Exploring Scotland's wilderness

Wilderness is a word that can easily be taken in vain in England. Head into even the deepest, darkest Lake District and the scars of civilisation lie everywhere, be it in the century-old stone walls or freshly piled cairns. People roam the peaks, gallivant across the fells and scratch a living from forgotten valleys. But hop onto the M6, drive past bustling Glasgow and the coachloads of tourists searching for a sniff of the Loch Ness monster, through valleys and forests, past the most perfect, windswept lochs and under towering cliffs of volcanic formations, and there’s a land that time truly forgot. A land populated by thronging herds of deer rather than people, with Munros dropping vertically into deep lochs, and mile upon mile of untouched heathland. This is the tale of our foray into Scotland’s ‘Last Great Wilderness’.

Packraft rats

Pulling up at the shore of Loch Maree after a seven-hour drive, the breathtaking vastness of our surroundings hits home. With the mighty Slioch towering above and the Beinn Eighe massif patrolling the south, to say it’s slightly intimidating would be an understatement. We put the whispering eyes of the mountains to the back of our minds and begin busying ourselves with the supplies for our next few days in the wild.

For three people who struggle to plan what to have for tea any time before 4pm, deciding what to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next four days without being able to pop to the Co-op when hunger hits topped by the fact that we’ll have to lug everything ourselves is quite the carry-on. We each put together an initial mound of kit and food, which is then put to the panel (which comprises the other two of us) to critique. Suitable adaptations are made and half the stuff is thrown back into the van. We repeat this several times until we have a manageable amount of gear, then stuff it into bags, strap them onto the bikes and pile them into the inflatable boats. We then eat our last (proper) meal, crack a beer over each bow and bless the vessels for their maiden voyage.

Cast adrift

Paddling away from the safety of the van and towards the mercy of the mountains is a bold step into the fabled adventure we so desired. Paddle after paddle, our safety net shrinks away behind us. Passing tree covered islands, similar to ancient Caledonian forest, gives us a glimpse into what these boundless lands used to look like. With the wind in our favour we’re making good headway and it looks like we could be in for a smooth crossing into what we expect to be another world.

With, amazingly, no capsizes and only the one ‘float-away’ due to Joe jumping out on an island to empty his bladder but not quite perfecting his bowline we make it to dry land just before nightfall. Adding the deflated packrafts to our already considerable loads leaves us questioning whether we could have gone for another pack cull, but it’s too late to dwell on that now. With the moon shooting up through the sky and a Highland pass to navigate, we set off in earnest into the mouth of the beast.

The sound of silence

Second to the waterways, ancient stalkers’ paths are the easiest way to travel through the vast Letterewe and Fisherfield estates. Used for centuries to take paying guests around the deep valleys in search of wildlife, the paths are little trodden but well maintained. From the map we can see one main artery running up the middle of the estates, with but a handful of branches soon fizzling into nothingness as the trails peter out.With high hopes of Munrobashing on our agenda, we smash the pedal in, lay camp, ravage our supplies, climb into sleeping bags and let the pillow talk ensue.As we fall quiet, the wallowing silence emitted by mountains and the nothingness reverberating over the deep lochs somehow becomes noise and that becomes atmosphere. Drifting off to sleep, we can’t help but feel like we’re home.

Hitting the saddle

Next morning, the flap of the nylon in the breeze teamed with the uncharacteristic heat of the Scottish sun soon drags us out of the tent. There’s something magical about waking to sunlight after arriving in the halflight of dusk. The ridgelines that last night were semi-visible have glistening seams of granite that catch our eyes. Each turn of the head reveals another glimpse of mountain bike paradise, and with a well-cut path leading right up the glen we’re soon dressed, fed and pedalling like madmen. Pausing to catch our breath, a glance back unveils the beauty of our camp spot. Only a few metres from the Letterewe equivalent of the M25, we were nestled between the vast Fionn Loch and the compact Dubh Loch, the two bodies of water intersected by a causeway.

With A’Mhaighdean (often regarded as the remotest Munro) our next goal, everything is aligning the weather, the location, the approach and, more to the point, there isn’t a wall, cairn or trodden-down blade of grass in sight. As we near the summit we’re met with a towering granite ridge no more than a metre wide, which plunges to the waters below in a very Norwegian fashion. Teetering across, with a sharp intake of breath for every step, we soon find ourselves on the edge of an incredible rock outcrop looking out over not only our camp spot and the surrounding valleys, but also across to the sea and the shores of Loch Maree where our adventure timidly began.

Reap what you sow

It all makes sense the journey just adding to the adventure, the paddling improving the ride, and all topped off with the wilderness cherry proving that if you work hard enough to get somewhere, it makes it all that more worthwhile. Slashing that first, almost alpine, turn after nearly three hours of crazy uphill feels amazing. Descending through flowing singletrack, then granite slabs, then into teeth-chattering rock gardens, the grins are plastered across our chops. Arriving back at the tent, with another three days of exploring the wilderness ahead of  us, we’re well and truly Fisherfield converts. The struggle over the pass the night before, our trepidation when we first reached the shore, the long drive to get here it’s all more than worth it. Once again, bravo Scotland, you’ve earnt your stripes as the ultimate provider of British adventures.