Hill Log

Wilderness Untamed

Twenty-six hours in the Great Wilderness of Fisherfield

I often find myself wondering why I climb hills, why I’m not prepared to enjoy normal holidays which involve pottering around pretty towns, lying on the beach, or visiting theme parks. I think my experiences of almost two weeks far north of the Great Glen, in the hills vaguely close to Ullapool, helped to answer that question for me: it’s clearly a feeling of achievement, of going somewhere only a tiny fraction of the population will ever go. Why I insist on having this feeling of achievement while also walking through the driving rain, however, is still an open question. But in the hours I spent in Fisherfield, alleged to be Scotland’s only real wilderness, I asked myself this question many, many times.

May Day on Beinn a' Bheithir

Squinting at the night sky, the Ancients (and sometimes, the surprisingly moderns) allege to have seen the figures of twins, fish, virgins, sextants, and giraffes imprinted on the heavens. In comparison I normally expect geology to be… down to Earth. I’ve spent the last few years trying to muddle my way through learning little bits of Scottish Gaelic, and while it’s been fascinating at times, it’s had a rather catastrophic effect on my understanding of the romanticism of the hills. “Beinn Dearg” becomes simply a red hill, “Beinn Dubh” the dark hill, and “A’ Bhuidheanach Bheag” the little yellow place. Perhaps a little mystery and romance is left in some of the places after all… A hill name where this romance and mystery is not lost through greater knowledge, however, stands above the small town of Ballachuilish (the town of the narrows) on the A82 between Glasgow and Fort William. Its name, Beinn a’ Bheithir, is often translated as “the hill of thunder” or something along these lines, but really, this hill which bares over the aforementioned narrows, is named for a mythical dragon or serpent.