Ah, stalking! I'd forgotten all about stalking. The sign advised that stalking was taking place and that walkers should contact the estate office for information and be prepared to be flexible in their plans. Worse than that, the stalker was busy offloading the estate Argo-cat from his trailer a mere 20 metres away.
I'd planned a hill day with granddaughter Jasmine, and this threatened the whole arrangement. I'd driven over 90 miles via Dornoch to get to the starting point for Cul Mor, and knew that Jasmine would love that hill. To make matters worse, there it was basking in glorious autumn sunshine above us looking so inviting.
Solemnly, I put the boots on, and resolved to hold a dialogue with the stalker, who had with him another I took to be his client. " Any difficulty if we go on to Cul Mor?", I ventured. To my delight the response was "No, that'll be OK. We're just after an injured hind that was reported to us yesterday. We'll work round you." Great!
With a spring in the step we donned packs, locked the car and headed off, the hill still looking sunny and inviting. The forecast was for grey dull weather, followed by rain, to spread very slowly westwards from the east coast, and Dornoch had been grey as we left it. I'd noticed as we drove west that Beinn Mor Assynt had attracted a layer of thick white cloud with clear air above it, and shortly afterwards a thin layer of white cloud started to steam west off the top of Canisp. At Elphin, cloud was encircling Suilven but Cul Mor was still bright and clear in the sunshne.
As we walked, the drone of the Argo followed us and after a short while we stepped aside to let it pass. A nod of acknowledgement from the stalker. As we gained height and the views opened out, I started to find the incessant drone of its engine an irritation in the otherwise silent scene. Eventually it disappeared over a ridge and the noise fell away.
If you know the approach to Cul Mor, you'll be aware that a fine stalker's path takes walkers well up the hill and, as it fizzles out, a somewhat tedious section follows of marshy wet grass followed by rising featureless stony ground. I found myself pushing firmly on through that tedious section, ungallantly leaving a widening gap between granddaughter and me, partly to get the tedium over (I knew there was a fine view at the top of the section) and partly, I think, to satisfy my curiosity at how the stalker and his assistant (as it turned out to be) were faring in their search for the injured hind. The hill was alive with jumping froglets, and the splashes from the marshy ground cooled my shins. Eventually the tedium was over and one of those natural points for a break hoved into view. I'd wait here for Jasmine.
A short distance south and at the same height my eye caught the stalker and assistant crouched behind a cairn spying through telescope and binoculars. The scene was akin to one from a sporting print. I sidled up to them and enquired how things stood. "We think that's her over there" he nodded. My eye scanned a wide bouldery hollow but saw nothing but grass, boulders and scree. With a quite exceptional skill in guiding an onlooker's eye to a precise location by the use of accurately descriptive vocabulary, he guided me to where a lone deer was lying on the edge of an area of scree towards the right of the hollow. Digging my spy-glass out of the rucksack, I took a closer look. "She was moving a wee while ago, with some difficulty, and has a heavily dunged rear" he said "which probably means she has difficulty splaying out to evacuate the bowel cleanly. We're pretty sure that's her, but I'd prefer to get closer to be certain."
My favoured route to the higher hill from that point is a delightful arc round the edge of the hollow to the foot of the north ridge, up which the route ascends through increasingly steep ground, to culminate in a bouldery clamber to the cairn. I guessed what was coming. "Would you mind taking the route directly to the col? That will let us quietly work our way across the hollow to get a closer look." Of course we wouldn't mind, although disappointed at the route change. The downside is that the col route meant a loss of height initially, followed by something of a toil up a grassy slope beside a burn - not nearly as fine as the boulder ridge with its views to the west.
Off we set, they creeping their way northwards taking cover in hollows and behind bluffs, and we down to the foot of the grassy slope. That slope proved to be hot, sunny and airless, devoid of any inspiring views and something of a sweaty toil. I pondered the hind's injury. Broken leg? Broken hip? How could that come about? A fall down a small cliff perhaps to a bone-shattering stop? Perspiration flowed from forehead to sting the eyes as we pressed onwards and upwards, anticipating a breeze as the higher slope opened out. But that slope had delights which are absent from the favoured ridge: Lushness of summer grass, yellow, blue, white and pink flowers whose names I wish I knew, and the haunting lonely call of the Golden Plover. My thoughts of that mountain beauty were interrupted as a single gunshot echoed around the hill. That must have been the wounded hind then, and now she's in pain no more.
With wonderful timing, our arrival at the coll - a strangely beach-like place of short bright green grass and acres of sand - coincided with our being enveloped by a lump of drifting cloud. We selected a suitable lunch spot and soaked in the magical atmosphere: Slow drifts of white mist coming and going causing hazy sunshine to constantly brighten and fade, and alternately hiding and revealing the slopes around. Odd how small features look gigantic in mist. Even in the mist, wet enough to moisten the hair, we were comfortably warm sitting in light tops. Still the Golden Plover intimated its presence.
Watered and fed, an easy short climb up the west ridge took us to the summit cairn, where we came upon a group of half a dozen walkers sitting in what was now proper cloud. The usual exchanges about "Fine day", "Shame about the mist", "Enjoy your walk" and off we set down the north ridge. How much less enjoyable a steepish boulder field is going down than up. An uneventful descent culminating in a brisk march down the stalker's path to the car ended a fine and memorable day - all the better for a brief insight into the stalker's world and the pleasures discovered via the col ascent.
Drizzling at Rosehall and pouring in Dornoch then home to Inverness and a reflective dram in the bath.
(Picture courtesy of Walkhighlands)
Golden Plover call
