That Wandering Farmer

There sat a hike that I won’t forget in a hurry…

Todays hike follows, in kind, as a part 2 to the tale of An Groban. Sitting due south of its sister, Sìthean Mòr, it has this presence about it; like a King and Queen sitting high upon a throne looking over the sleepy settlement of Gairloch…

Remember when I mentioned in a previous article that I’m not particularly good at following paths? Well imagine a hike that follows no path. A true step into the wilderness where each foot is placed at your own risk. Which, in a sense, is rather fitting for the Hill’s namesake.. for in the Celtic folklore; Human’s very rarely ever return the same where faerie‘s dwell… and such was the case upon my ascent up Sìthean Mòr.

As with An Groban, the walk sets off in the same location – opposite The Old Inn, following the non-coconutty smelling (or tasting) gorse bushes. Off up into the Gairloch Estate, where not much had changed since my last visit. Spring still hadn’t arrived – and why should it? It had only been four days and the seasons don’t rush for anyone.

Still, the snowy tops of the Torridonian hills, which tease me every morning from the hostel window, keep this young heart firmly bound to the lower summits of the North West Highlands.

With there being no path up Sìthean Mòr and only a conversation I had at the hostel the night before to guide me, I found myself asking the age-old question:

“How do I get to the top?”

I had two options. Follow the rock climbers’ stakes with the red-sprayed tips. That was an option – I had found those. Or, follow the deer fence up the hill and bang a left when it leveled out before heading straight for the summit.

This seemed simple enough.

That was until I spotted the silhouettes of two hillwalkers upon the break of the hill.

What a delight. How has this happened to me again out here in Gairloch’s Mini-Mountains for the second time running? Beats me, but at least a waypoint had been set.

Now, when I say the next section was steep.. I mean properly steep. At its maximum, the slope was nudging into ridiculous territory, offering over 400 feet of elevation gain in less than a tenth of a mile. But still, up I went.

Having caught the Hill walkers by the time I reached the top, the two were sat down catching their breath. We joked how that’ll be the hardest 400feet you’ll ever have to climb.

Wishful thinking? I still have some big-hill dreams and that one kinda sucked.

But with our backs now turned away from the shores of Gairloch, we spent the rest of the hike walking and talking together. Which out here in the depths of Scotland, that’s not something that happens every day.

Up until now, I had always convinced myself that being left alone, away from people, was what I wanted. Perhaps that’s only part of the truth. Out on the hills, where I feel most alive, a good conversation is something I’ll gladly make time for and with it still being off-season, these interactions are few and far between.

So sharing our tales of various hill walks over the years, we made our way to the summit together.

Finding shelter from the wind, I like to eat snacks. Lots of snacks. Warm snacks too. Boil some water, pop in an Oxo cube and dip the home made bannocks that I have learned to make. Sitting there, in silence with my cup of beef stock, higher than most people, is a great feeling. A comfort from home and it doesn’t get better than that I tell you.

Getting off the Hill was less than straight forward though.

Just because you can get up something doesn’t necessarily mean you can get back down it. As they say, most accidents on Everest happen during the descent and while Sìthean Mòr isn’t exactly Everest, gravity still works the same way.

So after saying goodbye to the people I’d shared the summit with, I decided against retracing our route. The slope we’d climbed was slippery enough on the way up, with the earth crumbling beneath every step. Going down that way felt like buying a one-way ticket to the bottom. So I opted for a southerly approach, walking round the hill due west, following the contour and skipping the steep descent entirely.

Oh, how that nearly ended in disaster…

Green moss, grass and brash made for slippery going underfoot and as always in Scotland, the water seemed determined to cling to the side of every hill. Wet boots were inevitable. But I had misread the contour lines on the map completely, and what I’d assumed would be a fairly gentle descent turned out to be much steeper than expected.

Traversing around the hillside with the plateau in sight was manageable enough. I had a walking pole to help keep me upright and it became a simple case of putting one foot in front of the other and pressing on. A deer track provided some welcome reassurance and a sense of direction… until it abruptly decided to disappear beneath me.

That wasn’t ideal.

Questioning life choices or contemplating a mountain rescue call-out wasn’t something I expected to cross my mind today, especially with solid flat ground so close at hand. It was a timely reminder, one I won’t forget: read the map properly.

I made it out, as I sit here writing this account. Finally making my way down alongside the deer fence (this time) and heading back towards the car, I felt myself beginning to shed the “lone wolf” cloak I’d wrapped around myself over the last few years.

The opportunity to spend time talking with a pair of fellow hillwalkers and to share a summit with them seemed to warm something inside me.

What’s the saying?

The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

So take the opportunity to open up. Get outdoors with friends. Walk, talk and see where the journey takes you.

That couple have no idea how much they affected me that day on Sìthean Mòr. Simply sharing a few tales high in the Highland hills was enough to leave a lasting impression on me and defrost a cold part of my heart.

And that’s the power of kindness on the trail.

You rarely know the impact you’re having on someone else’s day, or even their life.

And so ends my wanderings of the Gairloch Estate. For now. Great memories, good company and a lesson I wasn’t expecting to learn.

Next week: the defrosting continues. It’s time for a real Munro.