“IRN-BRU & The Storr” (c) 2005-2007 Stu Jenks
[Images: "The Old Man and The Storr" & "The Giant's Chair and The Storr"
My flashlight batteries are weak. Who would have thought, foiled by an old pair of AA.
The pine forest is so thick that the rising Full Moon barely breaks through the branches overhead. And I’m cold, and tired.
It’s getting around midnight. I stop along the trail and consider and then reconsider. Go back to the Royal Hotel in Portree, says the quiet voice within. I know it’s right. I almost stepped off the trail just a few feet ago, and more importantly, my major moonlight photography is going to be tomorrow night at Callanish. This was just an afterthought after dinner tonight. I need to be reasonable fresh for tomorrow night.
I turn around and head back down to my VW parked in the car park off the single track. Tomorrow I think. Tomorrow.
I awaken before dawn, like a small child on Christmas morning. I have a lot to do today. Hike up the Storr, drive around Skye a bit, and get to the ferry dock at Uig no later than 1:30 for the 2:00 o’clock to Talbert and the Isles of Lewis and Harris. Can’t miss the ferry. I already paid big bucks for the ticket and it’s the only ferry to Lewis and Harris today. Can’t just catch the next one.
I make myself a cup of Earl Gray. Ever since Ben made me a cup within minutes of my arriving at Helen’s Willesden Green flat after my 10-hour flight from The States, I try to have Earl Gray whenever I can. I bought some tea in Inverness yesterday, and some milk last night at the Somerset’s Grocery around the corner. I’m good to go. Ah, still a couple of scones left over from last night. Lovely. Christ, I am in the UK only a few days, and I’m now using words like ‘lovely’. I watch some BBC Scotland on the tube, finish my tea, and take my gear out to the car. Besides one suitcase with my clothes and such, I have another suitcase with just camera equipment, and another larger one with just my hiking boots, my full winter North Face jacket, my Camel Bak water pack and one of my Christmas Light Hoops. Amazingly enough, the hoop got through customs, it being a circle of heavy wire, with a hundred lights wrapped around the hoop and four plastic boxes blacktaped to the hoop where the C batteries go. I can just picture the alarms going off on the big X-Ray machines in every airport baggage area that my luggage passed through. Before I flew out of Tucson, I put a copy of one of my hoop images, “The Three Surrenders” on top of it along with a typed written note:
“To whom it may concern:
My name is Stu Jenks and I’m a professional photographer.
This is a lighting instrument that I use in my work.
Thanks for your consideration”
When I first unpacked my stuff at Helen’s in London, I notice that someone had taken the batteries out of the black boxes, but the hoop was in good shape. Life is good, even in these times of Extreme Terrorist Fears. I don’t particularly have those fears, but it seems like most of America does. Anyway, I have the hoop with me in Scotland, ready to cross over on the ferry to the Outer Hebrides and hopefully do some hoop dancing among the stones tonight.
Car’s packed. Sun’s barely up. Bought a bad cup of coffee across the street. I really should stick with tea. Like ordering Mexican food in Chapel Hill, N.C. in the 70's. Hiked around town for a few more minutes just to breathe in the dawn.
One last stop now before I leave Portree. AA batteries, some more scones and a six pack of IRN-BRU from Somerset’s.
Aye, IRN-BRU.
Last night I remember talking with Emma, a raven-haired lovely who works as a desk clerk at the Royal Hotel.
“Stu, have to tried IRN-BRU yet?” said Emma, speaking in her sexy brogue. We've been talking about food and drink. I believe I had just mentioned the Earl Gray up in my room.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Ah, it’s a Scottish soft drink. Very tasty. We all drink it.”
“What’s it taste like?” I ask.
Emma pauses for a second. She quite a lovely girl. I’d guess in her twenties. Black hair. Fine features. Sweet face. A fine looking Scottish lassie.
“Hard to describe, it is. Made partly with Quinine Water. Try it. I think you’ll like it,” she said.
“I will. Thanks, Emma.”
“No bother,” she says, smiling a little at me. A lovely girl.
I’ve gotten my batteries, my scones, my IRN-BRU. Car’s load. Plenty of gas. Time to head for The Storr, that rocky ridge that I attempted to climb last night. But first, I open a bottle of Diet IRN-BRU for the road.
Good fizz. I sniff the bouquet through the narrow opening in the bottle, as if it was a fine wine. Sweet but bitter. Hmm. I take a long draft.
“This stuff is great,” I say to the interior of the Volkswagen.
A blend of bitters and Quinine and something I can't place (I found out later that only two board members of Barr’s Brewery know the secret ingredient that give IRN-BRU its distinctive flavor). This is a wonderful soft drink, I think to myself. Then again, I drink Tab at home.
I start the car, and back up, not knowing whether to look over my right shoulder or my left as I go in reverse. Another day of shoulder driving I suppose. I turn on the heat a bit, and take another long draft of the brew.
“Oh man,” I say.
“I need to import some of this when I get back home” [Note from Tucson: I bought a case just a couple of days ago. A.J.’s, a luxury grocery store owned by Eddie Basha, ordered me some. I cost me a fortune. Worth every penny.]
I take another sip as I leave Portree, driving slow on its tiny narrow streets. No traffic at all. Just me.
Before too long, I’m out of town and on the Single Tracks.
[A little discussion on Single Tracks on the Isle of Skye.
Unlike the single tracks on the mainland, these one-lane roads go on for miles and miles. Due to the relatively treeless terrain of most of Northern Skye, you can see approaching traffic from a long way off, day or night, but it is a little hairy when you are cresting a blind hill at 30 to 40 miles an hour. I just got in the habit of pulling over into the Passing Place at the top of the hill, just in case. Then again, the person approaching on the other side could do the same thing. No matter. We would just have a gentle head on collision as we were both putting on our brakes. And throughout my stay on Skye, this was a great way to be polite to folk and make friends too. I would see someone coming toward me and I would always get in the Passing Place closest to me, rather than wait for them to getting in their nearest pulloff. A couple of times, we would both pull off at the same time, me in mine, they in theirs, and I would blink my high beam letting them know to come on down. Except for the occasional European tourist, everyone would wave as they passed me. One last thing: I discovered you could always tell the locals from the tourists by how the Skye folk flew down the Single Tracks and the Two Laners. They would just barrel down the road. Makes sense to me. I remember when I lived in the mountains of North Carolina, I would go at high speed down winding mountain roads because I had driven down them innumerable times, for they were the only way to get from one place to another. The little road was the main road. I could almost drive them blind. Did a few times blind drunk. And at night, I would drive even faster than in the day, for I could see forever. It’s the same here on Skye. There is only one road to Uig, one road to Staffin, one road around the entire edge of the Northern Skye. Another road that cuts across the high ridge of The Trotternish to get to Uig too. A few local streets in the little villages here and there and that’s about it for hardtop. If you grew up here, you could drive these roads with your eyes closed as well.]
The drive's dramatic this morning. The Big Sound on my right, the ridge of the Trotternish beginning on my left. The rough high cliffs and outcroppings of The Storr straight in front of me. Within a few minutes, I’m back at the parking lot I was at last night, this time I see a hatchback parked there and a middle aged man fiddling with some camera gear. Shot. I was hoping to be alone this morning. As I park my car, I check out the guy. Tall, stocky, salt and pepper hair. The vibe is fine. Hmm. Let’s not prejudge, Stu, I think to myself.
I start up a conversation with this fellow. Name’s Rob. From down by Glasgow. Hiked to the top of the Storr this morning and took some early morning shoots. Nicest guy you'd ever meet. We talked about some camera geek stuff for a while (Speed of films, medium format cameras, etc. I rarely talk about this technical stuff. Frankly it usually bores me to tears.) After talking about some night photography experiences, I then tell Rob a little secret.
“I actually make quite a bit of money using a 50 year old Kodak Brownie.” I say.
He scrunches up his forehead.
“I’ll show you,” I say.
I got to the backseat of my rental and grab my Brownie. As I walk to him, I unzip the camera case it’s in, and then take out the old camera and hand it to him to inspect.
“Wow,” he says, gingerly cradling the camera in his big hands and then handing it back to me.
“And the lens is really good,” I say, “Not too sharp, not to soft. It takes 127 film too, and the only place that makes 127 anymore is a factory in Croatia. Ain't that something. High silver content. 100 ASA. Really great film.”
“You don’t say,” he says with a smile on his face.
Rob continues,“Just goes to prove that it isn’t the equipment you use, but what you do with the camera."
“You bet,” I say to him. I’m smiling now too.
We talk some more about the places he’s been over the years in the Highlands. I get out my Scotland road map at one point and he points out his favorite spots on the mainland. Not on my way to anywhere, but they look nice on the map. Next trip to Scotland I think.
We laugh and laugh some more, but then I’m suddenly aware of the time. The ferry in my future. Gotta get up The Storr.
Just then another car pulls into the lot, and this time I recognize its occupants. It’s the foursome from London that I met on the plane to Inverness. Two couples. The couple I wish I had sat next to, were in the seats behind mine. The couple I ended up sharing the flight with were truly odd ducks. He, a nurse in London, Her, I don’t know. Nice enough people but they had come to Skye to party. I hadn’t. I saw them on the streets last night in Portree and waved and smiled but didn’t stop and chat. Just had a bad feeling. Not that they are bad folk. Hardly. Just that we had very different goals for our stay on Skye. Mine, spiritual. Theirs, more about spirits.
“You been following us again, aye,” says the nurse with the shaved head.
“Been waiting here a while for y'all to show up,” I say. He laughs. So do I.
“I should get ready to go up to the Storr,” I say now to Rob.
The nicer couple of the foursome waves at me from across the car park. I wave back. Within minutes, they have the packs slung on their backs and they are loudly walking into the forest and up the hill. I wait just a bit for them to get ahead of me, and then I grab my Camelbak, stick my Brownie in its pouch, and put it on my back. Finally I sling the Rollei over my right shoulder and grab my tripod. Got a feeling I’d regret not taking this old boy up there today.
I lock up the Volkswagen and go and say goodbye to Rob.
“It really has been great to talk with you, Rob.”
“You too, Stu. Have a great time today,” Rob says, rolling his ‘R’s on the word ‘great’.
“Shot me an e-mail if you like some time," I say, "I’d love to see the pics you shot today.”
“All righty,” he says.
I smile. I love the Scots.
“Be well,” I say.
“Same to ya,” says Rob.
I enter the pine forest.
The path is easy and clear. A small stream flows to my right.
This is a new forest, planted by the government, I’m guessing twenty, thirty years ago. The forest is dense and tight, with a soft loamy texture to its floor, where decades of needles have fallen. As I climb high into The Wood and spaces open up in the trees, I see that the trees are now having trees; small saplings growing in the clear spots, and then I notice, that I’m not just walking through any pine forest.
I’m walking through a Scotch Pine forest.
A forest of Christmas trees.
I climb the well marked trail for a few more minutes and then the forest abruptly end. The end of the Government planting. I look down and notice at my feet, a brightly knitted stocking cap. A Boo Boo cap I call them. I pick it up, take off my Krispy Kreme baseball cap and put on this new cap. Too small for me. Bet it belongs to the Wild Bunch ahead of me. I stow it in my small backpack and continue upward.
The hike is steep but easy. The sun hasn’t broken through yet. Maybe will. Maybe won’t. The air is so wet, so sweet, like nothing we have at home. (I bet Scotsmen come to Tucson and say ‘The air is so dry, so delightful’). The footing is what I’ll later discover is called Peaty. Soft, spongy peat but give a good grip for my boots and has a delightful scent. Up ahead, I notice I’m gaining ground on the foursome. All but one has on a Boo Boo hat. Only the sweetest girl of the pack is without headgear. Within a few minutes, I’m close enough that they can see me across the high Moor. The Sweet Girl happens to turn around and sees me. I wave her hat over my head. Even at this distance I can see her smile and she begin to walk down toward me. We met halfway.
“I bet this belongs to you," I say, “ You are the only one of your group without a hat.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you so much,” She says.
“You are more than welcome.”
She puts on her stocking cap, smiles and head back toward her friends. I notice her boyfriend smiles at me from up on the hill. He waves. I smile and wave back. Maybe I’ve misjudged these folk, or at least half of them.
“Well, I’ve done my good deed for the day,” I quietly mumble to myself. Maybe it’ll be a little good Karma in the bank for later tonight, when I’m shooting at Callanish.
The trail is steeper now. The wind’s picking up. Before too long, I’ve caught up to the four folk at a small saddle. A craggy black rock formation call “The Old Man” looms over our heads. One of the four is clawing his way up a black talus slope to the south. I say a brief hello to everyone and keep walking, hoping to get ahead of them. I pick up my pace and quickly climb to an area that is roughly at the same level as the top of The Old Man. Dark, pitted, a knurled tower of rock. Like something out of Mordor, yet ancient, wet and beautiful. Unlike anything that we have at home.
I press on and soon the foursome are way out of sight. A few sheep, their backs stained with orange and green dye spots, are grazing nearby off to my right. (The spots come marking harnesses that are attached to the inside of mating rams’ thighs, rubbing their pigments on the backs of the ewes, so that shepherds know when the lambs are coming. Wonder what the ewes think of all this, having a stain after being fucked?) The wind whistles by my ears, and then I stop and hear an odd sound. The sound much like that of fabric being ripped down a seam. There it is again, and again. What in God’s name is making that sound?
Then I look toward a group of seven sheep, just downhill of me and I get my answer.
Each ewe is grabbing the grass with her teeth and tearing it, seemingly from its roots. Rip, chew. Rip, Rip, chew. Garrison Keillor was right. Sheep aren’t particularly nice animals.
Just the sheep, the wind and I now. No direct sun but the clouds is just wind clouds not rain clouds so a good deal of light is filtering through. Fifteen minutes of hiking pass and I’m at a mini saddle about halfway up The Storr. I consider going to the top, then quickly reconsider. Don’t have the time. The Uig Ferry and all. Plus there’s something I’ve learned about hiking over the years, at least for me. Sometimes the best view is halfway up the mountain, not at the top. Sure, you do get the big 360 degree view from the top, but mostly it’s my Ego just wanting to bag the big hill. But halfway up, you have the view down to the valley below but also the view up to the ridge or the peak above. And for me, there is often this sheltered feeling with being halfway up, of being held by the land. I like that feeling. I like it a lot. I’m feeling it right now.
The land here is wonderful, with the muted light, the thick short grass growing out of the peat, the knarled black rocks, and the ever-present view below of the Inner Sound to the East and the open sea to the North. I wander off the trail to a little hill a hundred yards away and set up the Rollei on its tripod. I frame a shot with the Sound, the Old Man, the Christmas Tree Forest below. Red #25 filter to pop the contrast. I cock the shutter. I pop an exposure or two.
Leaving the Rollei, I grab the Brownie and check out some options. Frame this way. No. Another. Not that either. I sling the little camera over my shoulder and just wander around this grassy hill. Then I notice what looks like a small chunk having been taken out of the side of the hill just below the crest. Grassy on its seat, rocky on its back, like a large chair for a giant. I settle into this earthly furniture and take in the North Sea. I light a smoke.
It doesn’t get any better than this.
After I wake up from a long daydream, I notice a shot or at least a possible one. A four piece, with the back of the giant’s chair at the right, the Sound on the left. I measure it in the viewfinder. Might work. I squeeze off each exposure, working from left to right, lining up the horizon line as best I can. The wind picks up. I stop and wait for it to die down before I click the shutter again. It is a slow shutter, you know. There. Calmer now. Click. Click. Last frame. Click.
Another pass? No, I think. That’ll do.
I settle back into the Big Chair and look north again.
Out to Sea.
And breathe in deep, the sweet peaty wind.
http://www.stujenks.com/gallery/megaliths/giantschair.html
http://stujenks.typepad.com/photos/megaliths_and_sodapop_los/oldmanofstorr.html
