Bikepacking in Am Monadh Ruadh
Scotland’s Cairngorm Mountains, or Am Monadh Ruadh in Scottish Gaelic, form the highest mountain massif in the British Isles. Cairn Project Ambassador and keen bikepacker, Annie Le, tackles their misty trails on two wheels
We push upwards into the swirling mists that cloak our past and our future. Only the present is left as we sweat past clear, gurgling streams and over pink granite boulders. At some point it will level off and we will ride our bikes, but not yet. The mist shifts to reveal a glimpse of the steep, black cliffs that line the corrie bowl. I hope the clag will clear — the scenery is stunning and I used the promise of it to persuade Neza to change her original route for this tougher alternative. We have met through that modern wonder, Instagram. She is on holiday in Scotland and asked if I wanted to join her for a short bikepacking trip. It can be delicate balance, introducing someone to the lumpen, damp nature of Scottish trails and finding the fun side of adventure.
After many hard steps we reach a shoulder and the gradient eases slightly. Here, the deer grass is winning the battle with the granite, and the mountain appears softer under the orange-tipped blades dancing in the breeze. Jumping at the chance to ride, we pedal slowly upwards. A short push takes us onto a beautiful, traversing trail where we stop to chat to some walkers. They are surprised that we aren’t riding e-bikes, but they wish us luck with our journey. The trail takes us over a high mountain plateau and we enjoy tantalising glimpses of the looming peaks that run alongside us. To our right is a huge cleft, a natural fault exploited by glaciers. Rising from the near vertical cliffs of the far side are several peaks. One, Angel’s Peak, towers over its corrie bowl, filled in with deep green waters. A brief glimpse before the mist thickens is barely enough to satisfy my eyes. Higher still and we push again over moss and lichen-crusted boulders. They roll and crack under our feet, grudgingly offering us passage.
Just as I think Neza will never forgive me, we reach the top and the mist clears. Our high rounded summit offers views through the mountains and down into the forested glens below. We smile at each other, grateful to share this incredible place and thankful to be at the high point. We pause to snack on trail-mix and oat cakes before tackling the way down. This descent is hard, steep with rocky steps and water bars. Neza glides down it, on her rigid, heavy bike. My worries about whether she would enjoy such a trail put to rest. As we wind down through boulder fields, deer grass meadows and dark lochs it’s no time before we reach the valley floor. Time to find somewhere for the night. Flat ground is easy to find in the valley, but ground that is not pockmarked with hard sedge hummocks is sparser, and it is with relief that we find somewhere suitable for both our tents.
Silence falls as we busy ourselves getting the stoves on and making tea and food. A nearby stream gurgles and chatters to itself. A frog hops through the grass, making the most of the short summer warmth. I love the moments of contemplation in camp. The stillness — just listening and seeing. A chance to absorb the landscape and process the day’s scenes. Dinner eaten, we chatter quietly, in the comfortable manner of having spent a great day together, building friendship through a shared love of space and movement. Night creeps in and I fall asleep listening to the breeze whisper its secrets.
We pack quickly in the morning as the midges hassle us in their determination to feast on our blood. Their bite is sharp and results in perfect pink dots that itch and annoy for a couple of days. No lazy cups of tea are to be had with them around. We start by riding down through a lush, forested glen. The variety of textures and greens from the pick ‘n’ mix jumble of trees is a rare sight in Scotland. The obsession of a wealthy few to keep the land overstocked with deer to hunt has all but destroyed any hope of the rebirth of our native forests. Here, however, the land is managed by a conservation charity and their efforts to replant the forest are obvious and appreciated.
We travel through the forest for several hours. The floor is bright green, rich in blaeberries that are nearly ripe. The Scots pines rise above with orange-scaled bark, decorated with lichen. Our wheels spin fast over well-maintained tracks before popping us out onto moorland speckled with purple heathers and yellow bog asphodel. Our track takes us up over the shoulder of another mountain, and we can see big rain showers moving through, blurring the mountains behind. We sit to snack and chat about our differences and similarities. Both women in our thirties, having chosen a life of uncertainty and instability to pursue adventure and unique opportunity. Bees fly past on important missions to a collection of hives on the nearby hillside and, cooling, we soon carry on with our own journey.
The rain hits us with a rush, refreshing on the climb. It speckles our kit but we dry fast in the warm breeze. The descent is fast and steep, with loose rock rolling and crunching under our wheels as we try to pick the smoothest lines. We follow a path downriver for several kilometres, where the water gains speed and energy as it bounces down a small gorge. Here the air is cooler, shaded by larch and pine. The air smells of pine sap and damp ground. We stop to snack at a waterfall, watching the white waves as they endlessly tumble over worn rock.
The afternoon is hot in the valley. Pedalling becomes hard work on the flat. We shift in our saddles trying to get comfy, and ride past meadows and farmland. Eventually we give in and stop at a quiet river bank to eat and snooze before carrying onwards. A short road section on a popular tourist route fills our nostrils with diesel and our ears with the roar of engines. It’s with great relief that we turn off and head back into the hills. Camp tonight is easy. A secluded riverbank under big old trees. We sweep away the needles and pinecones before pitching up. Conversation is easy as we make dinner and listen to the hum of our stoves. Hunger quelled, we wander upriver to stretch our cycling legs and find another roaring waterfall. Tired, we go to bed early before the last of the light is gone.
We pack away our sleeping mats and bags for the final time. This is our last morning together. We separate at a big river crossing, Neza following her longer route and me to return home for work. It’s been refreshing to experience a familiar place with fresh eyes, and I’m sad to say goodbye. The land I ride over is open and bleak. Trees are rare up here on the overgrazed deer moor. The trail fades in and out, punctuated by peat hags that I must dismount to push across. Although I love the huge emptiness out here, the land feels barren and poor with so little diversity. It’s all now managed by conservation organisations, but it will take years for the decades of misuse to be rectified and biodiversity to return.
I drop off the moor into a smaller glen: this one is bursting at the seams with life. Adders bask on the track in the warm rays and butterflies dance. A group of sparrow hawks indignantly take flight as I disturb their bathing. I peddle past big juniper groves, the berries still small and green with ripeness over a month away. The single-track snakes alongside the river, dry earth and pine needles making me feel like I could be in the Mediterranean, not Scotland. I come across a blown-out stream bed: it was once an easy crossing, but I now have to lower my bike awkwardly down several metres to the base of the boulder-filled gully. The damage is the remnant of a big flash flood a few years back. It is a good reminder of the power of water.
All too soon I reach tarmac — an overflowing car park and tourists stopping for their brief photo opportunity, before rushing off to the next one. Time in the hills is always special. Camping out, listening to the land and watching the light change helps to clear headspace. Experiencing it with someone new, and building a delicate friendship, has enriched my ride and brought me new understandings of my old haunts.
