DRUMOCHTER Pass may not be the most visually stimulating area of the Scottish Highlands but one thing is sure – man’s handiwork has done very little to improve it. I’ve even heard this high pass described as “dreary”.

A line of goosestepping electricity pylons, the Beauly to Denny powerline, march over the Inverness-shire/Perthshire boundary and run parallel to the busy A9 trunk road, which in turn runs parallel to a railway line and a Sustrans cycle path. A plethora of signposts line the roadside and mobile phone masts provide a highly intrusive welcome to a’ghaidhealtachd, the Highland region.

Drumochter may not be a Glen Coe or a Glen Torridon but it does have an aura of elemental grandeur, a 1500-foot mountain pass that is dominated by a porcine giant called the Boar of Badenoch.

The slopes of An Torc, to give it its Gaelic name, fall down to the glen in a sheer sweep of grassy ribs, stone chutes and scree gullies.

Even on dour days it can look impressive and in winter, under snow, it can appear positively Alpine.

The Boar and its partner, the Sow of Atholl, which lies on the south side of the Perth/Inverness-shire boundary, are the eastern extremities of the Dalnaspidal Deer Forest, an area that includes four Munros. Sgairneach Mor, Beinn Udlamain and A’Mharconaich form a horseshoe round the long reaches of Coire Dhomhain, and Geal Charn lies on its own, the high point on an offshoot ridge of A’Mharconaich.

Most hill-goers tend to ignore the less elevated Boar of Badenoch in favour of the higher Munro summits but discerning hill-walkers, and those who have climbed all the Munros, have realised the Boar of Badenoch makes a fine addendum to the three Coire Dhomhain Munros and makes a more practical finish to a high-level walk round the head of Coire Dhomhain.

The route from A’Mharconaich involves a fairly steep, but grassy, descent to a peat-hag riven bealach between the Munro and the Boar’s south-west ridge. The ridge provides easy walking over wind-clipped heaths and stones and leads to the long and curving summit ridge with the A9 and its dinky cars and trucks away below your feet.

The views up and down the length of Drumochter Pass emphasise what a natural feature it is and it’s easy to understand why General Wade thought it the obvious line for his military road back in the eighteenth century. Across the Pass, massive, curving slopes lead to the summit of A’Bhuidheanach Beag and the other bulky giants of the neighbouring Dalnacardoch Forest, and immediately to the south the meaty flanks of the Sow of Atholl, a Corbett, form a mirror image of her porky mate.

I guess most hillwalkers will go for the round of the four Munros – an area once known as the Druim Uachdair, the ridge of the upper ground – but I rather like to break this group into individual hills, so I’m going to describe the ascent of Sgearnaich Mhor. Tackling the four hills in one outing isn’t a difficult proposition, but the logistics of the approach does mean a walk along the Sustrans bike path that parallels the A9, either at the beginning of the day, or at the end, depending on where you park.

Living only a few miles to the north of Drumochter I can happily nip up these Munros for a bit of afternoon exercise and so it was last week when hard neve snow covered the slopes, making walking a joy.

I knew I wouldn’t have time to wander round all four Munros and was happy enough just to climb one, and make my way back to the car via Coire Dhomhain, the long rising glen that separates Sgearnaich Mhor from the other Drumochter Munros.

I found an easy river crossing before the long climb up Sgearnaich Mhor’s grassy north-east ridge. I was moving easily, feeling relaxed in the sun, cosseting myself by adjusting my walking stride to the relaxed rhythms of the day and in no time at all I was wandering along the lip of Coire Creagach, recalling a wee 

incident that occurred a few years ago, when I was ski touring over this hill with a couple of friends, John Love and Bob Telfer.

Thick mist covered the summit slopes and we were convinced we had skied past the summit cairn. We followed our ski tracks back, peering through the mist in search of the cairn, when Bob suddenly vanished from view. He had skied over the cornice.

Shocked, John and I peered over the edge to see Bob, legs and skis askew, hanging on just a few feet below us. Fortunately he hadn’t skied over the edge at the corrie’s steepest point. If he had, the outcome wouldn’t have been so happy. John, being the remarkably forthright guy that he is, told me later that the first thought to cross his mind was: “Damn it – I think Bob’s got the car keys!”

Cornices still hung over the edge, and great swathes of snow still lay in the corrie below. A pair of ravens kept me company, barking like dogs, calling to each other as they performed show-off acrobatics. To the south, Schiehallion stood proud, and the jumble of the Cairn Mairg hills and the Lawers hills were gleamed in their white shroud. Beyond lay the celestial twins of Stobinian and Ben More, and further north, through the haze, rose the Wall of Rannoch hills, the Glen Coe hills and, closer at hand, the snow-streaked Ben Alder massif.

There wasn’t a sigh, or a breath of wind – the stillness of the high places. I listened to try and capture a sound, any sound, but couldn’t, other than the faint pulse of the blood coursing through my own veins and the cry of the raven. Such silence is rare on a mountain top, and after a quick bite of lunch I lay back in the sun, closed my eyes, and instantly dozed off. It was wonderful.

On the long descent down the path in Coire Dhomhain the world felt like a better place. High above me a great herd of deer moved across the hillside, grazing contentedly in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

A skein of chattering geese reminded me spring wasn’t too far away and I felt pretty content, the exercise raising the levels of certain mood-enhancing neurotransmitters in the brain. Research has also shown that exercise may also boost feel-good endorphins, release muscle tension and reduce levels of the stress hormone cortisol. Indeed, it was the Harvard academic E O Wilson who once said: “Wildness settles peace on the soul because it needs no help. It is beyond man’s contrivance.”

I’ll go along with that.