The Haunted Rucksack

For many years I used my trusty Tiso 'tattie sack' rucksack. This was simplicity itself and designed for climbing and hauling up rock walls where anything that got in the way was an encumbrance. It was big enough for weekends and I lived out of it all my student years. When I bought a nylon hike tent, however, I felt I needed a rucksack more rigid and comfortable for carrying heavier loads. I bought a pack frame and  the separate canvas sack that fitted on it. It was comfortable enough but a bit awkward and spikey when travelling on public transport.

Looking north up Glen Tilt

One day I took a train to Blair Athol and walked up Glen Tilt, camping at the bridge across the Tarf. Next day I crossed the watershed from the Tilt to the Dee. The cloud was closed right down and I could see very little. It was October and the Red Deer rut was in full swing. I was surrounded by roaring, but the roarers and groaners were invisible. Soon I heard a different sound, the unmistakable, spirit lifting honking of a great skein of geese heading south through Glen Tilt. They sounded just above my head but I couldn't see them. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of taking part in a great natural process. Being alone and not being able to see these events seemed to make them more surprising and intense.

It was too early to stop at Corrour bothy so I carried on through the Lairig Ghru. I had walked this way several times before so knew what to expect. As usual, the mist was down as I boulder hopped past the Pools of Dee and started to descend the northern side. There was a stronger breeze here and I began to notice a strange sound. WOOOOOOO - WOOOOOO. It started as a low moaning and as gusts intensified rose to a loud whistle. This really worried me. In fact I was genuinely rattled. I'd read all that tosh about the Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui and mentally filed it away with the Loch Ness Monster and Flying Saucers as the domain of silly, confused people and Nutters. I began to think I was one of them, but said to myself,
"Pull yourself together. There must be a rational explanation."
I tried to concentrate intensely on the sound and pinpoint exactly where it came from. Surprisingly, it came from exactly behind my left ear. The windward side. I slipped out of the pack frame and dumped it on the ground. Aha! There were holes in the aluminium tube frame so you could adjust the position of the cross bar. The wind was blowing in the holes and creating a ghostly tune. I wasn't being haunted after all. Even so, that really spooked me. I still had an irrational fear that the rucksack was haunted.

The Haunted Rucksack. Offset drawing and watercolour.

Not long after this I sold it cheaply to a friend. He kept it a little while then gave it to another friend. This friend of a friend passed it to another friend who quickly passed it on to a friend who had a friend and this friend was an obsessive Munro Bagger. He used the pack frame frequently but never completed the Munros. He ended up in a mental hospital STARK, STARING, MAD!

A BOTHY FULL OF MAGGOTS

 

 

 

When I was still at school the Cairngorms seemed far away. Although I had heard of Ben Macdhui and the mysterious Lairig Ghru this range of hills held an almost mythical status. They were beyond my horizon. One day in the High Street I bumped into Cammy and he asked,

"Do you fancy going to the Cairngorms?"

"Wow! Yes, but how do we get there?"

"Well, Davy has just passed his driving test."

Davy, like me, was still at school but his family owned a local bakers and had a wee Mini van to make deliveries.Being the youngest it was Roberts and my luck to be stuck in the back of the van lounging as best we could on sleeping bags and cushions. Our view was severely constrained out of the windscreen by the heads of Davy and Cammy. We rolled about a bit going through the bends in Glenfarg but crawled through the Sunday quiet streets of Perth. Beyond Bridge of Cally the road twisted and turned up Glenshee, hugging every hillock and round tight, twisty bends. Luckily, neither Robert or I suffered from travel sickness or the outcome could have been messy. The Mini was the perfect vehicle for these roads. It took the Devils Elbow and Cairnwell in it's stride and rolled quickly down to Braemar. We tumbled out of the back at Linn of Dee, desperate to stretch our legs

 

The woods along the Dee were a delight. I hadn't expected to see so many mature Scots Pines. As we walked to Derry Lodge I was awed by the openness. I wasn't prepared for the scale of things. Distances were longer, views wider and the tops higher than the hills I was used to. Unfortunately, although it was a mild day with a few glimpses of sun the clouds hung stubbornly to the tops. In the thick mist of late afternoon we climbed a broad, rocky ridge and reached a small cairn. This, Cammy confidently pronounced, was the summit of Derry Cairngorm. I am by nature a sceptic.

"Are you sure this isn't a false summit?"

He was adamant. Anyway, it was growing late and we had a long way to go back. For practical and face saving reasons this had to be the summit. Years later, when it no longer mattered, I found that it wasn't.

 

Before I had my own transport travelling to and from the Cairngorms was always a problem. Sometimes these journeys were more memorable than the actual walks. When I was an Art Student in Dundee I took a train to Aviemore and walked south through the Lairig Ghru, stopping overnight at Corrour bothy. Next day I walked out to Braemar where I caught a bus to Aberdeen. I tried to get a train to Dundee but the last train had gone, so I walked back to the bus station. Unfortunately, the Dundee bus had left ages ago but the last local was going as far as Montrose. I walked out of Montrose on the road south across the bridge and climbed a hill. My feet were sore as I had ill fitting boots and big blisters on my heels. I sat down on the verge overlooking Montrose Basin and watched a team of salmon fishers netting from the beach. I took a professional interest in this as I'd done this job myself on the River Tay. The gloom of the summer night was descending and there was no traffic on the road.
"Well", I thought, "What will I do?"
I had a sleeping bag so if I couldn't get a lift I'd just go behind a dyke and crawl into my bag for the short summer night. The strange thing is, once I'd decided on this I felt wonderfully calm and content. I was about to open my rucksack when I heard a big truck grinding up the hill. I gave it the thumb and it came to a halt. The driver dropped me in east Dundee so I still had a couple of miles to walk. It was dark now and the city was quite. I scattered a plague of rabbits grazing round the gravestones as I passed by Craigie cemetery. Because of the blisters my normal lope had degenerated to a hobble as I passed along the Arbroath Road and Seagate to the Nethergate. The city centre was silent. The good people of Dundee were all abed. I saw no one. The last lap out the Perth Road to my wee slum flat in St. Peters Street was agony. I collapsed on my bed and slept solid till the late afternoon.



Corrour bothy before modernisation.

The Lairig Ghru is a very popular route and many people stop overnight at Corrour bothy. This lies at the foot of Devils Point, one of the few pointy peaks in a massif made up of eroded plateau. The first time I stayed there was my first bothy night anywhere. I was alone and it was a dark, windy night. The building was just a basic stone shelter with heather scattered on the floor. The wind howled and my solitary candle flickered in the draught. Sometime in the early morning I woke with a start. Something was loudly rustling and rummaging beside me. I shone a torch at my rucksack and saw a mouse was nibbling it's way into my food bag. It was only a very small mouse but it made a very loud noise. I considered flattening the creature angrily with a boot but relented and instead chased it away and hung my rucksack on a wall nail.  

 






Corrour Bothy in the 1980's. Oil on canvas on board. 460mm x 610mm

  

After that I stayed at the bothy many times. I'd heard it could be busy, but because I was a shift worker I was usually there midweek, so had the place to myself.

On a beautiful July afternoon I walked into Corrour from Linn of Dee with Ian Macdonald. When the bothy came into view we could see a couple of little figures outside it.
"Well, it looks as if we'll have some company tonight."
"The worst case," I said, "is a party of school kids. The place could be packed out."
I didn't think this likely. Although we knew someone else was there we were surprised, even shocked, when we stepped through the open door. Our worst fears had been realised. Although it was just about tea time the floor was crammed with seven or eight young boys. They were already in their sleeping bags, giggling, wriggling and writhing on the floor, leg wrestling and looking like demented maggots. We managed to squeeze in and prepared a meal. After a brew we climbed the slope above the bothy onto Devils Point, partly to get away from this madness. It was a wonderful, calm evening, with great views down Glen Dee.  





Looking down Glen Dee from Devils Point




A bothy full of maggots. Oil on board.

 

 We returned to find the kids quietened down a bit and we were able to squeeze in near the old fireplace. Then just when we thought no one else would turn up, a few walkers came down off the hill understandably looking for a place to lay their heads. We all squeezed up even tighter and spent a sweaty, uncomfortable night on the floor. I don't think I slept much but the day dawned bright and sunny.

 After a quick breakfast it was back up Devils Point again. The previous day had been warm but this was a scorcher, with hardly a cloud in the sky. We followed the corrie edge to Cairn Toul and frequently heard the "whup, whup, whup," of a helicopter operating somewhere below us. We spotted it flying up the Lairig Ghru, well below. Then with a sudden roar a navy blue Hunter trainer roared up the glen and we both held our breathes as the fast jet passed close below the helicopter and was soon out of sight. As we approached the summit of Cairn Toul the Royal Marines helicopter suddenly popped up out of the corrie and the pilot waved and obligingly hovered over the cairn while we took photographs.


Obliging pilot hovering for a photo shoot





From the summit we headed south west to Loch nan Stuirteag then over the bald, gravelly tops of Monadh Mor and Beinn Bhrotain. In the baking heat this last leg was more like a walk over a desert than boggy Scotland. It was one of those rare, glorious days, both mist and midge free.





Cairn Toul and Ben Macdui from the south west