Time and wilderness.

There would’ve been a time before people. The place existed before it was affected by the earliest inhabitants. Wilderness.
What did it look like?
No records, no books, no photos. Only guesses.
Who and when? No idea.
Then a thriving community; maybe for thousands of years.
Yes, they, and their livestock, would have left a significant mark: not just the buildings.
Over 200 years since.
Now we need archaeologists to tell us the story.
Is it wilderness again?
Will it ever be wilderness again?

………………………………………..

Sixth day of May; it should be spring. I left home in cool sunshine with a lazy north wind blowing; about 15 minutes later, I’m at Glenleraig and reluctant to get out of my vehicle. I can see what’s coming. Then it goes very dark and slams it down with hail and sleet. One hot drink later, it starts to clear, and I get the camera out. Suddenly, I’m scampering up the roadside verge: that cloud is now on the nearby mountain of Quinag, and creates a fabulous background for my first shot of the day. Just look at that!

And I know it will be there and gone so very quickly. Over in an instant. The absolute and complete opposite of most of what I’m looking at, a landscape brim full of time. The vast bulk of Quinag is primarily sandstone that’s about 1000 million years old; the rocks under my feet are probably three times as old. Mind boggling. And in the foreground of my photograph are the remains of a building, which is likely to be from a settlement that was thriving here until it became victim of the Clearances about 200 years ago. There are quite a few like this, and, in fact, this was one of the largest settlements around before that time; quite important then.

I wander about in the intermittent sunshine with willow warblers belting out their song from nearby trees, and two separate cuckoos are, well, cuckooing. Like they do. If I was a meadow pipit now, I’d be keeping my head down, or risking an unwelcome extra egg in my nest. At the corner of an old ruined wall, a wren disappears into a hole in the stones and doesn’t come out again. People used to live and work here. After the bedrock itself, their ruined houses are probably some of the oldest things I can see. The trees are mainly birch, and are nowhere near as old.

Maybe the lichen on the stones is. There’s a lot of it, and it is very slow growing.

Perhaps it was even on these stones before they were used to make homes for people and byres for animals.

The ruins are gradually being absorbed back into the ground and overgrown with vegetation. I walk further up the glen. There is a path; it’s a bit boggy to begin with, but runs for about 4 miles towards the shores of Loch Assynt.

It’s very scenic and I know it well: I have a rowan tree up here that I visit regularly to photograph the changing seasons.

Winding through the still-dormant heather, the birdsong has petered out, and I can hear the breeze and my own footsteps crunching on dead bracken. No traffic, no people. Up by the remains of an old tree erupting from rocks, pointing at the sky like a magic wand, a lightning conductor, I look down at a grassy plateau. There’s a circular shape in the turf. It’s likely to be much older than the ruined buildings I saw earlier, and perhaps 2000 years old. Iron age? Yes, this landscape has been inhabited for a long time, and might be emptier now than it has been for thousands of years. Maybe we’ll never know.

Below me, the burn bubbles its way down to the sea. I can see a little waterfall upstream, and wonder if I can get a shot with Quinag in the background.

The middle of nowhere. No signs of the human race just here. A mountain, a stream, open moorland, and a big, big sky. Like it’s been this way for ever? I think about the meaning of “wilderness” and also “wild land”, and wonder where those interpretations start and finish. The sort of places I might expect to see “wildlife”? All using the word “wild”. So not “tamed”, then. Clearly they’re not cultivated, farmed, or gardened. But maybe it’s also about personal comfort zones and familiarity. I’m out here in places like this regularly. I don’t think about labels or definitions myself. I’d guess those previous inhabitants, whether they be 200 or 2000 years ago, didn’t either.

And I’m not “in the middle of nowhere” at all. This is definitely “somewhere” for me.

I’ve probably been up Quinag more than any other mountain nearby; I love it. Amazing views; three peaks; interesting geology; eagles; ptarmigans; mountain hares. Yes, it has a lot going for it.

There was another thing that I couldn’t fail to notice: the little burn that starts its life right in the corrie near to the footpath makes its way to the sea just a few miles away at Unapool. Short and sweet. The obvious thing to do, for an outdoor man like myself, was to walk the length, source to sea. A whole geography lesson in just one day!

So on “just one day”, I set off with my camera and tripod, because I’m a photographer too, and thought I’d have a grand day out. It was autumn, and the colours were just super. I parked my van where the burn crosses the road and set off to walk the lower section first. Within about fifty yards, I was rewarded with some really lovely waterfalls and got busy with the camera. Then there was some more, and some more….. After about an hour, I’d got almost nowhere. But this was great, so it didn’t matter. Underfoot, the going was rough and tricky, so that means “slow”. It didn’t look too difficult, but there are no paths, and lots of tussocks, rocks, wet patches and other obstacles. I left my lunch in the van. Big mistake; I was famished by the time I got back, and realised straight away that this was far more than I could do in “just one day”. At my late lunch, I realised I could do little more than a quarter in this particular day. So day one finished at the road bridges; the old and the new, side by side. I went home far from disappointed that I had “failed”; in fact totally enthused that I’d picked such an interesting, amazingly lovely subject for my little project.

“Day two” I spent on the top section; from where the burn crosses the footpath upstream to the place I arbitrarily decided to “knock it on the head”. Carol was with me, so I thought this would be part project, part walk, and I was unsure that the central section would be dual purpose. Yet again, I found some incredible features that I never knew about. For a relatively short watercourse, this was really showing off! One waterfall, in particular, took my fancy, and I’ve turned one of the photos into a “monochrome fine-art print” that I’m very pleased with. Fortunately, I wasn’t totally tunnel-visioned on the burn; I glanced up at the top of Spidean Coinich looming above me and saw an eagle not far from the summit. With no binoculars, I could only guess that it might be a Goldie. It was there for a while too; makes you wonder how often there’s one right up there watching what you’re doing. We stopped for lunch near to the top of Lochan Bealach Cornaidh, looking at the tiger stripe patterns on the submerged sand. The burn is getting much smaller now, and I make it almost up the the bealach before it star-burst into quite a few tiny trickles, and I decide that this is the “source” for the purposes of my mission. Packing away my camera, I turn around to see a mountain hare scampering away. It was easy to spot, being in ermine without any snow to hide on!

My final visit to complete the journey didn’t happen for a few weeks, due to weather and commitments. I wasn’t really sure what I’d find, as the middle section seems to go across a flat, bland plateau when viewed from some parts of the adjacent road. However, there were some real gems here too, and probably the place I noticed the most changes in the stream-bed itself. I got lucky with the weather; some lovely blue sky to set off the bulk of a snow-capped Sail Gharbh in the background. I tried to find a few shots which also featured Glas Bheinn, or something else, so my story didn’t become one about Quinag instead of the burn. I sat on an outcrop overlooking my footsteps for lunch, and realised that it really did look a bit “uniform” from up there; far from the reality of what I saw on my journey. Moving on up, I’d seen on the map that the burn split into tributaries not far ahead, and I intended to take the left fork to join up with my previous visit. This was easier said than done, as the “left fork” was completely dry. I was confused; either I was in the wrong place, or had miscalculated where the water came from. I do have a GPS loaded with 1:10000 maps, but left it at home as I didn’t envisage needing it. After a bit of wandering back and forth, I concluded I was in the right place after all, and had a mystery to solve. I really am no geologist, but had thought that “sink holes” were associated with limestone, and didn’t expect them here. So either this was actually limestone, or other rocks can have similar features. It further surprised me that I got very close to the walkers’ footpath before the water returned in any quantity. I’ve been across these stepping stones many times, and could never have predicted that such a flow would vanish just out of sight. Anyway, here I was, at the end of “day three”; joining the dots and completing my journey. I felt quite proud of myself to have done it too. I knew I’d got some decent photos, but the satisfaction of doing it was good. Very good. And what I’ll remember the most, is not individual features, views and waterfalls, but the sheer number of them. They just kept coming. Brilliant.

Looking at the map, I guess that the total distance from sea to source was only about five miles. “Just one day”?

If you’re tempted to look for any of these views yourself, on top of the stuff that should go-without-saying about litter, damage and suchlike, please bear in mind how rough this terrain can be.

I’m not one for counting, but I think I took about four hundred photos over the course of my three days. I already had a couple of shots which were worthy of using in the collection too. Initially, I distilled them down to about seventy. That was quite easy, but the next reduction became more difficult. And I haven’t written off going back for some more; everything to date has been during the autumn or winter. Different season; different day; different light.

Here’s a few of them:

Last night I spent a while looking at the map trying to work out how to get some light onto the north faces of Sail Gharbh and Sail Ghorm, and fairly soon realised that it was impossible at this time of year.

I discover that sunrise at Inverness is due to be at 130 degrees from north and sunset at 230 degrees. I need less than 90 and more than 270, which is only going to happen between the spring and autumn equinoxes.

So my walk is going to be in the shade, and getting good photos will be more of a challenge.

But it’s due to be a crisp, clear day and I’m looking forward to it.

I need an early start to stand a chance of completing the final section in one day, and get there before the sun has risen.

The ground is rough right from the start; I often find deer paths to follow, but they seem to be scarce right now.

Reaching the first plateau, I meet a sturdy looking holly tree as the sun starts to rise behind Glas Bheinn; there’s red berries on the ground where I get the camera out for my first shot of the day.

I push on up the hill, and before I get to my target altitude, the sun blasts out, and its light rakes across the landscape.

I start to wonder how long it’ll be before I fall over today, and it turns out to be just another 30 seconds; just like the Stay Puft man in Ghostbusters, I’ve obviously brought it on myself!

305 metres; 1000 feet, and I’m in a gully running up to Sail Ghorm. Click. It looks cold up there.

The ground is slightly crispy, but you wouldn’t describe it as “frozen solid”. No idea what the air temperature is; I’m as warm as toast walking up hill!

Traversing across below the mouth of the corrie, the waterfall is two things: photogenic and also an obstacle requiring a little diversion.

Underneath the absolutely tremendous buttresses of Sail Gharbh, I head east to pick up my previous finishing point.

I can see where it is, its just where there’s a splash of sunshine on the ground at the point the hillside bends to the south. It’s also marked by a couple of deer; maybe even the same ones I saw here previously.

Today’s forecast was very good indeed, so I’m a bit surprised to see the weather over Glas Bheinn. It’s snowing, and it’s coming my way!

I grab a picture, put my camera away, and get out my leggings and thick gloves.

Just in case it goes horribly wrong, I also work out my “escape route” down the hill to the burn which runs back to the car park. I’m not staying up here in a blizzard!

As it is, total precipitation is less than a thimble-full and I carry on.

I’ve walked the “1000 foot” contour below the corrie on the way in, so I treat myself to a diversion through it, to return to my trail in a while. Eleven stags look at me all dopey, like they were not expecting company, and demonstrate how easy it really is to walk at 45 degrees across loose rocks.

In the middle of the corrie, I find a vantage point and take eight photos to stitch together in a panorama.

Back on my contour, I now have Sail Ghorm for company.

I’m getting hungry, so I sit down for what I believe is a late lunch and find that its only 1230. Good news! That means I probably can complete my route in the remaining light, and make the trek back to the van too.

Arriving at the shoulder of Sail Ghorm, there’s some deer silhouetted up on the ridge. I’ve only got a wide angle lens with me, so I’ll have to crop this one.

I can smell victory, if that’s what it is, the sun is shining on the ridge too, so I’ve only got to get over it. I’m scampering up there like a mad spaniel; partly excited, partly not to miss the sunshine!

Over at some erratics, I get a photo, and then realise I’m about a hundred feet too high. Whoops. There it is; down there….

When I’m home, I find that it isn’t the rock I started at last July at all. Never mind, it’s close enough!

Well, thank you Quinag; you’ve been amazing.