High anxiety causes heart palpitations that frighten me as I lie in bed at night. Sleep doesn’t come easily (but to be fair, it never has). I’m waiting for my fifth, and final, annual breast clinic check at hospital. My attitude is a little devil may care in the build up to these appointments – I can’t seem to help it. I burn through days on a million mile an hour program of distraction, but all that achieves is exhaustion, tearfulness and emotional chaos (mixed in with an unhelpful dose of self-loathing for not being in control). I have lots of questions to ask the consultant, and many fears I wish him to allay before he releases me back into the care of my GP. If he gives me good news, I don’t want to go into work. If it’s bad news, I don’t want to go into work. I arrange annual leave.
Seventy-two hours before the appointment I receive a call from an apologetic receptionist. ‘Due to staff shortages we have to cancel your appointment, we’ll rearrange very soon.’ Panic causes a mammoth hot flush (chemotherapy forced early menopause, oh yes, cancer – the gift that keeps giving). There’s only one thing for it, I pack my ruckie and head for the hills.
The original plan was to take the ferry from Mallaig to head for Rum to do the ridge. But I’d received a heads up about the Manx shearwater population there being at risk of avian flu. NatureScot sent out a request that walkers avoid a full ridge traverse till mid-October, when the chicks will have fledged – fair dos. So instead I opt for Kinloch Rannoch and Drumochter. Five Corbetts for (almost) a fifth anniversary, fitting, I thought.
After nipping up Meall na Meoig I drive back down the narrow road that runs alongside Loch Rannoch. Loads of tents are pitched and there are people in and on the water – cooling down on this blisteringly hot August day. I’d have been tempted to jump into the loch too if it wasn’t for the lure of my summit camp.
I bike uphill on the private, tarmac road towards my second Corbett, Stob an Aonaich Mhòir; with my camping pack weighing heavily it proved hard work in the heat, but the suns warmth felt good on my skin. The bike wheels ticked as they turned. Butterflies fluttered. Small birds took to the wing as I cycled by and it felt like I was the only person in the world as I travelled the lonely road. Eventually I gave in and pushed the bike on the long ups, stopping now and then to take in all the emptiness (okay okay, I stopped to catch my breath).
After a couple more kilometres uphill the bike got ditched, and tired legs pulled me over rough slopes to the summit of Stob an Aonaich Mhoir. The sudden view down onto a serene Loch Ericht was outstanding. It was even more surprising to see the Ben Alder massif slap bang in front of my face, rising solidly above the loch. And, gliding on the thermals, I could have sworn I caught glimpse of an eagle, its rich brown wings outspread as it sailed out of sight beneath the cliffs. I enjoyed the sensation of lightness as I dropped my pack, and sat for a moment, just to listen. Not a breath of wind to be heard, but there was much humming and droning activity going on about the summit cairn as flying insects went about their business. Apart from them this whole place was my own for the night; a thought accompanied by a great sense of peacefulness.
As the Sun continued its journey toward the horizon I’d wandered up and down the ridge, absorbing the views, all the while my eyes searching and scanning for the eagle. I didn’t see it again.
What being in the outdoors does for me is better than any pill that can be prescribed. I’m so engaged in my surroundings that worries I carry about my heath dispel. The hour is late, but I enjoy dinner in the silence and, with my belly full, I sleep soundly – how grateful I was for that.
The power nature has to soothe can never be underestimated, and it was difficult to tear myself away from wonderful summit views. But the next Corbett, Beinn Mholach, awaited.
My feet got a proper soaking as I trod downhill through long grasses, back towards my bike, and I was very pleased I had dry socks and second pair of boots to look forward to when I eventually got back to my car. Beinn Mholach can be tackled a few different ways – from Dalnaspidal Lodge, or from Annat, or from where I’d dropped to the roadside coming off Stob an Aonaich Mhoir. But I was going in from further down the road.
It was a rough, tussocky and hard bloody going ascent over uninteresting terrain, and a whole hour passed before I was enjoying views back over Rannoch Moor again. Up and on and up and down I went before then hitting peat hag central – though easy enough to negotiate a way through its maze since the peatiness firmed up during the recent spell of hot weather. It felt like a fun game against the hill that I was winning. Beinn Mholach’s giant summit cairn came 5km later – along with the entire contingent of Rannoch midge.
A mountain hare sat in close range by a large boulder, at least he was unperturbed by the massed midge army. Satisfied with the views, and a quick snap of the top Ben Nevis, I was off. Internally I fretted. I’d given myself much left to do in the day. And as I walked, and thought, I felt really annoyed with myself for my rushing ways. ‘Why can I not be content doing one hill and one camp? Why do I feel an urgency to squeeze as much as I can into the time I have?’ Then Simon and Garfunkel stuck their tuppence worth into my brain, ‘Slow down, you move too fast. You got to make the morning last…’
Four hours after setting off up Beinn Mholach I was back at the road, reunited with my bike. And lord, what extreme joy it was on the ride back to car! I grinned the whole way. Bike wheels whizzed and whirred, and tears streamed from my eyes as I flew hell for leather down the tarmac. Through slightly blurred vision I counted one, two then three males on mountain bikes, pushing against the incline as they came around a corner I was fast approaching – the guy at the back swiftly manoeuvring out of my way. They were greeted with a, ‘Woo hoo!’ as I spun by. What took two and a quarter hours to cycle in, took 26 minutes on the return. If there were ever hills to take a bike to, it’s these.
A little after one o’clock saw me pushing the bike uphill again wondering, quite seriously, if I was in my right mind. I was now on the way in to the Gaick Corbetts, An Dun and A’Chaoirnich. My camping pack weighed uncomfortably, muscles in my legs were weary and the thought of how I’d manage up vertiginous slopes not once but twice more today kept creeping in. ‘Slow and steady,’ I told myself, followed by, ‘What a heat!’ Followed again by, ‘What the hell am I thinking?! And all accompanied by, ‘Slow down, you move too fast . . .’
Ditching the bike I continue on foot. It was still hot so I stripped off my skirt and walked in my pants. At this hour it seemed unlikely I’d meet anyone but, as I pulled myself up onto moraine near the foot of An Dun, out of my peripheral vision, I saw someone wave. I giggled in embarrassment and waved back at a guy on his bike.
These last two Corbetts were steep, but straightforward – albeit on the ascent of A’Chaoirnich I cursed the route I’d picked, yelling at my shadow that whoever came up with the idea of doing this hill in the first place must’ve been on acid (Sorry, Mr Corbett). Never have I ever been so slow on a mountain, but part of the enjoyment in reaching the top was the ‘struggle’ and I reflected, not for the first time, that this is probably true of life in general – you appreciate the smooth so much more if you’ve experienced the rough. It’s not just physical limitations I’m experiencing post cancer, my mental health also poses an issue – and hills are my coping mechanism. Being in nature grounds me and offers perspective on all the shady shit of life; somehow, it helps me find the answers to my own questions. On this trip I’d pushed what are my limits because I’d wanted to forget everything about the milestone clinic appointment . . . and that sense of urgency I feel is because I’ve had a brush with my own mortality. But when I sleep up high on a mountain I’m reminded that no matter what difficulties there are, the world still turns. There’s assurance in the setting and rising of the sun. And when I lie out in the middle of the night to watch the constellations, I’m reminded that I – we – are but a tiny piece of the fabric of it all.
