Hello ... lo-lo-lo. The shout bounced on the ice like a pebble and rolled across the frozen loch until it met the pine trees on a small island. Then it drifted on the chilled air until we could hear a second and a third echo, as if a small child was standing on the far side of the ice, calling back at us.
My friends and I were the only living things making a noise in the snow and ice of the Highlands. The ospreys that are the symbol of the Cairngorms were sunning themselves in western Africa. The skiers and snowboarders were sheathed in the low cloud that hangs from the north face of the mountains. No walkers except us were out on this cold day, when the profound silence of a hard winter hung heavily over the landscape. We felt like the first – or the very last – people alive on earth.
This gift of solitude is easy to find in the eastern Highlands in winter, although you wouldn't know it if you tumble out of the sleeper train at Aviemore. The outdoor shops, restaurants and the Cairngorm Hotel are perpetually thronged. This village is a well-equipped base camp for winter tribes: snowboarders from Newcastle and Liverpool, skiing families and climbing couples laden with ropes. Every morning they climb on buses which grind up to the ski centre beneath Cairn Gorm, which has seen spectacularly good snow this year.
Setting out armed only with walking boots, crampons and one ice axe per person (serious climbers use two), we felt out of place. This fierce terrain seemed open only for adrenaline sports. Walkers tend to stick to less harsh conditions. Leaving the skiers and snowboarders behind, we walked into a white wilderness dotted with the occasional black grouse.
"Makes you want a whisky," said Steve, who would later befriend a Scotsman happy to introduce him to Glenlivet and other local malts.
Then we met a group of ptarmigan, supposedly elusive birds whose feathers turn white in winter. They pottered at our feet like plump pigeons.
Halfway up Coire an t-Sneachda, Gaelic for "Corrie of the snows", we lost our way. We were in thick, hard snow, and cloud, and the slope became precipitous. We realised the only other people at this altitude were climbers with ropes and beginners on snow survival courses learning how to use ice axes and assess the risk of avalanches. The Cairngorms are not to be taken lightly: almost every year climbers and walkers die on these slopes.
We were momentarily lost, a bit spooked, and I was alarmed when we had to retrace our steps: going up is always easier than coming down. But we were not as foolish as we seemed. One of our group was an experienced climber, I had done a basic snow and ice skills course, we were properly kitted out and we knew how to use our map and compass. We had checked beforehand that this route was possible just with crampons and an ice axe; ropes were not essential.
Hearts pounding, we carefully made our way down and started the ascent from scratch. This time, we found the correct path and, using the compass in the thick cloud, navigated to the top of Cairn Gorm. The weather station at the summit was an unrecognisable sculpture of ice and snow. Horizontal stalactites created by the unrelenting wind extended for metres from vertical posts. I've never felt wind-chill like it, not even inside the Arctic Circle. It was like being whipped. My stubble turned into the sort of ice beard a proper explorer would have been proud of.
Through the gloom, small groups of climbers materialised like wraiths, but we did not see another walker that day. Descending, we were catapulted out of our isolation when the clouds parted by Ptarmigan Station and scores of snowboarders and skiers came into view. I felt a twinge of envy as they swooped past us slow, two-legged beasts. But we savoured the rewards of a solitary wilderness and a smug sense of finding it without chairlifts.
On a high mountain, walking is sometimes constant faffing: removing layers when you get too sweaty, then putting them back on; checking the map, and consulting it again. But walking usually gives you the gift of seeing as much as you possibly can.
On the third morning, rather than spend another day in the clouds, we decided to devote two days to valley walks. We bimbled and dithered, trying to climb trees or cross streams, our nostrils full of the scent of pine branches that recent snowfalls had ripped from trees. We foolishly stepped on to frozen Loch Mallachie and stamped on the ice, sending a gunshot of an echo into the woods as perilous cracks danced through the ice beneath our feet. We told spooky stories in the gloom.
On the final day we walked up Gleann Einaich to Loch Einaich. As the twisted Scots pines gave way to heathery moors, the cloud lifted to reveal spectacular buttresses of dark rock, and snow-lined gullies pointing up to broad white peaks. There was no sign of human life, so I was disappointed that we'd seen only a few grouse and ravens. Then a vast, dark V-shape appeared high above us, circled and dipped its head to inspect us. It was unmistakably, a golden eagle.
At dusk, we retraced our steps down the valley. We'd seen no sign of deer for four days, but suddenly from every hill silhouettes of stags and their families appeared, keeping a watchful distance.
So walking has its moments of adrenaline, too. And it is hard to beat the sustained high from a long day in the mountains. My face glowed; my body and mind felt supremely rested. I am not sure what serious foodies would make of the meals I ate at La Taverna, the Italian in Aviemore, or the traditional meaty feasts of the Cairngorm Hotel, but each tasted like the greatest meal ever to pass my lips.
"OMG it's cold" came a text from London. That's nothing, I thought, memories of the cold still tingling in my mind as the sleeper train gently rocked its way home.
• A two-day introductory winter mountaineering course at Glenmore Lodge (01479 861256, glenmorelodge.org.uk) costs £275. ScotRail Caledonian Sleepers (scotrail.co.uk) from Euston to Aviemore cost from £19 one way. Cairngorm Hotel, Aviemore (01479 810233, cairngorm.com) has rooms from £44pp per night
Whiteout: Where to walk in snow in Britain
For walkers and mountaineers who want to walk in the white stuff in the UK, the reliable snow cover of the past two winters has been a godsend. Snow adds to the drama of the mountains and enhances your experience.
The first step to finding snow is knowing where it comes from and what makes it stick. Airflows that swing in on an arc from the north-west to the north-east bring the biggest falls. Scan forecasts, especially mwis.org.uk. Also try walking websites, the best of which is lfto.com. The best snow-holding locations are away from the warming influence of the sea, at a high altitude and with a north- or east-facing aspect.
Northerly latitudes and almost wall-to-wall mountain ranges make the Scottish Highlands the prime location for lasting snow. There are some shady corners of note in Garbh Choire in the Cairngorms which often hold snow all year, with snow fields forming the nearest thing Britain has to a glacier. To get there involves a long trek through the Lairig Ghru: it's a stunning trip in late spring or early summer, but a real epic in winter. The ski resorts tend to have good high-level access. Lifts at Nevis Range, near Fort William, and Cairngorm, near Aviemore, will whisk non-skiers up to the snow line. A neat trick for seeing where there's snow before you set off is to check webcams.
South of the border, the Lake District and the northern Pennines capture and hold snow. In the Lakes, the spine of the Helvellyn range and its easterly corries are reliable (there is snow there now), as are the central fells around Sty Head, between Wasdale and Borrowdale. In the Pennines, Cross Fell and the moors around Alston never fail to deliver a good covering. There are even a couple of club-run ski grounds with lifts and pistes. Again, check the webcams.
Further south, snow conditions become fickle. Snowdonia offers the best options. These mountains suffer from being close to the coast, but if you pick your time well the north- and east-facing cwms of Snowdon do a half-decent impression of the Alps under a blanket of snow.
If you are at all nervous, a winter skills course is an enjoyable must. Another way of gaining the skills is to employ a mountain guide or an instructor. Visit bmg.org.uk or ami.org.uk for details.
Finally, avalanches do occur in Britain. They happen most frequently directly after snowfall or during rapid thaws, and on slopes in excess of 25 degrees. The SportScotland Avalanche Information Service provides daily forecasts in season: sais.gov.uk.
Jeremy Ashcroft, mountaineering editor, Trail Magazine
