Alex Roddie - The Farthest Shore: Seeking solitude and nature on the Cape Wrath Trail in winter

www.v-publishing.co.uk

Id come to this high, wild and lonely place to escape from my anxiety for a while, but it had followed me here like a dog.

Ever since entering Knoydart the day before, the menace of a missing bridge had hung over me like a rotten branch, for the old bridge over the River Carnach had been the key to getting through this rugged country by the well-trodden routes. But the bridge was gone. Floods the year before had obliterated it, and now the river surged dark and deep from a source high in the mountains to outflow in Loch Nevis, drawing a line through the ambitions of wanderers in these mountains. So, afraid of a bridgeless river crossing that had killed walkers before, I had scoured my map for alternatives. Precious few leapt out at me. Each would be, in winter at least, as formidable in its own way as the river crossing.

At Corryhully bothy two nights before, Id chatted with a hillwalker who had been making forays into Knoydart to pick off a few of the Munros. His surprise when Id trudged in out of the cold night had been palpable.

Not many come here in December, hed said an hour or two later, after whisky and firelight had softened the stranger-caution between us, as these things do in bothies. Its my favourite time of year now, he added a moment later. Years ago it was always like this quiet, like. Now its busy here during the summer. I blame the Cape Wrath Trail.

I nodded. Ill be back to do the whole CWT in February. For now Im just checking out the route through Knoydart, to see how it goes in winter. My pause felt uneasy. Theres a bridge missing.

I couldnt articulate the complex flutter of guilt that came to me then the knowledge, so recently awakened in me, that my own published writing had contributed to the trails popularity since I had first hiked it four years before and so I said nothing, letting the sting of cowardice feed the new, outdoorsy kind of anxiety I was carrying around with me these days.

The Cape Wrath Trail is commonly cited as the UKs wildest and most difficult long-distance hike, extending for around 400 kilometres from Fort William to Cape Wrath, the northwesternmost point of the British mainland. There is no official CWT; many variant routes exist, some more difficult than others. The trail is not waymarked and there is frequently no path underfoot. There are unbridged rivers to cross, bogs to negotiate, big distances to cover between possible resupply locations. This puts the trail a cut above more popular Scottish backpacking routes such as the West Highland Way. Aspirant CWT hikers need to be tough, experienced, and competent navigators over rough ground. Yet, despite all this, the trail has become significantly more popular in recent years, partly thanks to me and a few other outdoor writers. I still didnt know quite how I felt about this. Writing about the Cape Wrath Trail had helped to launch my own career as an outdoor writer, but I wondered what impact Id had on a fragile environment and on the ineffable sense of solitude and remoteness to be found there.

My pal saw none of this. His eyes had widened when Id mentioned coming back to do the CWT in February, and he nodded at my mention of the bridge. The Carnach can be a bastard of a crossing when the rivers high. How are you getting around it, then?

I told him my plans, and he wished me luck, and the next day I ventured out into the quiet snowless early winter glow of Knoydart.

For reasons I couldnt explain then, so much seemed to depend on this on my plans for a winter Cape Wrath Trail, and therefore on my reconnaissance trip. Something had been building within me for months. Or perhaps draining out of me. There were times when it was easy to tell myself that it wasnt real: when laughing about something silly with Hannah, when caught up in that godlike flow of writing something meaningful, when immersed in nature high on a hill with the humming galaxies of the internet far from my mind. Especially that last one. Time in nature nurtured me except, increasingly it seemed, when it didnt.