The Rocky Spine of the Sleeping Warrior

mists, mountains and moors

My boots had become a second skin after a few days of hiking through crag and glen, and were ready for another trek. We arrived in a valley of low land, flanked either side by heather-clad mountain slopes. Caisteal Abhail otherwise known as the Mountain of the Sleeping Warrior (due to its shape) was a magnificent and intimidating sight in equal measure, made a little less daunting knowing that we weren’t going to stretch ourselves too much. We were there for the wilderness and wildlife rather than peak-bagging. After rearranging our overstuffed backpacks we set off, our footsteps tracing hill and burn. 

Arran’s mercurial weather created the sort of elemental atmosphere that suspends tiny water droplets on the tips of eyelashes. The sort of weather I revel in. 

My own type of sensory-seeking bliss is feeling my skin sprinkled with rain and whipped by wind. Every so often I stopped and stood with my arms and legs outstretched, so each part of my body could feel the swirling currents of air. As the incline intensified, sweat mingled with mist, and I could feel my cheeks flush under a veil of dampness. 

Clouds sailed up and sank down the peak ahead of us in a matter of minutes, transforming  jagged ridges into gauzy outlines. For a brief moment, they almost looked gentle, welcoming even. Not that we would reach the summit whether it looked easy or not. The higher we went, the more I could feel my body ache, my backpack like a lead weight adding to the effort of stomping through sodden peat. I remember feeling despondent and distinctly un–warrior like at the distance still to climb and the amount of puff that I was running out of—mentally as well as physically. Slowly I stopped noticing the landscape around me as the disappointment in myself at my lack of agility and speed crept in. 

For a long time, we were the only two people on the mountainside. Then the silhouette of a man emerged from the brume, powering uphill towards the top of the Sleeping Warrior. He was wearing shorts, stout boots and held a long staff-like walking stick. He looked older than my father yet had a pace that would give most 20 year olds a run for their money. He was accompanied by a cocker spaniel that was just as sprightly, with a stick in its mouth that looked more like a small tree trunk. I felt acutely embarrassed at my clumsy gait as they both overtook me with ease. 

I needed a pause, to catch my breath and to catch my spiralling thoughts of inadequacy. How could I think that I’d be able to manage even part of the way up the Sleeping Warrior—and also—how could I be in a landscape of unmatched beauty worrying about complete strangers overtaking me? What limitations we place on ourselves. And how easy it is to lose precious moments to the black hole of self-criticism. In the end it really didn’t matter how far up the mountain I went or how fast I walked. The only person who cared about it was me, and it felt like such a waste of a journey to miss what was around me. 

As we started our descent, the clouds followed us down and settled above the valley. Passing back along the heathland, it looked like a different place to the one we hiked up through earlier. I’m always astonished at how fog brings out intense, matte colour tones that I’ve never noticed before—even in trees and moors that I think I know. 

By the time we had reached the lowlands again I had seen buzzards, tumbling waterfalls and dense forests of pine trees. 

In the end, my slow trudge was enough.