There & Back Again

The Scottish Highlands have an allure which is hard to quantify, and I'm not sure I want to. When it comes to the highlands, the Atlantic north west coast, and specifically Wester Ross are the ultimate example. If you want the full experience, it's the place to go.

With that in mind I was in need of some mountain time. As a no.1 european destination, the French alps are buzzing with the clanging of chairlifts, the evening beers on the chalet balconies decorated with body armour and screaming chainsaws as the world cup rolls into town. My riding buddy and I opt for the opposite direction, the mountains of the north. Whilst far smaller than their alpine cousins, it by no means makes them any less wild. On the contrary, billions of years older and attrited by the frustratingly dependable conveyer of Atlantic depressions that the jet stream delivers from the west, these hills are aged, worn and battered. With a climate ranging from sub polar to full on arctic tundra, they scream adventure for those who choose to find it. Whilst feeling remote, this area is surprisingly accessible, less than two hours from the airport, train station and bustle of Inverness.

Fisherfield forest is a strange name considering the scarcity of trees in the area. I can't confess to knowing the origins, but I can certainly admit to the feeling of intrigue when I hear it. Scouring maps of the area, there is a clear path to explore what is known by some (i.e. Wikipedia) as The Great Wilderness. The route starts from Dundonnell road and passes through Dundonnell forest, onto Fisherfield forest and finally Letterewe Forest to finish in Poolewe. However, the summer that Northern Europe has been experiencing this year thew us a spanner; there is a river crossing which we had been advised by a local guide to be likely impassable due to the high levels of rainfall. The wilderness here isn't to be taken lightly, so we heed the warning, and the point to point route is swapped for an out and back with the clear goal of reaching the summit of the pass between Letterewe and Fisherfield forests. Our chosen day has a wet start, and high winds are due later in the day so we are slow to get going. We time the ride start to perfection and as the last bursts of lightning and fat drops of rain pass us by, we dive into Poolewe village stores for extra food. It's not ideal at all starting late morning, but weather dictates so much around here. It's a bizarre feeling getting the bikes built whilst munching on last minute calories. There is so much unknown ahead, what time will we get back to the car? What state will we be in?

We cruise out of the village, the first few km's disappearing quickly on first tarmac, then gravel road. Once we hit the woods, the gravel becomes more of a path and as we reach a gate taking us from the safety of the trees into the wild beyond, we meet the only person we will see for the next 8 hours; a fellow cyclist, but of an unfamiliar breed who talks at us like we're the first people he's seen for months after a solo voyage in the hills ahead. We leave our new found friend behind, and turn to face our old friend rain. The static like crackle of raindrops on jackets fills our ears, and the mountains ahead of us disappear into a sheet of grey, someone switches the lights out. Some areas around here can see well over 4000mm of rainfall in a year, as a consequence, this landscape is dominated by water. Once upon a time these hills were higher than the himalaya, but time and water have taken their toll, these hard gneiss mountains have given in to the abuse of the seemingly insignificant raindrop. As we ride along a stream of singletrack, we slowly updulate into the rainy expanse of Letterewe forest. Our first river crossing appears and any thoughts of keeping feet dry are instantly deleted. We fall silent and just plod our way through the weather, over the rocks, around the slugs, always forward, water everywhere. The gradients are gentle, but interspersed with some short sharp climbs that require dumping a couple of gears, and torquing up the cranks. For such a remote region, it's refreshing to find 99% of the route ridable, the lack of ultimate altitude means oxygen is never an issue, and the only limit to clearing obstacles is leg strength and skill. The downward rain finally stops, but the upward rain from the tyres is remarkably persistent. We pass the shores of Fionn Loch, with picturesque little beaches but not a soul to enjoy them. Our route takes us onto a causeway separating Fionn loch and Dubh loch, despite being a bike width wide, the ever increasing crosswind makes it a challenge to stay on line. A house appears over the hill, ruining the feeling of solitude, but then we realise there is no road here, no one is home. We can only guess it's a deer stalking lodge, used temporarily in deer stalking season to hide from the elements. We pass by and start a steeper climb up requiring us to get off and push, this is the final climb to the saddle into Fisherfield forest. Although the sun has now appeared, it has done so with the wind, I look right as we climb up and admire a waterfall which falls for about 2 metres before the wind flexes its muscles and turns the flow 90 degrees to blow the water horizontally. We finally reach our goal of Lochan Fėith Mhic' -illean, and seek some shelter from the wind to force down our peanut butter and jam sandwiches, guzzle some water and point our bikes down.

For a trail so remote, it's a an absolute joy, we shred fast singletrack to the roar of wind in our ears, some tight haripins spice up the descent before, a couple of waterfalls require a brief dismount, but then it's full speed down, rocks clattering around and eyeballs on stalks ready for when the wind chooses to roll the dice on line choice. It's never too tech, neither do we want it to be, this is not the location to have an incident, instead, fun is the order of the day. The sun seems to appear for mere seconds before vanishing again in its day long dance of indecisiveness. We reach the shores of Fionn loch once more and whilst crossing the causeway a gust of wind picks up a funnel of water from the loch before hurling it across the landscape. What a place!