Back of Beyond (22 page)

We laughed.

“In other words,” he said, “you get fed up of fat, rich, city wiz kids and would-be great white hunters messing up a good day’s stalking. Can drive you barmy!”

“You talk like a poaching man.”

Lea laughed. “A reformed poacher—very much reformed.”

From stories he told me, his past life had been as checkered as a chessboard, but he’d finally found his calling one day years ago on the moors of northern Scotland. “I’d seen it all before. Deer killed by stupidity—our stupidity, not theirs. But this one time it got to me—it really got to me. A pregnant hind wounded by some jackass idiot with a gun he couldn’t use, her bottom jaw blown off—can you imagine the agony…the deer calf dying inside her…starving to death in a pain she can’t even begin to understand…and for no reason, no purpose at all…I wept like a kid that day. I really did. Then I decided—well Lea, somebody’s got to do something about all this so it might as well be you….”

The day before my hike I lay in tufted grass by the side of a peaty stream. The brown waters frothed over rocks, curling in the shallow places, swirling into still, dark pools. I could see trout in the shadows, their tails moving just enough to hold them stationary in the current. I did something that I’d always wanted to do as a boy but never had the chance. I slid my hand gently into the water, allowed it to drift under one of the trout, and let it rise until the fish rested in my palm. Then very gently I stroked its belly, backward and forward. I expected it to dart away immediately but it just lay there. As I continued stroking I could feel the fish settling its weight into my hand. It seemed to sense no danger. Only an inch or so from the surface of the stream I could have easily flipped it right out and enjoyed a delicious dinner that night. But I couldn’t do it. I’d make a hopeless backwoodsman. I just continued stroking until it eventually eased downstream and vanished into the shadows.

Finally I had gathered energy and know-how for the trek across the heart of the Torridon wilderness—the vast emptiness of Mulcach from Annat to Shieldaig Lodge overlooking Loch Gairloch. After careful coaching from Lea on the best route, the notorious bogs to avoid, and the fickle wiles of highland weather (I scoured the great skyscapes for warning signs like a lost mariner), I felt more than well equipped for what was, after all, only a twenty-mile hike, at least, as the crow flies. Had I realized what lay ahead I would have stayed in my cozy bed at the Loch Torridon Hotel or at least prayed for the abilities of that mythical crow and flown the distance.

It all began so idylically—big breakfast of juice, kippers, and soft Bannoch buns at the hotel and out into an early dawn light with bags full of sausage sandwiches (special request) and slabs of whisky cake tucked into my rucksack. The black highland cattle by the loch gave me curious, bleary-eyed looks; the sheep hardly noticed me at all as I bounced across the springy sea pastures past the curves of golden sand to the village. I’d planned originally to do it the hard way by scaling 3,456-foot-high Liathach and then heading northwest by Beinn Dearg to Loch a Bhealaich.

“Don’t be a madman, man,” Lea had warned and laughed. “Liathach’s enough for anyone in a day—and going down the backside’ll finish you. That mountain—don’t play around with her. She’s a killer.”

So much for Liathach. Instead I followed a narrow trail up through a small pine forest west of Fasag and past the lovely waterfalls of Coire Mhic Nobuil (yes, I know all these odd names make it sound like a Tolkienesque Hobbit-land—and I love them).

As I climbed higher, the great broken bowl of Sgurr Mhor rose up on my left, looking like the fractured crater of some ancient volcano. No more trees now, just the occasional eagles and some distant movement on the flanks of Beinn Dearg, which I took to be a small herd of deer. More lovely waterfalls too, skittering icy cascades; stick your head under and fatigue vanishes like magic.

I crossed over the watershed, left behind the dry rocky landscape, and entered a strange world indeed—silent and very still. The narrow path vanished (obviously a warning I should have heeded) and ahead of me was a sodden infinity of bogs, mud pits, peat hags, and dozens of sinister black pools edged with brittle marsh grass, stretching as far as I could see. A series of equally black lochans followed the broad valley to the west. My map told me I was entering Shieldaig Forest, but not a single tree could I spot anywhere. This is definitely some of the bleakest scenery in Britain—or almost anywhere else in the world, come to think of it.

Two sausage sandwiches, a slab of whisky cake, and I was ready to move on—right into my first bog. Then a second. Followed almost rhythmically by a third. (Which turned out to be particularly deep and enveloping and anxious to devour both my boots.) Lea had given me good advice for situations like this—“head for higher, drier ground.” The problem was that these were rather pernicious little bogs, hardly apparent to the novice eye, and unless you had developed Olympian standards of “bog trotting” (leaping from grassy tussock to tussock with syncopated grace), you could hardly avoid them. I must have struggled through every one of them on my scramble for steeper ground and eventually ended up half crawling (and caked in black ooze) along the rocky protuberances of Beinn Bhreac.

And just when I felt firmer ground under my elephantine mud-caked boots, a whirling tidal wave of wind swept up the valley without warning, followed minutes later by a torrential rainstorm, then thunder, than hail, which hit me with horizontal machine-gun impact….

At first everything seemed manageable. After all, this was Scotland, not some balmy Caribbean hotspot, and the weather came with the territory, certainly with this territory. And I’d had good luck too. My life had been saved by an eagle a few days back so I could hardly complain when the greater powers were protecting me. Laughter was the only response, so I laughed into the hail and got mouthfuls of ice cubes, and I laughed even louder, like some deranged wild man of the mountains.

I think the greater powers had other things to think about that day. At least they seemed to forget about me. I could see a stream ahead, swirling and grumbling through black rock crevices, but not too wide. Surely no more than six feet. A quick leap should do it. No problem. So I leaped. But at that moment my rucksack decided it needed a spot of liberation; the shoulder strap gave way and the weight of my pack went sideways as I tried to fly forward. Result—a sort of semitangential course right into the middle of the stream. For a moment I thought I could make it. My feet landed on a sloping rock and I floundered like a badly balanced ballerina, pirouetting on its uneven surface. But the rock was no friend. It was covered in slick moss; I lost my footing completely, my legs shot out from under me (I’ve seen it happen slower to lassoed calves in roping rodeos), and I was down, rucksack, maps, hat, boots, the lot, shoulder deep in tumbling waters, struggling to keep my head aloft, cursing the surging stream.

When I finally clawed up the heathery bank at the other side, I was a very sorry sight to behold. There wasn’t a dry patch anywhere on my body, and I was freezing. As the adrenaline rush faded I began to realize just how cold I really was. My lower jaw began an insistent chatter, and my legs and feet were without feeling. To make matters worse, the hail had increased its pummeling and the mist was down again. I was mad, with myself, the weather, the stream, the maps that made no sense, the whole stupid idea of trying to cross this treacherous noman’s-land.

I found a cave, well more like a crack, that widened behind two boulders into a hollowed-out niche hardly bigger than a two-man tent. But at least it was dry. Not warm, warm would be unthinkable up here, but with a flat earth floor and a ceiling that allowed me to stand to shoulder height. I removed my trousers and anorak and used them as a screen across the entrance. At least that kept out the wind and hail. Fortunately the inside of the waterproof rucksack had remained dry and I dragged out a towel, some fresh clothes, and my small butane stove. I’d almost left this behind as camp cooking was the last of my intentions. After all, this wasn’t supposed to be a long hike; cake and sandwiches were more than adequate. But, with some rationalization or another, I’d packed it, and now it was a key survival item, heating up the tiny cave so effectively that after a few minutes it all began to feel rather cozy.

But something happened. Maybe it was the aftereffect of all these adventures, maybe I was just tired of making mistakes, trying to do things that I really wasn’t prepared for. Maybe…who knows? It happens. All wanderers know the feeling. A sort of deadening melancholic emptiness.

Travel has odd rhythms. Most days you’re up, bright-eyed and brimming with the rush of new tastes, smells, people, situations. And then, for no apparent reason, the mind closes up, the eyes glaze over, and the feet no longer have that natural inclination to wander off in search of random experiences. Maybe it’s the weather, particularly this weather; maybe a touch of intestinal, or even intellectual, revolt; maybe just a case of sensory overload—the constant barrage of the unexpected and the unusual. Whatever. When it comes there’s not too much you can do about it. Fighting it doesn’t work for long. “Give it a rest,” says the tired brain. And that’s what I usually do. There’s nothing worse than a traveler trying to squeeze excitement out of something that’s suddenly lost its zing.

So it’s snail-shell time. Back into the quietude of small tight spaces; a modest hotel room, a tiny hidden beach with no intruders, a mountain hideaway with a pup tent. Anywhere the mind can make its own peace. No writing. No sketching. No interviews. Just mindless mind meanderings for as long as it takes to see the dawn again with fresh eyes.

It’s hard to break the rhythm of constant movement, but it’s worth it. You forget the schedule, no matter how loosely structured, and just flow with the flow. Time becomes elastic again and the sweet numbing of nothingness soothes away all the petty problems of the journey. The mysterious inner journey runs its course for a while, digesting, compiling, perceiving new patterns, rearranging the images, seeing previously unseen truths. The thrill returns, given time. It always does.

So I curled up and dozed. The cave was warm. I was tolerably dry. The howling tumult outside seemed to make my little hibernation hole even more appealing. I’d move on later. Or maybe I wouldn’t. There was nothing I needed for the moment.

I dreamed of home. Anne by the fire. The two cats. The view across the lake. The sound of breezes rattling the leaves outside the living-room window. The prospect of an evening of reading.

Ah, reading. At home I’m always promising myself more time to read. We have a small library there, bulging with untouched volumes and always increasing in size as dear friends and relatives, who correctly assume writers should be avid readers, add to our collection. But it always seems that something else takes precedent—cooking for friends, entertaining house guests, general home maintenance, keeping up with the newspapers and magazines that flood in daily, and if I’m lucky, some watercolor or oil doodling. Reading, alas, always seems to be pushed way down the scale of priorities and only becomes a real option if I’ve hit a momentary period of blockage and want to enjoy the sweet guilt of doing something I really shouldn’t be doing because I should be doing something else (a sort of principled procrastination).

But when I’m traveling, reading takes on an entirely fresh significance. I’ll forgo a week of decent dinners to purchase a handful of tattered, hand-me-down paperbacks, and invariably they’ll be travel-related works. Talk about a bus driver’s holiday. I can think of nothing more delightful than sprawling on a deserted beach with a couple of Theroux’s earlier works (yes, I know he can get a little cranky and, in some of the later books, downright depressing, but he’s still hard to put down).

I can’t remember how many times I’ve read
The Great Railroad Bazaar
and his
Riding the Iron Rooster
and every time, as if I were listening to a fine symphony, I discover whole new segments either missed or read in that half conscious fuzzy time just before sleep. And Jonathan Raban. His
Old Glory
is a masterpiece of cameos and caricatures threaded together by an ever present fear of riding the fickle Mississippi. Then, of course, there’s Peter Matthiessen’s
The Snow Leopard
, the epitome of the inner journey wrapped in rich externalities. I’ve found his book in stores from Kingston, Jamaica, to Kathmandu, invariably in the used section and well marked by previous readers, along with many of my other favorites: Jan Morris’s
Journeys
and
Spain
; Peter Jenkins’s
A Walk Across America
; Andrew Harvey’s enticingly mystical
A Journey in Ladakh
; Bruce Chatwin’s
In Patagonia
; John Hillaby’s ascetic and ascerbic
Journey Through Britain
; Durell’s
Sense of Place
and his close friend Henry Miller’s masterpiece
The Colossus of Maroussi
; Somerset Maugham’s
The Gentleman in the Parlour
; and Robert Bryon’s
The Road to Oxiana
.

I usually keep a copy of Jack Kerouac’s
On the Road
somewhere handy (always good for a refresher course in earth gypsying), and Ted Simon’s free-spirited tale of his round-the-world motorbike odyssey,
Jupiter’s Travels
. And then of course there are Laurie Lee’s little gems (my tattered copy of
As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning
is one of the most lyrical travel books ever published). Finally, lying around somewhere close at hand are John McPhee’s
Coming into the Country
and his earlier
The Pine Barrens
, as reminders of what real writing is all about.