Sitting two meters below the surface of a snow bank in a roughly hewn cave, it is impossible to tell what conditions are like on the surface. Today it is calm and clear, but other times I have been sat in a snowhole whilst snow attempts to fall through storm force winds. Outside the air may may be quite, or it may roar with the intensity of a wounded stag; but here, cocooned in the snow you would not know.

Cairngorm summit is eerie on a calm January night, with torches off you get an eagles eye view of the star-lit loch Avon and Speyside. To be here at any time when the wind is less than a gale is a privilege. To let eyes adjust to the low light, and see where it is reflected into the snow, where it falls on black rocks or
disappears into the glens. We are alone; here where a couple of hours ago a hundred walkers and skiers were reaching the top of the tows and the funicular railway, ready to plunge back down again, chaperoned by flags and fences. I like to sit here and take in all the feelings of freedom, all those things that the day tripper misses out on.

We had wandered for a couple of hours, practicing the skills of mountain navigation, and at the same time enjoying the place. To share a mountain top with nothing but air and snow, not even sunlight for company is a rare feeling for me, but one that never fails to leave an impression that won’t be driven out by the weekday city routine.

Tomorrow the wind will rise, the clouds will drop, the skiers and the day-trippers will return. These are all elements that make the Cairngorm plateau what it is. I don’t begrudge them their time on Cairngorm. But for now, a short wander, no-one else about, back to camp, to bed into the mountain and to sleep, part of it for a few hours.