Moonwalker - Adventures of a Midnight Mountaineer

ONE short comment in the bothy visitor book, five words that encapsulated the efforts involved in reaching a welcoming refuge on a miserable day: Oh Lord. Extra socks needed!

While not quite as ambitious as the late Janis Joplin's plea to the heavens for a Mercedes Benz, it was a cry no doubt equally heartfelt in the moment. 

The Shielin of Mark bothy may not be too far from the beaten track but sitting at 630 metres and tucked away in the folds of a featureless landscape it can be tricky to find in deep snow cover or zero visibility. When the wind is howling, the rain relentless and the streams raging, it must feel like the grandest hotel to soaked and weary walkers when they stumble through its door. The writer of those five words had obviously enjoyed one of our wetter days.

My first attempt to visit this lonely outpost from the Loch Muick approach ended in failure: the walk up the steep cleft by the stream was fine but once the ground leveled out, I found myself having to swim through waste-deep snow in an undulating white blanket that seemed to stretch forever. It would have been madness to continue. The terrain is a challenging mix of heather and bog, with deep holes and spongy moss lying in wait to jar the knees or turn an ankle. It's especially hard going on days of rain, but even in dry spells wet feet are generally unavoidable.

Despite being February, conditions were more benign this time, but the route still takes a bit of attention. At one point I noticed I had been turned around, pushed off by the contours in the search for the best passage across this testing ground. 

A quick adjustment got me back on the right line but even then I was almost upon the bothy before it came into view, its pale stone walls and slated roof blending into the leached background of yellows and browns. Its presence became even less visible as I approached, a shimmering mirage as the sun made a brief but intense appearance which turned the stream into a hall of mirrors and the paler grasses brilliant white.

It wasn't surprising to find no one else at home. With a lack of nearby mountains to attract the baggers, this lonely cottage tends to be one for the cross-country trekkers or those seeking a bit of solitude for a few hours. And after having to endure a convoluted and lengthy journey involving road closures and various hold-ups that would have tested the patience of Odysseus, that suited me just fine.

From the windswept and largely empty car park at the head of Glen Muick, I took the faint path heading up the little gully by the tumbling waters of the Allt Darrarie. After crossing the bridge about halfway, I saw someone on the steep flank opposite hard at work. Then a voice behind me called out. I hadn't noticed this second person, his outfit blending seamlessly into the background vegetation.

A cursory chat revealed they were from the Fisheries Board and were carrying out a huge tree planting operation to provide shade along the banks of the stream with the intention of reducing the water temperature. Their task had been going for weeks but with the spell of mild weather, they had managed to plant around half of the 15,000 trees required.

This fleeting interaction would be the last of the day's walk. Once at the top of the cleft the pair were soon out of sight as the terrain flattened and the way ahead became more indistinct, the need for total concentration on careful foot placement now the priority. The meandering nature of the boggy crossing rendered time and distance an irrelevance: it seemed to take an age to reach the bothy but in reality it was only about half an hour.

The shelter was compact and well-maintained, which is probably why it gave off a cosier and more welcoming feel than many. Lunch was accompanied by a browse through the bothy book, the variety of writings always a fascinating insight into the travails of travelers in the surrounding landscape.

The common theme here, surprise, surprise, was the weather. Apart from the short but doleful socks comment, there were a couple of parties who had endured particularly wet and wild conditions over the previous week or so as they came in from the Glen Esk side. One group made it just before the height of the storm and their relief in finding somewhere to sit it out for the night before continuing their traverse leapt from the page.

It's always worth leaving a comment in these books, whether it's a few words or a longer, more detailed account of your journey. They contain valuable information for other walkers and those who help maintain the properties, and over the years may serve a similar purpose to a time capsule by providing a window into a way of life unique to Scotland.

One of the more intriguing entries I have seen recently was during a visit to Staoineag bothy just south of Loch Treig. A young occupant had obviously been so inspired by her surroundings and the many ghost stories she had heard from her parents that she recorded an unsettling tale of a 'grey' child visitor she had met during her night's stay. 

Reality is always far scarier than fiction though, a point highlighted during a drop-in to the Glensuileag bothy in the West Highlands. No bothy book here, but strewn about the table and floor were strips of paper containing scribblings of a disturbing nature, misogynistic and racist rantings that made me very glad I hadn't stumbled in late at night to find myself alone with the perpetrator. That could have been an uncomfortable stay to say the least.

Lunch break over at the Shielin of Mark, I made my mark in the book then decided to take a longer way back, sticking closer to the bends of the river then going directly up Black Hill of Mark where the snow-dusted caps of the Lochnagar peaks were spread across the horizon. A look over my shoulder failed to now locate the bothy which had been swallowed up by the featureless land.

The next target was Black Hill – yes, another one, there seems to be more Black Hills in this part of the country than in Dakota – which involved a couple of interesting stream crossings before I was able to tackle the short push uphill.

With the light started to fade from an already wan backdrop, I dropped to the track which runs along the shores of Loch Muick, the water a silver sheet as it caught the last rays of the struggling sun. As I stopped to capture a last image, out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed movement above and to my right: a stag, then two, then a whole row, all strutting in line across the hillside, perfectly camouflaged in the heather sweep. 

They were heading down to the flats at the foot of the loch for evening feeding but they seemed to be in no particular hurry to join the dozens already there, and their regal, relaxed gait suggested they weren't the slightest bit disturbed that I was following a parallel line. I doubt I could have scripted a finer end to the day.