Having returned from 11 days in Scotland, I can see how landscapes form people. On the Outer Hebrides, the farthest western islands in Great Britain, the weather is cool even in summer. While the rest of Europe baked in the 90s and above this summer, the Outer Hebrides stayed in the 50s and 60s. With almost no landmass between the Hebrides and Canada, the winds attack the islands with a vengeance.
While Colorado boasts that it has 360 days of sunshine a year, the Hebrides probably gets 360 days of rain. A good weather day on the Hebrides is when it’s either raining or windy but not both. It feels like you are constantly fighting the weather, even when you’re dressed from head to toe in rain gear.
To survive there requires a certain amount of resilience. When I asked our B&B host what winters are like, considering that it rains consistently in the summer, she said the rain in winter is horizontal, and there are no sunny “spells”—small interludes of sunshine.
It’s not just the weather that is harsh, but the land itself is dark: peat bogs cover much of the islands, and the rocks that emerge from the hillsides are black. Even the rivers (left) that spill through the valleys are dark brown, probably from the peat. While some of the valley bottoms were still green going into fall, much of the land was brown. Even with the constant rain, there’s not enough sunlight to encourage life.
Only the beaches are light, almost dazzling in this dark landscape, created from finely ground seashells, churned up and polished. Even, or especially, on a rainy day, they beckon. In the fall, the purple heather also brightens the landscape, along with the white fur of the hardy sheep. And it is any surprise that all the houses are white or beige?
I think of the Colorado mountains as a harsh landscape: all this granite softened by only a few species of trees. But compared to the Hebrides, Colorado is mild and welcoming, especially with our sun-filled ponderosa and aspen forests. The Hebrides is a treeless landscape, partly a result of human destruction, sheep grazing and a northerly climate that discourages most plant growth.
When I came back to Colorado and the cabin, I was astonished by the ease of the landscape. There’s a softness here, among the aspen leaves, just starting to turn golden; the deep blue of the sky; and the tall grasses stirring on the east side of the cabin, still green. Unlike the Hebrides, where I was constantly taking refuge in the car to get out of the wind and rain, at my Colorado cabin, I can bask for hours outside.
Perhaps in response to their harsh climate, the Scottish are practical, down-to-earth and soft-spoken people, almost as if they are beaten down by the weather. On trains and buses, even in restaurants, conversations are subdued, if they take place at all. There is no place for frivolity. Even on a lonely trail, people don’t look at each other, keep their heads down.
Back in the U.S, I was surprised when people smiled at me, greeted me on a trail with a smile or hello. At the cabin, it felt good to have my neighbors stop by to inquire about my trip or just wave as they drive by.
I loved the wildness of the Hebrides—the rugged coastlines, the purity of the beaches, the emptiness of the land. But Colorado has a clear light that seems depthless, especially in these early fall days. For these next few weeks, before the snows come, I’m going to let myself sink into this warmth and light.