“No one knows the mountain completely who has not slept on it. As one slips over into sleep, the mind grows limpid; the body melts; perception alone remains. One neither thinks, nor desires, nor remembers, but dwells in pure intimacy with the tangible world.”
Nan Shepherd – The Living Mountain
I love a good sleep, me. I need a solid eight hours or I’m no use to anyone. If I don’t get a good night’s kip, if the dog starts chasing possums at two o’clock, or I suddenly remember the tax return is due last month, then the consequences are dire. I shamble through the following day like something from the Walking Dead, only less open to compromise.
Out on the mountain in winter it’s a different story. It gets dark early, I crawl into my sleeping bag. I never take iPods, earbuds, movies, music or books with me on a hike. I’m out on the mountain to be out on the mountain, so why carry around the added burden of a bunch of the sort of entertainment I get at home. I just lie there and drift, recounting the day, listening, drowsing. It’s a luxury.
Sleep is patchy. I grab an hour here and an hour there. The wind rattles the tent, it has changed direction since I pitched up and now the rain is hitting the side with the door. I try to judge the heaviness of the rain by its sound. Maybe it’s snow. Sounds granular, like it’s sliding off the surface with a faint hissing noise. Behind the gentle swish of snow I’m now aware of the trickling sound from the tiny burn off to my left. Didn’t notice that before.
I drift away again and I’m woken some time later by chewing next to my ear. I listen to the ripping of grass. I passed some goats further down the hillside yesterday afternoon. Now they’re being sociable. Or maybe they’re highland cows. Or stags. I remember the valley where the stags stood and glared at me as I trudged past. I glide across the valley in my mind, moving effortlessly, no rucksack to hold me down now. It’s getting light, so I lie and drift for a while longer listening to the munching, the wind, the snow, the burn.
How many hours did I get? I’ve no idea, but I feel rested and alert in a way that I rarely feel when I sleep inside. My drifting hypnagogic state is like meditation: my senses are super alert but my conscious mind has more or less flat-lined and my body has definitely “melted” as Nan puts it. For centuries artists and thinkers have used this hypnagogic state, where the conscious and subconscious seem to gently slosh together, as a key to creative idea generation. I guess I’m no different.
Whatever the case, this passage of Nan Shepherd’s is the most perfect description I’ve ever read of the experience. Our productivity-obsessed society places too much emphasis on doing. Being busy all the time makes it hard to experience what it feels like to be alive and connected to the environment around you. Truly. The mountains give you permission to just be, so If you spend time hiking, running or biking in the mountains, make sure you turn Strava off at some point and stop for a nap.
You can thank me later.
