Something Wonderfull in the Scottish Mountains

Fisherfield Mountains from the path to Sheneval Bothy

What follows is a true account of something I experienced, something wonderful, in the highlands of Scotland. 

May 1993 brought spring snow to the highlands of Scotland, a lot of it.  

I had driven north through it and after disposing of my mechanically powered vehicle at Corrie Hallie on the A832 road near Dundonnell, I set off on shank’s pony and two hours later, after skirting below the south slopes of An Teallach and the north edge of Dundonnell Forest, I reach my shelter for the night, Sheneval Bothy, situated on the north side of Strath na Sealga.

Strath na Sealga and Sheneval Bothy from the path into the strath.

After a cosy night in front of a roaring fire, in the company of a few other travellers and whisky infused tall tales, I hit the hay.

Six o’clock next morning arrives too early, and finds me standing on the north bank of the river, Abhainn Strath na Sealga, surveying the snow covered ‘Fisherfield Six’ beyond, my gaol for the day.  It is a big, magnificent, perhaps exhausting, day. The addition of snow merely adds to the experience.   

The river does not go away and has to be re-crossed at the end of the day. It is normally reasonably easy to cross, however if in spate, it is impossible. Today it rates nearer the former state. One hopes it remains that way.

My immediate priority however is to get to the other side. I remove my boots and socks before gingerly stepping into said river and carefully, if a bit unsteadily, make my way to the other side. Saying the water was cold was a bit of an understatement. Once over I dry my feet, pull on my socks, don my boots and get ready for my big day. 

Ben crossing Abhainn Strath na Sealga on another day in that area.

What followed was a strenuous, awe inspiring sixteen hours or so, over six snowy peaks in one of the last true wilderness areas of this country.

Once over the last of the peaks for the day, A’Mhaighdean, I descend a well worn stalkers track into Gleann na Muice Beag. 

A word about A’Mhaighdean. Its remote location, coupled with amazing views, makes it one of the most highly prized mountains for any mountaineer venturing into the high places of Scotland.

I am now over it and hallucinating about my cosy sleeping bag, while trying to take my mind off my fatigued state. 

Eleven o’clock that night finds me again by the bank of the Abhainn Strath na Sealga, the last obstacle to my cosy sleeping bag.

Boots of and tied around my neck, for the second time that day, I step into the freezing river, again. Because it had been joined further along by the river coming out of Gleann na Muice Beag, it was deeper than where I crossed in the morning. The conjoined rivers disgorge into Loch na Sealga a few yards to my left. 

By the time I am halfway over, the water was lapping above my knees and getting deeper. 

It was uncommonly quiet, not a breath of wind, under a crystal clear moonlit sky. Loch na Sealga on my left so tranquil and serene, glistening in the moonlight, not a ripple on its surface. 

Then I stopped. 

It was as though another power had taken me over.  

I gazed skyward and was transfixed by a myriad of stars cut in half by our own  galaxy. The moon seemed to be observing Venus, almost conjoined. To call it wonderful seemed to understate what I was witnessing.  

My thoughts then took me to my immediate surroundings. I was standing up to my thighs in a river in Strath na Sealga. A glen torn out of the sandstone some twelve thousand or more years ago by a huge grinding glacier in land that was once part of the Laurentia Continent, and had spent some four hundred million years grinding its unstoppable journey here from south of the equator, to create this beautiful place.  

The moon light was reflecting from the wake I was creating in the still river. 

Then my river crossing suddenly melted and I stopped. 

I was overcome with an overwhelming sensation of peace, at one with nature, exactly at the centre of the universe, the place destiny had arranged for me to be at exactly this moment. For a few wonderful seconds I felt weightless.

I felt so small, so insignificant, an unnecessary intrusion into such wonder.  

Then my moment in that moonlit, ancient, remote place was enhanced by a haunting call that seemed to fill the void I was occupying. A red throated diver, calling from somewhere out in the darkness, a forlorn call that somehow seemed to pierce my soul and enhance my feeling of wonder. 

Then my trance, was over and I am back to the reality of my position, thigh deep and exhausted in a remote river at midnight, with a steep banking hindering my exit, followed by a stretch of bog and heather to drag my weary frame through before reaching Sheneval Bothy and my cosy sleeping bag.

Seventeen hours after exiting that morning I drag my tired body through the door, to be met by the last of my wonders that day. 

The bothy custodian,  knowing my plan for the day, had stayed awake, banked up the fire and uncorked his whisky bottle. 

Sometimes you have to pinch yourself. 

Cosy sleeping bags in Sheneval.