Back Issue | Scottish Adventures – Whispers on the Wind

Venture deep into the Scottish highlands in a wild trip which included crazy weather, whisky, an overnight stay in a remote mountain bothy and most importantly, great riding. Continue reading or head over and check out the original article in issue #017!

Sometimes the Sirens’ call of mountain adventure rings gently like a whisper on the wind, sometimes it strikes like a gong…

There was nothing gentle about the wind that was scouring my face, its icy fingers probing inside my jacket as we climbed up the shoulder of Carn Bàn Mor Mountain. We were high in the clouds now, and the wind was lashing angrily over the top of the exposed ridge. I was the tail gunner of the group, and I could just make out the string of riders in front of me shrouded by the misty air. Like ghostly silhouettes, they leaned to windward against the buffeting gusts. The barren surface under our tyres indicated that we were not far from the top; the ground was polished smooth by the unrelenting Scottish weather, just small pockets of hardy heather hanging on resolutely.

Ahead we spotted a small wind shelter built from rocks, offering just a little protection from the gale – but more than enough, and like a palace to us. We hunkered down into the still air and as our numb fingers delved into packs exploring for tasty goodies, we all laughed at the ridiculous savagery of the wind howling overhead. This had been a hasty plan, set over dinner in the Mountain Café in Aviemore deep in the Cairngorm National Park. A coffee­fuelled idea to stay in a bothy [a basic shelter], before heading up to bag a couple of Munroes [Scottish mountains] and finishing with a monster off­piste descent off the open mountain flank. I was tired, hungry, bloody freezing, and having the time of my life!

My companions in that wind­lashed shelter were Chris Hutchens, Dave Duggan, and Nash Masson, some of Scotland’s fastest enduro racers. Even though each had stood on many podiums, for the entire weekend nobody had talked about tyre compounds, shock tunes, or bike tech. We were adventuring, and there was no need to count seconds or take risky direct lines.
Our bikes now symbolised a simple tool, a passport to adventure. There was no competition here, as we were united at that moment in our struggle against the hill, and we were in it together…unless one of us had a puncture, in which case it would be every man for himself.

We had spent the previous night in a very cozy bothy, one of Scotland’s best kept secrets.Throughout the highlands many mountain bothies lay hidden, ranging from simple shelters to cosy stalkers’ cabins such as the one where we had found ourselves. Bothies are always free, always open, and have provided solitude and salvation for generations of weary adventurers. Hunting parties, hikers, climbers, and more recently bikers have found shelter within their aged wooden walls.

The long ride in with huge packs had been a riot: popping a manual with a twenty kg pack on becomes a much more exciting affair! After chopping up some firewood (they always say that wood warms you twice), we set about making the bothy a comfortable home for the night. The fire was cranked up and the whisky ripped into. The aggressive burn of the single malt helped to offset the drafty interior, and pretty soon the fire was belting out some serious heat – or perhaps that was just the effect of the whisky.

As we sat round the glowing fire, resinous wood crackled and spat gently as wisps of warm smoke mixed with the musty bothy smell; we could not have been further from the feeling of a normal race weekend. There was no stress or nervous excitement, no pressure to do well or memorise stages. As the bottles emptied, we moved from the peripheries of bike chat to the important stuff: adventures gone wrong, times we got lost, girls, tall tales, and big crashes. We planned more extravagant adventures: could we sea kayak with bikes? Norway, Iceland…the wanderlust was back!

We made our beds around the fire and retreated to the comfort of our sleeping bags. After a restless night on a self­inflating mattress that seemed equally happy to self­deflate, dawn brought bleary eyes and muddled heads. We kept the ‘hipster’ force strong by Aero Pressing some pharmaceutical­grade espressos, the sharp caffeine hit cutting like a sword through the whisky induced confusion. Outside, the rising sun indicated it was going to be a fresh day.

Five hours later we were nestled in the bunker on that mountainside and it was time to crack on. Another fifteen minutes of shot blasting brought us to the mountain summit, and it was time for the good stuff to begin. We orientated ourselves and slammed our seats, setting off one by one into the mist on a rough bearing – down! Descending a hundred meters brought salvation from
the wind and as we burst free of the cloud, the mountain lifted her skirt and a rugged flank unfolded before us.

With no path to guide us, our fast train hooted and hollered as we blind­hucked small rises, popped off heather kickers, and made our way rapidly down the open mountainside. This was reactive riding at the extreme, and just reward for the toil to the summit. The mournful folds of the Cairngorm Mountains stretched out to the horizon as we cut between the mighty peaks.

Thirty minutes later we arrived at the cars with massive smiles on our faces, high fiving and full of stoke, brakes boiling and hissing. As we looked back at the high ridge from whence we had came, it now seemed impossibly far away. This had been a shared pilgrimage for us, a release from the trappings of racing and a return to the mountains where real adventures are born.

It had been an amazing weekend, and our cutting­edge race machines had been the perfect adventure companions. The race season is indeed upon us, but next time you’re struggling on a tight transition or cursing your line choice, and you hear that whisper of adventure on the wind, the mountains are calling – it’s time to go.

Words and Photos: Trevor Worsey