Traversing the Scottish Highlands

Full of the enthusiasm of a new adventure, we laced up our boots, hoisted on our slimmed-down backpacks, and picked up our hiking poles. Cairngorm mountains, here we come! Our first eager footsteps began a 12-day trek meandering through Cairngorms National Park. We had previously contemplated doing one of Scotland’s popular long-distance trails, but the descriptions of the park had instead pulled us here like a magnet: remote, wild, huge (4500 square kilometers), home to many of Scotland’s tallest mountains, with a subarctic climate and tundra-like landscape… all very enticing.

Now, to begin! As we set off down a gravel track into a magical world of pine trees, we waved goodbye to the town of Nethy Bridge and to Lazy Duck Campground where we had spent the past night. We also waved goodbye to our laptops and other umpteen pounds of gear that we wouldn’t need on the trek and had stashed in the garage at Lazy Duck. The campground had been the most delightfully quirky jumping-off point for our trek. It is a small WWOOF-style farm where the ducks reign supreme, with the dazzlingly perfect manicured grass around the pond strictly dedicated to the web-footed creatures. No human footsteps must intrude. Besides the ducks, Lazy Duck also raises some other animals and a vegetable garden. As for the hospitality part of their operation, they have a  few holiday cottages and a patch of carefully maintained grass for tent camping (no RVs allowed, maximum 4 tents plus the occasional walk-in). They cap the tents at this number because the boggy forest soil and the Scottish tendency toward endless rain are always conspiring to turn the lawn back into a mucky mud pit. There were 5 tents the night we were there, pushing it into the category of “crowded” as one employee described it in passing. That made us smile. If 5 tents is considered crowded, it meant we had come to our kind of campground – peaceful, small, and very quiet. We especially enjoyed this place because it was a striking departure from almost all the other camping options in the UK, big fields of RVs and semi-permanent structures with tents thrown in as a side thought.

But back to the first day. After leaving behind the last stone cottages of town, we spent most of the day on gravel tracks winding gradually upwards through a thriving pine forest. It was an enchanting scene, the stately trees dripping with lichens, the boggy lumps of forest floor a perfect habitat for gnomes (although, alas, we never spotted any). The forest looked healthy and intact. It was big, too, but did not go on forever. By the end of the afternoon, the trees had petered out and ahead of us opened the rolling treeless expanse that says “Scottish highlands” like nothing else. The heather bushes in full August bloom cloaked the undulating landscape in royal swaths of purple. The last lone trees rose elegantly along the misty ridge lines, their discrete umbrella-shaped silhouettes immediately reminding us both of the African savanna. Soon, though, we passed out of the realm of trees entirely. In fact, we wouldn’t enter another forest until the sixth day of our trek when we would descend into the town of Braemar, on the other side of the park, for a food restock.

Although the barren look of the landscape has a unique and enchanting character, it hasn’t always been that way. As the last Ice Age came to a close 10,000 years ago, a massive woodland called the Caledonian Forest spread across most of Scotland, including the highlands. It grew into a massive temperate rainforest dominated by soaring Scots Pine trees. The forest thrived for thousands of years, a rich habitat for a great diversity of plants and animals. But about 2000 years ago, the familiar refrain began: humans arrived with their axes and their grazing animals, and the forest began to fall. The impact only increased as time went on, building up to a massive felling of trees for the war effort in WWII. The once-great forest was decimated to less than 5% of its original size, fragmented into small pockets. On the first day of the trek, we had gotten a rare and lucky glimpse into one of these preserved old-growth pockets during our walk through the Abernethy Forest. The majority of the trek, though, would give us lots of time to contemplate the lack of trees and imagine how utterly different the landscape must have looked when it was forested. Was it the landscape’s memory of this loss that gave it such an air of wistfulness?

Even though the treeless landscape was not original, it was no less magnificent. We relished the sweeping views, wide-open feel, and rolling expanse of the mountains. This feeling of unbounded freedom applied to the details of our trek as well. Since Scotland has an open access policy allowing you to wild camp pretty much wherever you want, we were able to meander around and pitch our tent wherever the spirit moved us. And what unforgettable campsites we were graced with: the sandy beach of Loch Avon, the high cliffside lake of Loch Etchachan, several pristine sand and gravel bars on the curves of squiggly rivers, a spot where black grouse do their courtship dance in early spring, a clear rushing river at the intersection of four sweeping mountain valleys, and a spot cradled in one of these valleys with a view gliding all the way down to a savanna-like vista.

In between these epic campsites, we spent our days hiking with a very relaxed time table. For this trek, we decided it would be best to slow down and take it all in rather than pushing hard for an extreme adventure. We figured out our route on a whim as we went, the only deadline being our return to Lazy Duck by the evening of August 15. This lack of obligation gave us plenty of time to bask in the glory of our surroundings: lingering at overlooks, dozing on a gravel bar, spending a rare sunny morning on a boulder watching the glittering blue of the river, reading in our tent when the weather or the midges were bad. Lazy backpacking, but oh so rejuvenating! Our one notable accomplishment, in the traditional sense of the word, was hiking up Ben Macdui, the second-highest point in the UK. Although its elevation of 1309m was nothing earth-shattering (in fact, lower than the valley of our last WWOOF farm in Switzerland), the peak still had the vast, exhilarating, top-of-the-world views of a true mountain summit.

Although we took it easy in most aspects of the trek, cooking was a special exception. No ramen or instant mashed potatoes for our dinners – we went all out camping gourmet with our one pot meals. Most backpackers don’t soak dry beans in a Nalgene bottle all day and then wait 45 minutes for them to simmer on the camp stove at night. But yum, yum, yum, it was worth it! Anyway, those beans and rice made up Night 1 of our rotation. Night 2 was curried lentils and rice, followed by Night 3’s pesto pasta. By then we had come full circle and it was time to start the scrumptious cycle again. And again! And again! And again!

The relaxed pace of our trek certainly didn’t mean everything was a piece of cake, though. A few shakes of the seasoning called Discomfort added some flavor to our days. The crazy weather, rough muddy trails, and midges were the three main ingredients of this special spice blend. Although they were sometimes uncomfortable, they did keep us firmly rooted in the immediate sensations of our physical bodies, something that’s easily forgotten in the modern world. There was something especially enlivening about the unpredictability of the weather. It kept us tuned in to our surroundings and to our own bodies – the icy slap of an Arctic north wind trying to steal the feeling from our fingers, the stuffy heat of the sun, the chilly spray of mist, the driving wind trying to destroy our tent. Raincoats on, raincoats off, down jackets on, down jackets off, an endless cycle tiptoeing the fine line between sweat and chill. And the weather wasn’t just unpredictable, it was downright mystifying. Where did that rain cloud overhead come from? Where did that fog bank disappear to, the one that was just a moment ago bearing directly toward us? Mist and rain and fog and wind and cloud all whirled on and off stage, as if the playwright of their drama had a very short attention span. The sun, the character of comic relief, appeared frequently but usually not for long – just long enough to dazzle us and dry off our gear. Rainbows blossomed out of this constant mix-up, colorful arcs of hope amidst the endless types of wetness.

Because of this climate, water is everywhere, and contrary to what you might expect, going up the mountain does not mean you escape the boggy ground. At any elevation, it is possible to squelch along in sodden boots. That made some of the trails very slow going. Tripping through the muck, slip-sliding on rocks, and wading up streams (which in a past life were the trail) all made for some interesting and draining hiking. Although our soaking wet footwear was a drag, it did make us feel closer to the landscape –

to the soil jet black with organic matter, to the thriving colonies of multicolored mosses soaking in their waterlogged wonderlands. We sank our feet into the place, literally. More than a few times the muck wanted to eat our boots.

What wanted to eat us with an even greater appetite were the midges, Scotland’s infamous tiny biting gnats. In a sort of cosmic joke, we dreaded nice weather more than almost anything else. When the wind dies down and the sun peeks out, the midges come out of hiding and swarm! Since we lucked out with weather that was usually slightly unfavorable, they were tolerable or even nonexistent at most of our campsites. But there was one campsite where they descended by the millions in clouds of misery. We hid in the tent and had to do midge massacres every time we needed to unzip the door the tiniest crack to pull something inside. Not to mention the horror of actually going outside! Our bug head nets, with holes sized for the mosquitoes of Minnesota, were sadly ineffective. As the nasty buggers swarmed right in, all of our hands and arms became immediately useless for any other task besides waving crazy dances around our heads. Forget trying to cook, or filter water, or pack up a tent. And do NOT need to go poop.

Needless to say, midge head nets became the #1 item on our shopping list for our restock day in Braemar halfway through the trek. As we hiked down through Mar Lodge Estate on our way into town, we descended back into the land of trees. The first scattered pines we passed looked like they had stories to tell: the harshness of the Cairngorm climate was sculpted into their gnarled trunks and the wildness of the wind was forever embodied in the contortion of their branches. As we continued, we entered more continuous tracts of lovely pine forests in various stages of reforestation. We were heartened to learn that these days, the now government-owned estates that manage the land of the highlands are working in earnest on conservation and reforestation efforts. They are prioritizing the regeneration of the forest over an abundant deer population for hunting – one of those big balance questions that can draw strong opinions.

After our dip into Braemar, we emerged with our packs laden with food for the next 6 days. Heading back toward our campsite, we hitchhiked as far as the road would take us with a young wildlife manager from a nearby estate. As we careened down the road in his little car, our chauffeur described how hard it is to find a balance in restoring the landscape. For hundreds of years, the highland estates have had stag stalking (aka deer hunting) at the core of their identity. They were a hunting playground for the rich, royal, and powerful (remember Downton Abbey?) Today, this tradition remains an important part of the economy and culture of the estates. However, the deer’s voracious appetite for saplings spells trouble for any efforts at reforestation. And with natural predators long ago eradicated, deer populations soar easily. Our driver described quite an example: the estate where he works was recently crawling with a population of 62 deer per square mile (!) which were hunted down to 2 per square mile at the direction of the National Park. This amounted to a total of about 600 deer that had to be killed, but paying hunting parties only succeeded in killing about 70 of these. The park wildlife managers had to take care of the rest. This seems to say that simply increasing hunting isn’t always enough for population management; the organization managing the land must also take an intentional and proactive role. Finally, our driver described the classic challenge: How to have enough deer to keep hunters happy but not so many as to destroy the forest? We skidded to a squealing stop at our destination, thanked our driver, and hopped out of the car pondering this question that is just as relevant to Minnesota as to Scotland.

Besides deer, the historic use of the land for grazing animals such as sheep has also kept the forest from growing back. Although you might not guess it from first glance, the landscape of Cairngorms National Park reflects a long history of human habitation. For instance, many of the valley paths we followed through the park were long ago used as drove routes to lead herds of livestock to market. Despite this history, the mountains did not feel tamed. They were still flourishing with all the vibrancy and vitality of the wilderness.

As we walked in the mountains, we glimpsed some of this enchanting wildness in the lives of its inhabitants – the circular glide of an owl at dusk, the trotting pursuit of mating deer, the graceful walk of three rare ptarmigan birds among the rocks, the scurry of an enormous mountain rabbit, the melancholy call of a pair of black-throated divers on the lake. While the glimpses of animal life were short and captivating, the presence of the plant life was more constant but just as engaging. Purple heather and short hardy grasses blanketed the hillsides, and the ever-shifting light made for endlessly new displays of texture and color. Faraway sunspots drifted dreamily across the folds of the treeless expanse. A gentle feeling of longing floated in the air.  When the sun peeked out and the wind rolled down the mountainside, the grasses would dance in rippling shimmers. It reminded us exactly of the way sunlight dances upon sand that lies below clear, lapping water.

The beauty of nature filled our spirits with joy, and brimming with this richness we circled back towards Nethy Bridge as the trek wound to a close. Our 12 days in the Cairngorms had given us the classic joys of hiking: unplugging, letting go of all the “should-dos” and “should-have-dones”, centering ourselves in the simple rhythms of life, paying deeper attention to the world around us. Spending so much time in the great outdoors reminded us that we are creatures rooted in the earth, inseparable from the full spectrum of nature’s spirit: her harshness and nurturing, chaos and clarity, destruction and creativity. It was all there, and we found our own small beings swept into this greatness. It is a greatness that is not simple to understand, but made richer by its endless shades and facets and seeming contradictions.

Not everything on the trek was comfortable, but it was all part of the experience of the mountains. With the wet mud in our boots, the freedom of the wind in our lungs, the crystal clear water in our lips, and the chill of the air in our fingers, we felt like we had incorporated a little bit of the spirit of the Cairngorms into ourselves. As we walked the final stretches of forest track back into town, our footsteps fell into an easy rhythm. Our legs and backs were tired but we ourselves felt vibrantly full of energy and soul.

After a final night at Lazy Duck, we were ready to head to our Airbnb in Aberdeen and live in the lap of luxury – a real bed! A real toilet! A real roof! An extremely eccentric but personable writer welcomed us into her flat for our two night stay. We washed out the filth that had become caked into our clothing. At the grocery store we made a tunnel-visioned beeline for the fresh vegetables, making up for our two week deprivation by piling them into our cart as fast as possible with enthusiastic abandon. Back at home we devoured these astonishing quantities of vegetables with gusto! In Aberdeen, the ease and comfort of daily tasks filled us with joy and gratitude. After a quick two nights relishing these comforts, it was time to pack up again and make our way down to the pier. Next stop, Shetland Islands!