat hags in a less travelled corner of the country I love.

I was carefully manoeuvring myself through said peat hagged infested hinterland, bottle of water in one pocket and some chocolate and nuts in the other, as I made my way to Beinn Bhreac, the Speckled Hill. It is described in one journal as, ‘an exceptionally remote hill in an empty wilderness between the Cairngorms to the north and Atholl to the south.’

Suffixed by the quaint comment, ‘One for the real enthusiast.’

I can attest to that. Cackling Grouse, the occasional Meadow Pipit, a distant Golden Eagle being harassed by a Hoodie Crow, some distant Red Deer and winter garbed Mountain Hares were my closest companions that day.

That is, until I met a Mackem.

To the beginning. I had set out early that morning from Blair Atholl and walked north, along Glen Tilt to Gilbert’s Bridge where I crossed the river, following another track that led me over two perfectly shaped old, stone arched, bridges, that led me into Gleann Mhairc, a narrow steep sided glen on the east flank of Beinn Mheadhonach, the ‘Middle Hill’, a distinctive, perfectly shaped, narrow wedge, lying directly to the north of Blair Castle.

I soon encounter another shapely arched stone bridge, taking me over Allt Mhairc, onto the east flank of the ‘Middle Hill’, and my first steep ascent of the day. Carrying a tent and cooker and all else that goes with a plan to stay out on the hill overnight adds to the fun. I sweat as I gain height through knee deep heather onto the spine of Beinn Mheadhonach.

After that it is simply about pace and rhythm as I ease myself up onto the 901 metre summit. It has a second and lower top, a bit to the north, Carn a’ Chiaraidh. I choose the latter for my lunch stop and as I munch fruitcake with tomatoes and cheese, washed over with simple burn water, I gaze north into the huge expanse of upland moor towards the distinctive and impressive mountain duo of Carn an Fhidhlier and An Sgarsoch, guardians of The Feshie and The Geldie rivers and southern outliers of the huge Cairngorm plateau further north.

Lunch and gazing north finished I head out over the boggy hinterland to find a suitable camp site. I had walked about ten miles by then, some of them over difficult, ankle breaking peat hag, when I found the perfect spot for my overnight bivouac. I dump my rucksack and tent on a reasonably flat grassy area, right beside a burn that meandered and still does, through the hag, on its gurgling journey to Loch Mairc, some distance to the north east. No likelihood of a flash flood I muse

I had been through this part some years before, when heading for another peak, the 1008 metres of Beinn Dearg, towered over me to the west. That was some years before. Back to the now and my solo hinterland trip and serendipity. Having temporarily ditched all my gear and eaten a snack, I head off to the Speckled Hill. It is guarded to the south by the upper reaches a river, the Tarf Water. No way round, so I plunge across, getting a bit wet.

It was just after six thirty that evening and about three miles from my campsite when I crested the final rise to the summit. I was a taken aback to find a lone figure sitting by the summit cairn.

Beinn Bhreac really is a remote, untracked hill, well off the beaten track and for two ‘real enthusiasts’ to be at the summit simultaneously, and so late in the day, is a bit of happenstance.

We chat for a while. His first concern is for my welfare as he notices I am innocent of rucksack. He asks where it is, knowing I cannot be heading back to the bright lights of Blair Atholl at that time. I point back from whence I came, the hinterland of bog and said, ‘about three miles back that way.’ He cannot understand how I will find it, even after I assure him I will.

I ask him where he is bound and what he said over the next few minutes had me in awe of him.

‘I am from Sunderland, that makes me a Mackem,’ he said.

He went on to tell me he had suffered from cancer and was assured it was in remission. A recent routine test tragically overturned that earlier prognosis. His cancer was back and had spread. To quote him, ‘with a vengeance.’

He had only received that news about two weeks before. His wish, perhaps his last wish, was to get back into the mountains of Scotland, probably for the last time. So a few days before our meeting, with the blessings of his family, he had packed his tent and gear, including chemotherapy tablets and other medication and headed for the hills.

A train from Sunderland to Newcastle, then on to Edinburgh. He alighted from the Inverness train at Blair Atholl. He had been two days camping in the area and he planned another day or two before reversing the journey back to his family and to quote him, ‘to die with the people I love.’

We chatted on a while and he said, ‘death is not be feared, it is simply a part of life.’

As we shook hands and parted, he said, ‘ This is the best part’.

‘The best part of what’ I asked?

‘Being Alive’.

We did not exchange names, seemed irrelevant and unnecessary. We knew who we were.

As I descended and looked back, he was still sitting by the summit cairn, staring north and deep in thought.

I have never forgotten ‘Mackem’ and will not forget him. I still see him sitting with his back to the summit cairn, gazing north, contemplating mountains and glens, dreaming of days past and wondering about days to come.

My approach had interrupting his moment of reflection. My earnest wish is that he beat his illness and maybe one day will read this and maybe get in touch. My second wish, is that I will do Mackem justice and evidence to the reader what he meant when he said, ‘Being Alive’.

Obiter Dictum, I found my tent.

Being Alive With Mountains

Five Books That Influenced My Life

How Covid Divides