Seeing as how you wrote this, we can assume you safely returned from your ordeal with Nature!
My mother's family farmed in the lower pastures of the Mourne, for 100s of years, if not 1000s. I was very fond of my cousins but the harshness of the wilderness and perpetual leaden-skies, made family holidays a chore. I was embarrassed to tell kids at school I'd spent summer breaks in such a bleak and wretched rural war zone. There would always one, who refused to stop boasting about the confected Shangri-La of Disneyworld.
But with the rest of my folks, I tramped up quite a few of the Slieves from before the age of ten, guided by my grandma and her cocker spaniel. I'm glad I spent some of my youth following the footsteps of my ancestors and didn't waste time in the subtropics, queuing to gawp at Mickey Mouse. I feel sorry for those who did!
One thing about photos in these situations (that disappoints me) is that they flatten everything. So as serene as the pictures you provided are I know they were even more impressive in person.
I suppose in previous times there would have been shepherds following their flock up such summits.
" I had figured out that what brings modern men to such places isn’t a mission to find aesthetic or esoteric truths but to engage in a confrontation with themselves."
Ah, the sweet and painful nugget of truth. That is why men do everything that requires skill and exertion; it's why I hike and shoot too. It is a contest not against other men but against myself. Mastering myself has been the longest effort of my life. And I really can't do it, that's the other part. But I try and I enjoy the striving. It teaches me to accept failure and celebrate the triumphs, even if it's just 5 miles hiking or five rounds touching at 15 yards.
I hope you also had fun on your quest, man. And congratulations on your victory over the trail and yourself.
Do it while you can. I just hit 54, and it slows you down. I’ll always keep moving and hiking, but I fear the day I have to turn back short from the trail.
The image of the 'missus' using up the dwindling mobile battery power while questioning how it takes longer to get down as you work yourself into every decreasing circles or anxiety is priceless! 😂😂😂 Everyday comedy of life
God’s Own Country. My grammar school had a Lodge on Slieve Binnian, and we’d go there for hill running or treks. It was a welcome escape from the streets of Belfast for me, and gave me a love of the outdoors that I still have to this day. Felt teary-eyed looking at your wonderful photographs Morgoth. Thank you.
Good read! I can relate to that sort of primal fear when going out of one's comfort zone, "did I bring enough water? Oh Gawd I'm wheezing, what if I suddenly just stop breathing up here?", haha.
Anyway, Morgoth, I've had the idea of recommending a certain book to you, and perhaps this comment section is a fitting enough place to do so, assuming you don't mind (I realise you must get more recs than you can possibly check out). It's probably more a propos your essay on "The Photographer" and your wanting to read books that are quite outside political and contemporary issues.
The book in question is "The Peregrine" by J. A. Baker, from 1967. It was written based on about a decade of watching peregrine falcons (and other birds and wildlife) in Baker's local Essex countryside, but is formulated like a sort of journal spanning one autumn through winter and into spring. It has a very unique and ecstatic -- and often sort of synaesthetic -- style which I won't do much to try to describe, with verbs becoming adjectives, and vice versa, and so on ("I swooped through leicestershires of swift green light" is one sentence I've seen pulled from it, or "wisps of sunlight in a bleak of cloud, gulls bone-white in ashes of sky", though the whole book is full of such descriptions), which can frankly be a bit exhausting to read very much of at a time -- I read it over the first couple of months of this year, in between other reading. And it's driven by a singular focus on the falcon; we hardly hear anything about the observer himself. It's partly this obsessive impulse which I think you may find interesting, in itself. The monotony (offset by the always inventive ways of description) is much of the point. Perhaps this kind of obsession says something about the English and European character. And then there's the obvious parallel between endangered wildlife and our own predicament, but again, Baker is never really political in the work, and never dwells on that aspect for long. It's not a sentimental book, far from it. It's the beauty, intensity and fierceness of the falcons' swooping and killing and the countryside itself that's the main focus.
I won't waste more words about it, but perhaps it will catch your interest.
Sounds like nearly every hike I've been on. :) I love hiking but the progression of initial anticipation, to slow detox from tech / society, to exhilaration at the summit, to the slow slog back down, and finally physical exhaustion and anger at the trail itself - your essay perfectly encapsulated it. I love testing myself but as I've gotten older I've become a fan of long, rambling hikes rather then true ball busters. Still Morgoth I'm proud of you for finishing it! Well done.
Been working in the highlands since the middle of January, mostly stalking and other reserve management stuff. Gone up and down more mountains in the last couple of months than I have done my entire life, and every single time I seem to go through the same mental stages you describe here. Only when I go up the mountains for my own enjoyment, not for work, can I really get in tune with my surroundings and at peace with my emotions.
I hope you enjoyed your latest visit to our wee country!
For something a bit less strenuous though equally beautiful I'd recommend a stroll round Glenariff Forest Park on a future visit. Also a trek out to Rathlin Island and a stroll up to the seabird centre which is worth it for the views even if you have no interest in the final destination.
Going down a mountain is harder than going up in a strange way that you don't think about until you do it.
When you're going up, you lean forward, knowing if you fall, you can catch yourself easily against the terrain in front of you. When going down, your legs are strained because you can't risk a stumble forward or you plummet.
I endured a similar ordeal shortly after lockdown, naively tackling a section of the Jurassic Coast at what would later be marked as one of the hottest days of the year after one of the longest phases of physical inactivity in my life.
Utter folly.
Little consideration was given to the z-axis, or the toll it would take in those temperatures... or the supply of available water... or the amount of charge in our phones.
To say my companion and I were unprepared for what awaited us would be a gross understatement. And I chalk that up to several factors, not least of which was our mutual failure to respect the terrain or the land itself. After all, I'd been up and down Snowden with a casual attitude and suffered no consequences, so what's a bit of coastline, by comparison?
By the time I had staggered into our destination, alone - for I had since been separated from my companion some hours prior - the novelty of terminating the journey at a location that shares its name with an alcoholic beverage was entirely eclipsed by the relief of having arrived at all.
The experience was enlightening for reasons beyond those pertaining to my physiology, and reading your piece has forced me to recall those in uncomfortable detail...
Another absorbing piece. More of us should hike more often. Those who live in cities may be surprised how close they are to some nice scenery and comforting nature.
I sometimes feel, walking up or down a steep hill, that it's reacting against you, either welcoming & challenging, or trying to throw you off. There is a kind of sentience and character in the land, an awareness of us. I live near a Stone Age hill settlement which has its own character, hard to describe and maybe everyone would have a different read, or none at all. I'd quite like to die there, alone; better than in a hospital or city somewhere.
It's a humbling experience when you're more or less halfway through and it starts raining, the wind picks up, and you realise you're going to have to live with it, that even turning back makes no sense. Pair that with having a fully-grown dobermann who thinks it's funny to jump up at you, to tear-ass around and then charge at you, swerving aside only at the last second and, well, it's a peculiar kind of fun.
Seeing as how you wrote this, we can assume you safely returned from your ordeal with Nature!
My mother's family farmed in the lower pastures of the Mourne, for 100s of years, if not 1000s. I was very fond of my cousins but the harshness of the wilderness and perpetual leaden-skies, made family holidays a chore. I was embarrassed to tell kids at school I'd spent summer breaks in such a bleak and wretched rural war zone. There would always one, who refused to stop boasting about the confected Shangri-La of Disneyworld.
But with the rest of my folks, I tramped up quite a few of the Slieves from before the age of ten, guided by my grandma and her cocker spaniel. I'm glad I spent some of my youth following the footsteps of my ancestors and didn't waste time in the subtropics, queuing to gawp at Mickey Mouse. I feel sorry for those who did!
One thing about photos in these situations (that disappoints me) is that they flatten everything. So as serene as the pictures you provided are I know they were even more impressive in person.
I suppose in previous times there would have been shepherds following their flock up such summits.
" I had figured out that what brings modern men to such places isn’t a mission to find aesthetic or esoteric truths but to engage in a confrontation with themselves."
Ah, the sweet and painful nugget of truth. That is why men do everything that requires skill and exertion; it's why I hike and shoot too. It is a contest not against other men but against myself. Mastering myself has been the longest effort of my life. And I really can't do it, that's the other part. But I try and I enjoy the striving. It teaches me to accept failure and celebrate the triumphs, even if it's just 5 miles hiking or five rounds touching at 15 yards.
I hope you also had fun on your quest, man. And congratulations on your victory over the trail and yourself.
Do it while you can. I just hit 54, and it slows you down. I’ll always keep moving and hiking, but I fear the day I have to turn back short from the trail.
The image of the 'missus' using up the dwindling mobile battery power while questioning how it takes longer to get down as you work yourself into every decreasing circles or anxiety is priceless! 😂😂😂 Everyday comedy of life
God’s Own Country. My grammar school had a Lodge on Slieve Binnian, and we’d go there for hill running or treks. It was a welcome escape from the streets of Belfast for me, and gave me a love of the outdoors that I still have to this day. Felt teary-eyed looking at your wonderful photographs Morgoth. Thank you.
Good read! I can relate to that sort of primal fear when going out of one's comfort zone, "did I bring enough water? Oh Gawd I'm wheezing, what if I suddenly just stop breathing up here?", haha.
Anyway, Morgoth, I've had the idea of recommending a certain book to you, and perhaps this comment section is a fitting enough place to do so, assuming you don't mind (I realise you must get more recs than you can possibly check out). It's probably more a propos your essay on "The Photographer" and your wanting to read books that are quite outside political and contemporary issues.
The book in question is "The Peregrine" by J. A. Baker, from 1967. It was written based on about a decade of watching peregrine falcons (and other birds and wildlife) in Baker's local Essex countryside, but is formulated like a sort of journal spanning one autumn through winter and into spring. It has a very unique and ecstatic -- and often sort of synaesthetic -- style which I won't do much to try to describe, with verbs becoming adjectives, and vice versa, and so on ("I swooped through leicestershires of swift green light" is one sentence I've seen pulled from it, or "wisps of sunlight in a bleak of cloud, gulls bone-white in ashes of sky", though the whole book is full of such descriptions), which can frankly be a bit exhausting to read very much of at a time -- I read it over the first couple of months of this year, in between other reading. And it's driven by a singular focus on the falcon; we hardly hear anything about the observer himself. It's partly this obsessive impulse which I think you may find interesting, in itself. The monotony (offset by the always inventive ways of description) is much of the point. Perhaps this kind of obsession says something about the English and European character. And then there's the obvious parallel between endangered wildlife and our own predicament, but again, Baker is never really political in the work, and never dwells on that aspect for long. It's not a sentimental book, far from it. It's the beauty, intensity and fierceness of the falcons' swooping and killing and the countryside itself that's the main focus.
I won't waste more words about it, but perhaps it will catch your interest.
Cheers!
Sounds like nearly every hike I've been on. :) I love hiking but the progression of initial anticipation, to slow detox from tech / society, to exhilaration at the summit, to the slow slog back down, and finally physical exhaustion and anger at the trail itself - your essay perfectly encapsulated it. I love testing myself but as I've gotten older I've become a fan of long, rambling hikes rather then true ball busters. Still Morgoth I'm proud of you for finishing it! Well done.
Been working in the highlands since the middle of January, mostly stalking and other reserve management stuff. Gone up and down more mountains in the last couple of months than I have done my entire life, and every single time I seem to go through the same mental stages you describe here. Only when I go up the mountains for my own enjoyment, not for work, can I really get in tune with my surroundings and at peace with my emotions.
I hope you enjoyed your latest visit to our wee country!
For something a bit less strenuous though equally beautiful I'd recommend a stroll round Glenariff Forest Park on a future visit. Also a trek out to Rathlin Island and a stroll up to the seabird centre which is worth it for the views even if you have no interest in the final destination.
Brilliant!! Yer welcome in Norn Iron anytime Morgoth, the land of Beauty, Bullets, Bombs and the Bum Shuffle :-)
I'd much rather climb up too, down is always harder.
Going down a mountain is harder than going up in a strange way that you don't think about until you do it.
When you're going up, you lean forward, knowing if you fall, you can catch yourself easily against the terrain in front of you. When going down, your legs are strained because you can't risk a stumble forward or you plummet.
Learned that the hard way several years ago.
I endured a similar ordeal shortly after lockdown, naively tackling a section of the Jurassic Coast at what would later be marked as one of the hottest days of the year after one of the longest phases of physical inactivity in my life.
Utter folly.
Little consideration was given to the z-axis, or the toll it would take in those temperatures... or the supply of available water... or the amount of charge in our phones.
To say my companion and I were unprepared for what awaited us would be a gross understatement. And I chalk that up to several factors, not least of which was our mutual failure to respect the terrain or the land itself. After all, I'd been up and down Snowden with a casual attitude and suffered no consequences, so what's a bit of coastline, by comparison?
By the time I had staggered into our destination, alone - for I had since been separated from my companion some hours prior - the novelty of terminating the journey at a location that shares its name with an alcoholic beverage was entirely eclipsed by the relief of having arrived at all.
The experience was enlightening for reasons beyond those pertaining to my physiology, and reading your piece has forced me to recall those in uncomfortable detail...
Another absorbing piece. More of us should hike more often. Those who live in cities may be surprised how close they are to some nice scenery and comforting nature.
I sometimes feel, walking up or down a steep hill, that it's reacting against you, either welcoming & challenging, or trying to throw you off. There is a kind of sentience and character in the land, an awareness of us. I live near a Stone Age hill settlement which has its own character, hard to describe and maybe everyone would have a different read, or none at all. I'd quite like to die there, alone; better than in a hospital or city somewhere.
It's a humbling experience when you're more or less halfway through and it starts raining, the wind picks up, and you realise you're going to have to live with it, that even turning back makes no sense. Pair that with having a fully-grown dobermann who thinks it's funny to jump up at you, to tear-ass around and then charge at you, swerving aside only at the last second and, well, it's a peculiar kind of fun.