The Secret Life of the Cairngorms E-Book

Andy Howard

• Herausgeber: Sandstone Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Winner of the Favourite Scottish Nature Photography Book, 2020 Cairngorm National Park is a massive area of mountains and passes, rivers and forests, settlements and wild land, located in the heart of Scotland. A unique environment, it is home to many species of animals and birds. Its scenery is glorious. Andy Howard has enjoyed an intimate relationship with the area since childhood, exploring its most hidden places and developing a close understanding of its wildlife. His photography displays the deep empathy that makes him a unique and sensitive guide.

Leseprobe

The Secret Life of the

CAIRNGORMS

The Secret Life of the

CAIRNGORMS

Andy Howard

Foreword: Cameron McNeish

First published in Great Britain by

Sandstone Press Ltd

Suite One, Willow House

Stoneyfield Business Park

Inverness

IV2 7PA

Scotland

www.sandstonepress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in

any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

Copyright © Andy Howard 2019

Foreword copyright © Cameron McNeish 2019

Image copyrights © Andy Howard

NB: Most images have been captured within Cairngorms National Park. A few have been

taken from within the wider surrounding area.

Author portraits pp 192 and 197 © Christoph Ruisz

Editor: Robert Davidson

The moral right of Andy Howard to be recognised as the author of this work has been

asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards publication of this

volume.

ISBN: 978-1-912240-80-7

Jacket and book design by Raspberry Creative Type, Edinburgh

Printed in China by Imago

Acknowledgements

My immense thanks go out to everyone who has helped me on the incredible

journey which has taken me to so many wonderful encounters with the animals

and birds of Scotland’s landscape. This book is dedicated to the memories of people

who have been dear to me but are no longer with us: my father, John Howard;

Betty Morris, Ruth and John Sawyer; but also and especially to my dear wife,

Lyndsey, who accompanies me through life.

i

Contents

Acknowledgements and Dedication

i

Foreword by Cameron McNeish

v

Introduction

1

Lochs and Rivers

9

Woodland and Forest

37

Moorland and Heath

85

The High Plateaux

139

CODA: Seasonality and Schedule 1

193

Appendix: The responsibilities of the

wildlife photography guide

196

v

Foreword

This beautiful book perfectly illustrates what you

miss if you continue to walk with your eyes proverbially

closed. The exquisite images, the rewards of Andy

Howard’s infinite patience, remind us that these hills,

scoured by wind, frost and snow, sculpted into corries

and skirted by the finest of natural forests, are like no

others in our northern land.

Nowhere else in Scotland has such sprawling tracts

over 2,000, 3000 and 4000 feet, and, because of that

elevated acreage, no other part can claim such a diverse

range of flora and fauna, from the 300 year old Caledonian

Pines in the glens to the impressive, tiny plants that

cling to the wind-whipped summit slopes, arctic-alpine

communities that, thanks to climate change, are now

living at the very edge of their northern range.

Consider, as you wonder at the craftsmanship and

beauty of Andy Howard’s photographs, the days and

weeks he spent in often inhospitable surroundings.

Muse on his patience, admire his skill and knowledge

but, above all, remember this. Each image, whether

mountain, tree, bird, mammal or plant, is part of the

infinite web of creation to which

homo sapiens

also

belongs. Understand that, in accepting that kinship,

there is an implicit recognition of order, of a determined

pattern behind the behaviour of things, and let us

celebrate its harmony. There is so much we can learn

from the Cairngorms.

Cameron McNeish

Strathspey

May 2019

Many visitors will traverse the hills and climb the ridges of

the wonderful Cairngorm mountains without looking or

properly seeing, just as I once did. With minds set on lists-

to-tick they will note the wider horizons, but perhaps not

appreciate the tiny but vibrant life at their feet.

When I reached my greybeard years I learned to slow

down and look around although, to be fair, age has a

way of slowing you even if you don’t want it to. Now

the words of William Henry Davies reveal their deeper

meaning.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

A poor life this is if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

As I look back on the mountains of my life, memories

of reaching the summits tend to blur. The diamonds that

really sparkle, though, are of the moments that created

the journey: reaching an anticipated ridge, crossing a high

bealach, camaraderie and encounters with wildlife. To

wonder at the miracle that is the tiny moss campion,

silene

acaulis

(or cushion pink), audaciously clinging to life amid

the barren screes of Beinn Macdui; or the joy in the song

of a cock snow bunting, a moving and powerful anthem

to its wind-scoured surroundings; or the excitement of

spotting a dotterel, one of our rarer visitors; or seeing a

golden eagle soar on outstretched wings. These are the

experiences that live with me and, while I don’t have the

patience of a wildlife photographer, a rare breed that

is content to wait, and wait, until the light is right or the

subject presents itself, I am learning to look… and see.

1

Responses to the Cairngorms are many and various,

from Nan Shepherd’s lyrical

The Living Mountain

in an

era when they were much less trod than now, to John

Allen’s pragmatic but sensitive mountain rescue memoir,

Cairngorm John

; from Adam Watson’s terrestrial ecology

to Affleck Grey’s history and legends, not forgetting the

incredible blind poet Sydney Scroggie. All have their

emotional element that goes deep, but not deeper than

real experience in the mind of a ten-year-old boy from

the north of England who had recently relocated to the

Black Isle. I was that boy.

As a birthday treat for a friend his parents took us for

a day’s skiing in Coire Cas. My most persistent memory of

that day is of intense cold, such as I had never felt before.

Little wonder that the wind went through me, when I

was wearing only jeans, trainers and a thin jacket. It was a

double lesson. Not only did it tell me that I was inadequately

dressed, it also gave me a first inkling of how little I knew.

The exhilaration and sense of freedom that came

with learning to ski was new and liberating for me.

In addition, climbing the hill on skins to ski back

down taught me that great experiences are won by

determination and effort, and fostered a sense of

discipline that would serve me well over the years.

Imagine a young, opening mind deposited among the

cliffs and snow fields of the Cairngorms, supply with

skills that take it to high places to view the massive

expanse of wildness that is the Cairngorm plateau

and the long, cultivated strip and many townships of

Strathspey. I was inspired as the authors of the books

mentioned earlier were inspired. In the following years

skis and, with increasing strength and confidence,

walking boots, took me to corners of the mountains

that few people reach.

First though, as a proficient skier and nascent hill-

walker, my every spare moment was spent in

INTRODUCTION

Ptramigan with searching look.

2

the Northern Corries while thinking of them as an

adventure

playground.

Alpine

conditions

arrived

frequently, with blue skies, dry powder snow and, on a

few rare occasions, hurricane force winds. I treasure fond

memories of those years: the camaraderie of friends

huddled in the Ptarmigan Restaurant, drinking hot

chocolate, eating chips, going out to face the storm in

a crescendo of raucous banter. Being in the mountains

is about creating such memories, whether they be of

a May day’s skiing with the sun warming your face, or

lingering until the lifts slow and stop, to descend the, by

now empty, slopes in the golden glow of evening.

In recounting these experiences, I can almost

visualise the transition in real time: from play through

work to a deeper appreciation.

When I was seventeen, I chose to stay with friends

overnight on one of the high summits. We stayed awake

right through, eating the remains of cold pizzas picked

up the night before in Aviemore, eventually witnessing

a dark indigo sky give way to the orange glow of dawn.

More

spectacularly,

the

neighbouring

mountains

of Cairn Toul and the Devil’s Point were brilliantly

illuminated by the same powerful orange light. With

this I became lost to the others. It was as if I was on my

own. Gradually, a deepening panorama appeared as

layer upon layer of mountains were revealed. This is the

day and hour I count as my coming of age as, with that

dawn, I understood that everything is connected, and I

am responsible for all I say and do. Seven years of pure

play were at an end.

Growing into my twenties I developed an increas-

ingly deep respect for this environment, although at

no point anticipating the life of a professional wildlife

photographer. A short stint as a skiing instructor proved

to be a false start as I chose the most dismal of snow-

less winters to launch my career. It provided opportunity

though, to increase my skills and confidence and to search

out the quieter and more distant corners of the range.

The advent of photography into my life brought

another step change.

A decade ago I made my first foray into the

Cairngorms with a digital camera, alone and without skis

in winter. Knowing these mountains have taken many

lives I proceeded with intense, nervous anticipation.

Away from Corrie Cas the surroundings seemed darker

and more forbidding, an unfamiliar landscape that

would dwarf any individual with its grandeur. After

many such adventures, I have an intimate knowledge

Bivouac on a fine evening.

3

of this same location, to the extent of recognising

the shapes and markings of individual boulders, but

without ever taking it for granted. I am still in awe of its

sheer scale and beauty.

My intention was to locate and photograph a

ptarmigan, the grouse-like bird found at and over 750

metres above sea level. How though, would I ever locate

a small white bird amongst the vast whiteness that

loomed ahead? Any small rock with a bit of snow on it

could be mistaken for one at a distance. Today I carry a

pair of Leica binoculars to scan the ground, but not then.

Searching, searching… until eventually something

moved, and my eye was drawn to a round shape on

top of a boulder, vaguely white against the whiter

background. Continued small movements confirmed

my guess and, as I ploughed laboriously through the

snow, it became apparent that this was indeed my first

photographic opportunity with a ptarmigan. My heart

raced and my hands shook with excitement, so much so

that I could barely adjust my camera settings. Happily,

it waited in quiet contemplation until I was snapping

enthusiastically away.

The absolute beauty of these birds continues

to leave me breathless. The hens have a pure white

plumage except for their black tail, and the cocks are

equally distinct with their smart black eye stripe. The

white plumage of both sexes is soft to the touch and

beautifully layered. This first encounter ended though,

on a clumsy, rather hasty, move from me that startled

the bird into flight. Over time, with persistence and

experience, I learned good fieldcraft and gained a better

understanding of their ways.

So the first pictures were taken and although I now

realise that these early attempts are far from perfect,

for me they were an early milestone on a journey that

would lead not only into full time employment but also

to a great sharing of such encounters with other people.

I do love the technicalities of photography, the

science, but to me wildlife photography transcends the

mechanics. Experiences are at least equally important.

To achieve them, we must be in the right place at the

right time. Can this be engineered? Some would say

not, but…

A black grouse lek, a name that comes from Sweden

and means a ‘gathering place’, their morning gatherings

for male sexual display and confrontation, is an

unrivalled arena for wildlife theatrics but special efforts

have to be made to reach them at the best time, which

Ptarmigan on blue background.

4

is dawn. With the rising sun, male black grouse gather to

perform the pre-historic ritual they repeat almost every

day of the year. My most memorable experience in the

Cairngorms, so far, came on my first dawn visit to a lek.

Finishing work early I drove to Tomintoul to meet a

guide who had agreed to take me to one. A bumpy drive

over moorland in a Land Rover left me disoriented, but

eventually we reached the edge of a field with night

closing in, and soon I was all alone in a draughty canvas

hide. In the middle of nowhere, with not a clue what

to expect, in a hide barely large enough for me and

my equipment, I found myself crouched on a foldaway

camp chair, wrapped in a sleeping bag. With no phone

reception I could neither call home nor listen to music. I

could do nothing but sit and wait out the night.

In the small hours, bored to distraction and frozen,

I left the hide to experience a night of eerie stillness.

The moon shone bright and the ground sparkled with

millions of tiny diamonds as light from my head torch

struck the frost, but it was too cold to stay outside the

sleeping bag for long. I shivered through the next few

hours, unable to find even a remotely comfortable

position to suffer in. Wishing only for it all to end, I

drifted off to sleep but was startled awake by whirring

wings and a hissing sound. Soon the air was filled with a

burbling noise so powerful I could feel it reverberating

in my chest. Scared of spooking whatever it was, it took

me an age to pluck up the courage to peer out of a small

opening in the canvas.

There was barely enough light to see by but, as my

eyes adjusted, I had the sense of white things moving, of

fluttering wings, and throaty sounds rising and falling.

When dawn broke the full spectacle of the black grouse

performance was revealed and the pictures were taken.

Winter’s icy grip.

5

Perhaps it was the context of solitude and suffering

that made it so special, but I think not. It was research

and preparation and the more-or-less predictable

rhythms of life itself.

In the spring of 2018, now an experienced, pro-

fessional wildlife photographer, I wanted to photograph

dotterel at sunrise and, knowing where they go,

attempted a solo recreation of that first overnight

bivouac on the high plateau. With only an old down-

filled sleeping bag for warmth, I rested fitfully and

wakened often to stare upwards at a ceiling of stars. The

night was still and peaceful, disturbed (if disturbed is

the word) only by the crock of a ptarmigan, although I

had the strange experience of hearing my ears hum as

they strained to listen for any hint of sound.

Drifting off I awoke to the mating call of a purple

sandpiper, one of our rarest birds. I had known where

they breed for some time, but due to the fragility of

their numbers (they’re classed as a Schedule One

species) I would never intentionally seek them out.

The dotterel at sunrise eluded me, but the experience

of the night will stay with me forever. Having gone

out to find something, I had found something else.

Somehow, I felt I had moved into yet another phase.

Nowadays, I often return with clients or friends,

often alone, to watch the high mountains and valleys

gradually reveal themselves as the sun rises, or as the

views close down at night. It was not love at first sight

but perhaps the most sustained loves are grown over

time and with gradual revelation. I have long since given

up any idea of knowing the mountains completely, but

my attachment is all the greater for a sense of mystery.

The Northern Corries especially have been both my

playground and place of work, but there has been a

deeper conversation. They have been a sort of nursery

of the mind.

There are fifty-five Munros in Cairngorm National

Park, including four of the five highest mountains

in Britain and Ireland. More than half the surviving

Caledonian forest is here, and native species are

plentiful, as are designated Ancient Woodland Sites.

The many large wetlands are havens for wildfowl and

some of our most successful breeding populations of

wading birds are located here. Data is easily found, but

this is not the place to present it.

This book is a selective record of my encounters in

and around Cairngorm National Park, giving special

attention to a few species that have captured my heart.

These encounters have all been emotionally charged

and memorable. Indeed, as I selected images from the

many hundreds captured over the years, I felt myself

transported back to the precise location, the exact

weather conditions, and the details of the subject’s

actions and expressions.

The Secret Life of the Cairngorms

is not intended to

be comprehensive and is certainly not data focused.

Rather it is a response, as Nan Shepherd and those

other authors made in their time. Mine though,

is the response of a working artist with a camera:

communion with a wild place and a hint at how the

place enters the person as much as the person enters

the place. Sentiment and anthropomorphism are

obvious traps, but the desirable reality is empathy

and the abandonment of self. My intention in the field

is to meet nature with all that I have that is human,

including the science of the camera, and so to become

more fully human. My intention in this book is to share

these experiences as intimately as possible.

7

Left

: Crested tit with larch background.

Above

: Red squirrel in Autumn.

9

The great running waters of the Cairngorms are the

Spey, that curls round the north side of the massif, and

the Dee, which flows south and then eastwards from

its source in the Lairig Ghru. Mighty rivers both, their

upper reaches are a walking challenge even for the very

fit. Of their many standing waters the greatest is Loch

Avon, which is close girt by mountains in the heart of

the range. In my youth I would stop to listen to its waves

lapping the shore.

My parents first brought me to the Cairngorms

when I was eight. Having signed me up to the Young

Ornithologists Club they regaled me with talk of the

returning ospreys at Loch Garten. I was beside myself

with excitement when they took me there, thrilled with

the prospect of osprey, oblivious to all other wildlife.

After meeting a group of osprey defenders, on the look-

out for egg thieves, we made our way to the observation

hide.

Viewing a bird on the nest, my whole being thrilled

with adrenaline and a sense of awe. Time and experience

can dull such feelings but for me, this species can

never be ordinary. Recently, I sat in the hide at Glen

Feshie only a few metres away from one, with my heart

beating so loudly I thought I might scare it away. It paid

no attention but continued picking at the trout it held

pinned to a branch by its claw. The osprey survives by

its fishing skills and the health of the Cairngorm waters

is imperative for its continuing survival. With a fair wind

it is here to stay.

Wherever the waters are, and whichever way they

flow, living creatures travel them. I was photographing

in the high reaches of Corrie Lochan, not far below

the plateau, when I heard the familiar chirruping of a

dipper. These tiny birds are dear to me but are the last

species I expected to find at such a height. A dweller

among streams, it would be searching for food where

LOCHS AND

RIVERS

Nesting sand martin.