Night hikes, we seem to attract them like magnets. It’s the slow mornings in Liam’s van, together with the early sunsets in the north that make it inevitable; everytime we head out we end up in darkness.

It isn’t only scenery that holds us up today, it’s also the oasis of hospitality that awaits us when we reach Ruigh Aiteachain bothy. A couple years back the maintenance of this bothy was taken over from the MBA by Feshie Estate, and since then Ruigh Aiteachain has been transformed into a refuge that feels more like B&B than wilderness hut. There is one man that we have to thank for this: the Maintenance Officer that can be found around the bothy year-round. He is out chopping wood when we approach. Upon entry we are surrounded by a comfortable heat; the fireplace has already been lighted. The room is spotless and it feels like a crime to spoil it with our dirty shoes, so we take them off. We are just contemplating our next steps at the dining table when the MO enters. He welcomes us and soon enough we are caught up in a conservation about all the things that have changed since Liam came here last, many years ago. The love for this place radiates from the old man’s face. I get why he has never left.

“What a cozy place.” I wave at the wooden floor and the paintings on the walls.

“As it should be,” he laughs.

I’m not sure I agree on that. There is something special about arriving in a cold, dark bothy after a grim hike and heating yourself up near your own fire. But if you are looking for comfort, I have no doubt that Ruigh Aiteachain is where you’ll find it. With heavy hearts we decline a hot cup of coffee, we need to move on. Quickly we devour our lunch, still undecided if today remains an easy stroll, or will be a silly adventure after all. Of course this wouldn’t be a blog post if it didn’t end up being the last.

Back or forward?

As soon as we start climbing, we feel the heaviness in our legs. I had already spent the last four days hillwalking, for Liam it has been more than month. Way too long, in his opinion. Are we not asking too much of ourselves? A little bit further, just to see the view, we tell ourselves. We can always go back. Meanwhile the last sun beams paint the hills purple, and a river twists through Coire Gaol, the corrie next to us. Everytime we stop to take a breath, reconsider our plan, we find ourselves stepping further. The height draws us, like magnets.

Liam asks me if I have my headtorch with me. He left his in the van, thought he didn’t need it this time. I have mine, but it could die at any moment. What I do have is my phone and a powerbank. If worse comes to worst, I can use that as a torch.

A few minutes later. Gloves? I nod. We’re gonna be needing those.

To the left of us, a vague path leads over the bealach to Meall nan Sleac. A shortcut could be possible, over the summit and back into the valley, where we’d rejoin the path through Glen Feshie. In theory it’s simple, but in reality this means darting rashly down a slope, pathless and through dense vegetation in the dark. We’d rather walk back than do that.

Ahead of us lie clouds, but also a clear path leading up the Moine Mhòr plateau. Curving around Coire Garbhlach and north across the plain, till a junction near Carn Ban Mor (1052 m). Then turning west and descending till Achlean, where the van is parked. 10 kilometers and we are home. Deceitfully easy, on the map. But up here it’s still the midst of winter. Our path will disappear in snow and ice and darkness. Fair chance we miss a turn and get trapped in the hills.

“5 kilometers till the junction, that should take us 1,5 hours.”

It is 16:15, 45 minutes till the sundown. If we hurry, we can catch the last twilight over the plateau. Can we trust on our eyes and our compass, and the strength of our bodies?

“I would like to continue, but it isn’t exactly the wise choice,” Liam says.

When did that ever stop us? I glance at Coire Garbhlach one last time. She has made the decision for me.

“Let’s go.” And I move on. Coire Garbhlach is the last we see of the landscape; hereafter it’s just the endless white of snow and mist.

Into the void

Now that we’ve committed ourselves, adrenaline starts rushing through my body. In the first leg we make quick progress. The path climbs but isn’t steep, and we can largely avoid the snow. We pass by a turn to the south, for the munro Mullach Clach a’Bhlair (1019 m). For a split second I am tempted to turn into that direction, to cross a new munro off my list. We’re so close! But today we don’t have a minute to waste. So we continue, eastward.

We reach the plateau without any detours. At 950 m altitude even the last patches of moss and stone have vanished underneath the snow. We manage to stay on the track, which is still distinct despite its white blanket. Northward we go, and here the real labour begins.

Without crampons my hiking boots are my greatest valuable. With every step I kick my soles into the soil, steadying myself. It is easy moving over fresh snow, but parts of the ground have frosted, melted and then refrozen. Slipping in these places is inevitable. It is a hiker’s art to identify and evade an icy soil, but that is easier said than done at twilight. I am on a zigzag trail hopping from one of Liam’s footsteps to the other. Wrestling through the snow is exhausting and I struggle to keep up with my companion. Sometimes his silhouette nearly vanishes in the mist.

Up here the world is a ruthless place. Freezing air cuts my skin, frost clutches my hat. There is no trace of life and no colours to paint the sky. What is there for men to find here?

Liam and I no longer speak, unless to look at the map or check if we’re okay. The hills hold us in a trance. We near a gully where the wind has formed a deceptive cornice. What appeared as ankle deep snow is revealed to be two meters deep from the other side. Every step here is a calculation. With care we navigate around it. At this point, there is no track to follow. All we can do is walk along the line of our compass, straight across the snow.

The rivers are our only reference of where we are located on the Moine Mhòr plateau. After the second river we know there’s 2 kms left till our crossroad. The weather is getting bleaker and we need to keep moving to keep our limbs warm. A dark veil passes over the landscape; the sun has set for half an hour now. Under the tree line it will be pitch-black, but snow reflects even the faintest twilight. In that last glimmer we appraoch the crucial turn, that should bring us from a 1000 m altitude back to the bottom of the glen. Our eyes are on edge, searching for a mark, footprints, something. We have no idea whether this turn is meant to be a well-traveled path, or merely a mud trail. Liam thinks he distinguishes something on our left side, but my phone navigation tells us we are not yet there. If necessary we can just head west, path or no. We have passed by Meall Dubhag so either way we’ll be led to Glen Feshie.

Suddenly we are standing next to a pile of stones. A path arises on each side, impossible to miss. This is our cairn. It’s absurd how obvious it is.

North the path continues to the giant that’s named Sgor Gaoith. Southeast she travels deeper into the expanse of Moine Mhòr, towards Tom Dubh. And northwest is our trail, wriggling through the snow, down towards the riverbank of Feshie.

We burst out laughing. We did it, without even the help of a torch.

My eyes stray north, to Carn Ban Mor, only meters away.

“Don’t worry, that’s not a munro.”

I do not need to be told twice. I hurtle down the hill, homeward-bound.

In my excitement I trip more often than I did in the slippiest of snow. It's time to turn on my torch. Liam is in front of me, just within the scope of my light. We do not think to check the map, that’s how eager we are to be back in the valley. Wind rushes past my body and wipes the snow off my hat. Soon we are below the snow line, and underneath the clouds. Finally we can make out the silhouettes of the hills, and lights on the horizon; Kingussie.

In half an hour we cover the same distance as we ascended in the 2,5 hours before. A moment ago we were standing on a barren plateau, a thousand meters in the sky, now we are back among the trees that bustle with life.

The last meters through Glen Feshie are ludicrously long. Haven’t we long passed the parking lot? The adrenaline has left my body and every extra meter seems one too many. When my torch reflects our van in the distance, for a moment I think it is a fata morgana.

I cannot name a better feeling than the sensation of bare feet after a long hike, or a hot cup of Yorkshire tea to warm your stomach. I have stood between the highest peaks of Scotland, and saw naught of it. Yet I am satisfied. I know what there was for me to find there. It’s experiencing what your body can when you push her to the limit. It’s defying the wild forces, and overcoming them. It’s reaching the other side against all odds.