The Solitude of the Wilderness: A Young Soul’s Journey into Wilderness Survival
At sixteen, I embrace the wilderness, finding solace in the solitude of nature’s embrace. Evenings are spent by the flickering fire, tanning animal skins and carving wood, each act a sacred ritual.
In the remote serenity of the Isle of Skye, I have discovered my sanctuary. Here, I dwell alone in a tipi, shrouded in secrecy, hidden from the world. Some might find it unusual for one so young, but my spirit finds peace in solitude, and my heart is dedicated to preserving the wild spaces that nourish our souls. Raised by my mother, Ghillie, and my sister, Yazzie, in the rugged heart of the Cairngorms, our home was an island of isolation, often reachable only by cross-country skis, our lifeline for food and supplies.
My mother, a creator of cookbooks, taught us the ways of the wilderness—the beauty and the peril—then set us free to explore from a tender age. Our adventures took us to distant lands, living among remote tribes, as Mother gathered the essence of their culinary secrets. Immersed in these ancient ways, living off the land became second nature to me. So, when I earned a place at the School of Adventure Studies on Skye, I chose the tipi life, embracing the teachings that define my existence.
My bed is a relic, an ancient canvas camp bed, a gift from my grandfather, layered with old army blankets and skins I tanned myself from roadkill, offering warmth. Nights are spent by the open fire, tanning skins, carving wood, each stroke of the blade a meditation. My clothes and books reside in an old metal trunk of my mother’s, adorned with travel stickers, memories of her journeys. I wash my clothes in the river, letting the wind or the fire’s heat dry them. The river also provides water for my bush shower.
At dawn, I rise at six, kindling the fire with flint and steel. Often, embers from the previous night’s fire spark new life into the flames. Breakfast is simple—cereal or bannock that I bake myself. I gather kindling for the day, wash in the river, sometimes leaping in despite the frost, the tipi’s warmth welcoming me back like a lover’s embrace.
With my backpack ready, food and gear packed, I bank the fire, keeping it low but alive, and embark on a 30-minute walk to school. Our class of twelve, diverse in age, recently mastered mountaineering in the Red Cuillin. Next, we embrace the challenge of whitewater kayaking.
Peril has been my companion. Once, caught in sudden bad weather in the hills, I remained calm, guided by Mother’s teachings. Recently, during a two-day test on the Trotternish Ridge amidst a fierce storm, the whiteout was so intense we could barely see our feet as we pitched tents. Some were evacuated, but I, at home in the mountains, welcomed the challenge, ever mindful of the dangers that command our respect.
Childhood friends, accustomed to our wild ways, delighted in visiting our home, and I hope they will visit me again soon. When asked if I miss the internet, I must say I never relied on it much, nor did I watch television. Though sociable, I have always cherished my solitude.
Every few weeks, I use my mobile to connect with friends and my mother, whom I see monthly when I return to the Cairngorms. I collaborate with Willow Lohr, a bushcraft expert, teaching survival skills. I also visit a small tribe of bushmen in Namibia, exchanging ancestral knowledge to keep our traditions alive.
What I do may not be for everyone, but it brings me profound joy. I wish more people would cherish the land, embrace the elements, and learn to survive. My dream is to master western riding and run my own wilderness school, traveling on horseback. Once my studies conclude, I will return the tipi to my mother’s home, where it will serve for tanning skins. Until then, my happiest moments are spent by the flickering fire, carving a spoon in serene silence, and gazing at the northern lights through the open door of my tipi.