We need to get out of the tent; it’s nearly being taken by the wind. I zip open the front and for a moment I am standing in a sky of pink, blue and orange. Then the clouds charge over the hilltop, and the world turns white on me.

Nov 20-21, 2022

It’s pitch-black by the time we get back to the car park, after a thrilling sunset on Stac Pollaidh. As usual we turn on the kettle; no hike is finished without a cup of hot tea. On our phones we try to read the weather forecast but we have no service here. With some haste we devour cookies and chocolate, our bodies still full of adrenaline. Our brains are also running at full speed, while we figure out what the evening will look like if we actually go up Suilven. How much time do we need to drive to the trailhead, cook a warm meal, pack our rucksacks.. it’s all speculation. All that’s left is to just do it.

I jump out of the van to reach the front seat, and by chance I look up. And then I gasp for air – it’s the clearest night I have ever seen. In the half hour we were inside, the stars have rapidly appeared in the sky. They have free rein: there’s not a trace of clouds or light masking them. If we needed a last nudge in the right direction, this is it.

We rush over the road, north, north, all the way back to where we started this morning. I keep leaning over, eager to catch a glimpse of the sky.
When we turn onto the A835, there’s service for a brief moment. A clear day, cloud-free summits, the Mountain Weather Information Service predicts. In the morning there’s a chance of low clouds and strong gusts. We might get uncomfortable, but it’s certainly promising.

‘Imagine, the northern lights from Suilven..’ Liam mumbles.

‘Don’t get carried away!’

At night Assynt comes to life. During daytime I didn't see any deer, now there’s dozens alongside the road. A long line of eyes lights up in our headlights, all pointed at us.

The quickest approach to Suilven is from the west, near Lochinver. A narrow road leads from the village into Glencanisp, up to the banks of Loch Druim Suardalain. Around 19:00 we drive onto the parking lot, and we aren’t the only ones. Surely there won’t be another tent on Suilven? We gaze at the black shadow of the hill behind the lake. Do we see a flicker of light up there?

A big meal and a lot of faff later we step out of the van with full backpacks. The night is cold; I am wearing all the layers of fleece that I could find. The film roll of my camera is full, so I have only my phone to capture this hike with. It’s just as well: it saves me a kilo of weight.

It’s 21:30, and for the second time today we head into the hills.

The wonders of the night

I grew up in a land where the light never goes off. On a light pollution map of Europe, all of the Netherlands is coloured red. This means you might see a couple of hunderd stars on the clearest night, instead of many a million.

Because I had no knowledge of the amount of stars that shine in the sky, I never thought to look – not even during the nights I spent camping in nature as a child. A cold comfort: the greatest part of Western Europe lights up on the map, so I wouldn’t have seen much anyway.

In the last years I’ve gone further and further north, further and further away from civilization, but always in the summer months, when the sun doesn’t set far enough behind the horizon.
This is the first winter I spend up north. And so it is that tonight I see the Milky Way for the first time in my life.

We are well into the heart of Assynt when I notice it for the first time, the haze of light on the entire width of the atmosphere. So many stars clustered together that they create one huge light source. And the black in the midst of it, the void in space, contrasted by the life around it. It’s like a painting, sinuous, uneven, sometimes bright, sometimes fuzzy, the black hole an ink stain that wriggles through the white. You can stare at it for hours and discover new details over and over again; after all, there’s an infinite numbers of stars in it to the naked eye. This spectacle.. it seems to me the magnum opus of mother earth.

We don’t have hours to stare at the stars, for we still want to sleep tonight. For the greatest part of the hike the Milky Way is a secret companion in the corner of our eyes. A very welcome one for that – it’s almost new moon and the night is dark. Nevertheless, we hardly need our headtorches to see the trail, that’s how much light the sky emits. It’s that new moon that allows the stars to shine at full capacity tonight; there’s no light in the atmosphere that washes out the weaker stars.

The approach to Suilven is long, hours up and down the knocks and lochans. The three humps of Suilven become an increasingly large shadow over our heads. Everytime we think we’re getting close, the trail opens up once more, straight ahead still, deeper into Glencanisp. We walk on and on, on autopilot, one with the sound of the gravel under our feet. Only once do we stop to really feel the peace of the night. We turn off our lights and sip mulled wine, while we try to recognize constellations in the sky. As a stargazing noob I don’t know much about it. Liam points at the arch of Orion, and the three stars on a straight line that make up Orion’s Belt. They are meant to depict the belt of the mythological huntsman; it takes some imagination to see it. And then there is the Great Bear, or the Plough to Liam. The Plough is actually the asterism of the seven brightest stars of the Great Bear, resembling a plough, or a saucepan. By drawing a straight line from the outer two stars of the pan, you’ll reach the pole star and you’ll know where north is.

We turn our backs on the pole star and take the trail southwest, straight towards Suilven. Then you think you’re nearly there, but it’s another mile on flat terrain before you can finally start the climb to the top. It’s a 300 m ascent on a zigzag path to the lowest point of the ridge, between the dome of Caisteal Liath and the other peaks of Suilven. The darkness is a blessing now; I cannot see the steep gully in front of me, there’s only the black of the hill that fills a bigger and bigger part of the sky. The challenge ahead is hidden from view, and what I cannot see, I decide, cannot intimidate me.

We take some big bites of chocolate and then we face the last leg head-on. We turn on our white lights and my world narrows to the grass and rocks in front of me. I’m not gonna lie, it’s tough; I have many miles in my legs today, and I can feel it. I climb steadily up, over large boulders carved out of the gully, Liam close behind me. I focus on my breathing, keeping it in line with the cadence of my feet. Slowly but surely I am immersed in that rhythm, one foot in front of the other, the firm beat of my heart, the air that flows in and out my lungs. I’m not going fast, but I am determined to get there. Sometimes I need to stop for a moment to catch my breath, and then I see the elevation we’ve gained; Canisp across the glen is growing smaller and the sky is unfolding below us. One time I look behind me and notice a shimmer in the sky, that appears to move lightly above the northern horizon. I dare not believe that I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. I must be imagining it, high from exertion and the sensations of the night. Liam says nothing and he would know – he has, after all, seen Nordic winters.

By now it’s well after one and the bealach is still not in sight. ‘And here I thought we’d be in bed around midnight,’ Liam says.

That I thought too optimistic from the start. Suddenly the thought occurs to me that I’m holding him up. ‘Would you have been quicker without me?’ I ask him.

‘Probably, but I wanted to do this with you.’

It’s a comforting feeling, the nearness of another human, especially in those final meters. I am so absorbed by the swell of our footsteps, that I am surprised when the path flattens out and I can finally peer over the edge of the ridge. There isn’t much to see at this hour, just the shadow of hills in the distance. We go right over the ridgeline and pass by a dry stone wall – a remarkable sight at this altitude. We keep an eye out for a patch of flat grass to pitch our tent on. Right before the final ascent to Caisteal Liath there’s a grassy field that would make a sheltered campground. Probably much more suitable than the exposed summit, but we cannot resist the temptation. The ridge narrows briefly and we need to be extra careful here, avoiding slippery bits of ice. Then we scramble up the rocky slope and there’s the feeling that I know all too well – the spurt of joy when I see the hilltop cairn. Behind the wobbly pile of rocks, the hill widens into a large flat plateau, dark and empty. Turns out we are in fact the only idiots camping on a hilltop in the middle of November.

Suilven is far from being a munro, and with an elevation of 731 m it cannot even be ranked among the corbetts. But standing on this dome, surrounded on three sides by a precipice, I feel on top of the world. We plop down into the grass and relieve ourselves of our heavy rucksacks. To the northwest we can now see the coastline and the lights of Lochinver. It’s still there, the wide arc of light across the northern sky, brighter now, with a touch of green.

‘I do believe that’s the northern lights we’re seeing,’ Liam admits.

I take a photo on my phone with a shutter speed of a few seconds. Instantly my screen lights up with bright green. I hadn’t thought the night could get any more beautiful, but she proved me wrong. She has given us her greatest show, aurora borealis, dancing above the hills. The widest smiles appear on our faces, and I even cry a little. It’s too good to be true – my first northern lights, from the top of the mightiest of Scottish hills. Better still: we get to share it with each other.

We sit there for a while, detached from time and space, bewitched by the green glimmers in the sky. It’s so peaceful there, not a breath of wind, and absolute silence. Before long, our bodies call us back to reality – sitting still cools us down fast, and up here the temperature is well below zero. I jump up to take some photographs, balancing my phone between the cairn stones, while Liam pitches the tent. I need to take off my glove to touch the screen and in no time my fingers are freezing. Quickly we crawl into our sleeping bags; I keep all my layers of fleece on. I take one long last look at the northern lights and the Milky Way above, before I zip up the outer tent. And then I say goodbye to this night made for dreams.

A turbulent morning

We don’t get to a lot of sleeping. Around 5 am I wake up shivering. The wind has risen and ice cold gusts cut across my body. The zipper of my sleeping bag is broken, so I brought one of Liam’s summer sleeping bags as an extra liner. The wind seeps through the two heat layers with ease.

I cuddle up against Liam, hoping to feel his body heat. It’s incredible what a difference it makes. A human body emits so much heat, even when all that surrounds it freezes. We end up lying face-to-face through the final hours of the night, heating ourselves up with each other’s expiration. We drift in and out of consciousness, while the world around us rages like a fever dream.

Just before sunrise the tent starts shaking so heavily, that there’s no more use trying to sleep. Liam decides to check if the pegs are still holding.

‘You need to come see, Siris!’ I hear him shout from outside.
Hastily I put in my lenses and try to tie my frosty shoelaces.

The sunrise is exuberant. Streaks of pink, blue and orange paint the sky. The crest of Suilven sticks out above a cloud inversion and through the clouds we see a glimpse of Cùl Mòr, Stac Pollaidh and many lakes.

I struggle to walk to the highest point of Suilven. With difficulty I keep upright, gales sway me in all directions. I clutch the cairn, and then I catch sight of the pointy peak of Meall Meadhonach, the eastern summit of Suilven, standing out sharply against its surroundings. It’s dazzling and blood-tingling and terrifying. We wait till the sun rises above the clouds. Then we feel her first rays on our cheeks, the only trace of warmth in the windstorm.

Back at the tent, the poles no longer form a round arch, but are forced to one side by the wind. It’s become clear that we need to get out of here. We skip breakfast – hurriedly we take down the tent and pack up our bags. This needs to be done with the utmost care, so we don’t lose anything to the wind.

All of a sudden, clouds are coming in from the east. At high speed they soar over Meall Meadhonach. Within seconds they envelop us completely, and Assynt is lost to the mist.

Down the hill then. My rucksack gives me extra weight against the wind, but also slows down my movement. I lean forward, brace myself, but I am powerless, the wind can do what it wants with me. It’s the first time I experience the Scottish hills at their full force. And if I’m truly honest – I am terrified. You can conquer every mountain, in the end nature will always have the last say.

On the final descent to the bealach we can finally see the spire of Meall Meadhonach in its entirety. Clouds rush along the steep slopes before shrouding her in fog again – a spectacular sight. The bealach is sheltered by the eastern hilltop; from one moment to the next the wind fades out and I can finally exhale. We sit down in the sun and eat a breakfast of chocolate and granola bars. I look back towards Caisteal Liath, now bathed in sun, the master deceiver – there is no sign of the storm that rages meters away from us.

The morning on Suilven has been a good reminder of how fickle Scottish weather can be. A lot more wind force would have been needed to blow us off the ridge, but we shouldn’t test our luck, and listen to the warning nature gives us. The mountains command respect, and mine they have undoubtedly.

In the gully we meet the first hikers of the day, a mother and two children. They spent the night in Suileag Bothy, just off the trail to Suilven. It’s their car we saw on the parking lot last night! In disbelief she asks us if we slept up on the hill. But we think her just as brave, for bringing her children here on this wild winter morning. Did she take a look at the sky last night, we ask tactfully, but no, she has not seen the northern lights.

The way back through Glencanisp seems neverending. The adrenaline of the morning has faded and now the lack of sleep hits us hard. Heaving over the rolling hills, I feel as though I’m floating. That endless straight section demands more willpower than the steepest climb – Liam and I hold onto each other to stay on our feet. But with the rise of the sun the last clouds have cleared; the rest of the day is brilliantly clear. The crisp air on my face is wonderful and the views back to Suilven are simply breathtaking. Despite the exertion I am relishing.

When Loch Druim Suardalain comes into view, I’m not cheering – the exhaustion has muddled my spatial awareness. The loch seems so far away, surely that will take another hour! When we stumble upon our white van a quarter of an hour later, my relief is bigger than ever.

What we’ve experienced in the last 16 hours is almost too much to grasp. First I sink down into a camp chair, take off my shoes and drink my coffee in the sun. And then, very slowly, I let the pictures sink in, little by little. This goes on during the drive to Inverness (which comes with another glorious sunset), and on the dark bus trip back to Glasgow, and even in the following days, when I walk through the buzzling streets of West End. A sneaky grin creeps across my face, and I enjoy the little secret that hides behind it, unknown to the strangers around me.

Assynt was an adventure like no other, one of black depths and wuthering heights, of screeching birds and howling winds, of quiet nights and painted skies. The memories of it have stayed with me. Now I always look up when the night falls, dreaming of the wonders in the sky.