Inversions
An appreciation of place, moments and people above the clouds
inversion
in·ver·sion | \ in-ˈvər-zhən , -shən \
plural inversions
Definition
1: a reversal of position, order, form, or relationship: such as
a: a change in normal word order (especially: the placement of a verb before its subject)
b: the condition of being turned inward or inside out
c: an increase of temperature with height through a layer of air
The past week produced some fairly exceptional temperature inversions. On Sunday morning I left an icy, dark Glen Nevis with Fraser, Ruaraidh and Alan, aiming to be on top of Sgurr a’Mhaim for sunrise to catch some of this extraordinary December weather.
Our torches lit icy particles that brushed our faces as we moved through the mist, but we didn’t climb far before breaking through the cold and having to shed some layers. As we emerged we realised there was no longer any need for headtorches. The moon was full and bright behind us and a blanket of cloud cloaked the town and valley. Already it felt like we were entering a new realm.1
The field of white quartzite that precedes the summit always seems otherworldly, but even more so under moonlight. We ascended the north-west ridge with the sun rising in front, lighting the eastern Mamores while the moon still glowed behind.
There was a rare stillness up high and the interplay of light and sky and silence was breathless.
We stopped briefly to take it all in, before descending along Devil’s Ridge towards Sgor an lubhair then dropping into a glorious section that was like an alpine meadow. A water stop where a stream flows into a small lochan was followed by a short climb up to the summit of Stob Ban.
From here we took a slightly unconventional descent that involved an uncertain line or two over a craggy nub. There was a short section of blind, backwards down climb for Alan with a bit of exposure which resulted in, as he put it, “a wee shaky leg”. Looking back at what we’d come down that seemed to me like excessive understatement.
As we dropped into the valley the long grass and spindly trees of the lower slopes became white and frozen. Crashing through them made bizarre contrast to the warm, grassy wonderland we’d left up high.
It was a spectacular morning, and it got me thinking about inversion.
I’ll spare you the strung out metaphors I’ve been rolling around in my mind all week. Suffice to say that running has inverted my sense of place. Where once I was always half-wishing I was somewhere else, now I need to force myself to leave.
My goal in life was always to live somewhere where adventure, exploration, and the occasional spike of adrenalin could be part of the fabric of my daily life. Given my upbringing I always presumed it would involve living by the sea, attuned to the rhythms of winds and tides. But inadvertently I’ve found it here in Fort William. I never imagined that something as simple as running into the hills could give me what I needed.
I see the landscape in a way I was blind to before. I appreciate it more. I feel it more. In the past I’d look at maps and scythe them down to exposed coastlines only. If it wasn’t surfable, it wasn’t worth looking at. But this was undeniably short-sighted.
Sunday’s run was a perfect metaphor for this ignorance. We skipped along ridges and stood on summits with rising sun on our faces and falling moon at our backs. Everything was bathed in golden, ethereal light and it was warm and still. It seemed like a magical, secret land, yet just a couple of thousand feet below us the valley and the town were cloaked in freezing mist and darkness. You might understandably have woken up in Fort William that day and written it off as miserable.
I felt both exalted and saddened by this idea. On one hand I felt incredibly lucky to have the knowledge, physical ability and companionship that not only let me access this, but enhanced it. But on the other, I felt regret that more people couldn’t share it. As with many experiences I’ve had outdoors, I’m often left with an overwhelming sense that if more people could just see it and feel this sense of immersion and wonder, they would understand why it’s so valuable.
I feel connected to this place now. After nearly 15 years here I can legitimately call it home. Not because I have a family here, or a job or a house2, but because running has given me the means to connect, to find and see things that would otherwise have been hidden.
There’s something special about a nondescript corner of a stream where you know the water will be clear and silent. Even better if it’s a deep pool for secret summer swims. Coming across an unexpected copse can feel like your own personal oasis. You know you’re not the only person to ever be there, but you might go regularly for the rest of your life and never see anyone. If not for running I would never find these hidden corners that feel deeply personal, even intimate.
Beyond vertical rock faces or large bodies of water, no-where is off limits with running. It can take you places nothing else can. You might walk, of course, but that would be too slow and you’d never see a fraction of the land’s potential.
The swift quietness of moving on foot without boundaries leads to encounters with wild creatures you might never have. There’s a primordial joy in galloping down a hillside so close to a herd of deer that you feel their hooves thundering beneath your feet.
I’ll never forget the look in the eyes of a big dog fox as I came over a rise to interrupt him feeding on a carcass on the open hill. He sized me up and held my gaze for eight seconds or more until I could almost touch him, before he fled, bounding and wondering.
Running has made me more introspective. Perhaps also more introverted, but not wholly in a negative way. It feels almost meditative sometimes. I’ve worked a lot of things out, creative problems and otherwise. It affords me time to think like nothing else does.
But it’s also made me re-evaluate who I am. I recognised that I needed time alone, and I hadn’t always acknowledged or understood this. It doesn’t exactly square with commitments. But through running I can exorcise this character trait while still maintaining other aspects of my life. If not for being able to get outside regularly and feel like I’m doing something I struggle.
It’s not always easy to tread the line between disparate purposes like family and personal or creative goals, but it’s worth striving for. Without any one I couldn’t appreciate the others with such intensity. And I understand that it’s the simple act of going running that helped me to find balance I’d been searching for all my life.
What I did last Sunday was no great feat of athleticism or strength, and nothing unique. It was quite simply just beautiful, and even that would be enough. But I’m conscious of context. The gift of being able to do something like this and be home before breakfast to have a day with my family is not lost on me.
In the end it was just a run up a hill with some good friends. It was nothing special.
Except it kind of is, and it’s worth acknowledging that.
This is the tune I had in my head all morning and the rest of the day -
Though all important, clearly!