On Wikipedia you will learn the Scottish mountain A’ Mhaighdean is ‘most easily accessible from Poolewe’.
When I read this, I realised why my university lecturer so insistently banned citations from this online, and publicly editable, encyclopedia. Because, without a sinew of doubt, I’m sure whoever wrote that particular entry has never accessed A’ Mhaighdean from Poolewe in their life.
Buried deep within Fisherfield Forest in the north-west Highlands, A’ Mhaighdean (pronounced ‘uh-vay-jian’) is widely regarded as Scotland’s most remote Munro, and it's number one on the Trail 100 bucket list.
From the mountain’s 967m summit, it is 8 miles to the village of Kinlochewe, 9½ miles south of Dundonnell, while Poolewe lies 10 miles to the west – and that’s as the crow flies. A single-day attempt at climbing A’ Mhaighdean from Poolewe would equate to a monstrous 27-mile out-and-back route.
The A832, meanwhile – one of Britain’s most scenic driving roads – traces an epic 60-mile horseshoe around the wider Fisherfield region. This superlative highway encircles a 600km² abyss, an expanse roughly 30km² superior to the Isle of Man, and A’ Mhaighdean sits bang in the middle of it.
Fisherfield Forest itself, along with the adjoined Letterewe Estate, is aptly nicknamed ‘the Great Wilderness’. Entirely uninhabited, this rugged mountain country is overwhelming in vastness, humbling in beauty, and majestic in just about every other sense.
What all this leads me to say is this enchanting neck of the Scottish Highlands makes for an unforgettable bikepacking adventure.
Read LFTO's beginner's guide to bikepacking.
Pack light, ride big
No, I didn’t misspell ‘backpacking’ in that previous sentence. If you've never come across the term bikepacking, fear not; neither had I before doing it. Simply, bikepacking is the synthesis of lightweight backpacking and mountain biking.
See it as just another take on mountain-focused adventure, and one that can wildly broaden your hillwalking range. With the aid of two wheels, the most remote and hard-to-reach mountains are suddenly made accessible.
Ben Alder, Seana Bhraigh, Lurg Mhor and Beinn Dearg are some other of Scotland’s more isolated Munros, but swap boots for bike and a lengthy walk-in becomes a manageable approach. And the true beauty of bikepacking is that these places are, by default, often among the most far-flung, pristine and less-visited landscapes in Britain.
But rest assured that to try bikepacking you absolutely needn’t be a seasoned, hardcore mountain biker. I certainly wasn’t. So long as you can cycle without stabilisers, you’re good to go
Getting on track
On a sweetly warm summer day I fiddled with my bicycle and tinkered with my rucksack in a car park in Poolewe. A hint of sea breeze filled my nostrils as I made my final preparations.
Attached to my bike were three luggage bags: one on the handlebar, another under the saddle and a final pack strapped to the frame of the bike. As when packing a rucksack, some thought should go into filling the bike luggage to ensure the added weight is suitably distributed.
Satisfied with my packing regime I threw on my backpack, swung my leg over the bike seat and took leave of Poolewe. My destination was Carnmore bothy, a 10-mile ride away. Almost instantly I noticed the bike felt sluggish under the burden of my backpack and the trio of affixed bags – like an encumbered mule on wheels.
Freewheeling
The first leg of my journey was on level tarmacked path. Like a Formula One driver on a warm-up lap, I zigzagged across the path’s smooth surface and soon became accustomed to the bike’s heavy handling.
Mercifully, the early going was unchallenging and I was soon coasting along the path, which runs parallel to the River Ewe. I cruised past a lone angler, stood knee-deep in the resplendent waterway, fly-fishing for salmon.
Being located by the coast, Poolewe sits only a few metres above sea-level and I appreciated the flatness of the land. I was conscious to make the most of any level or downhill ground where I could pedal without effort, especially given the more strenuous terrain lying ahead.
Before long I was in open country, riding on gravelled tracks, passing forgotten lochs as the first peaks of the Great Wilderness grew above the horizon. I cycled into the dense Kernsary Forest and, save for an impossibly boggy section and a fallen pine blocking the track, emerged the other side without incident.
Exiting the forest felt significant as the route evolved into a singletrack stalkers’ path, posing a more technical challenge to the mountain biker. Still, my bothy was now just six miles away, up roughly 250m of ascent.
Riding wild
The next three hours of cycling were the most thrilling of my life. The landscape was like nothing I’ve seen before in the UK, a feral rocky amphitheatre more akin to an Arctic tundra than a British wilderness. If you’re wondering why it took me three hours to ride just six miles though, it’s because of two things: culverts and eagles.
The former proved to be my sole frustration on this expedition. The drain-like culverts, which allow water to run off the hills, were frequent in number and tantalising in width. Some I could comfortably bunny-hop while others were just too wide, forcing me to dismount and lift the bike over the gap; thus zapping energy and quashing momentum.
After hopping several of the narrower culverts I became complacent and predictably misjudged one that was too wide. The bike’s rear tyre smashed into the culvert’s unforgiving lip, causing an immediate puncture.
It was an emphatic blowout that might have deflated more than just the tyre, but my mood was lifted by the second reason this six-mile leg took longer than anticipated. Fisherfield Forest is a known lair for Britain’s two eagle species, the white-tailed and the golden, and having never seen either my anticipation was feverish.
More than a dozen times I halted the bike to train my binoculars on a dark figure in the sky, only for it to be a raven or buzzard (or ‘tourist eagle’ as Highlanders dub them). My optimism had begun to wane and then, way off in the distance, a black speck circled.
The subject grew larger, much larger, as it approached. And then there was no mistaking her, and her eight-foot wingspan. The white-tailed eagle, the UK’s largest bird of prey, soared above me in deadly silence. I watched this beast, an empress of the skies, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, before she glided behind some crags and out of view.
I stood frozen to the spot. I could have yelled with delight, but not wanting to disturb Fisherfield’s serenity instead threw a giant fist pump into the air.
Eventually my bothy came into view, situated a 45-minute cycle away at the foot of two imposing rock buttresses, Carn Mor and Sgurr na Laocainn. I crossed a raised causeway where the five-mile-long Fionn Loch meets Dubh Loch.
A sign outside welcoming all climbers and hikers provided a warmly inviting feel to the place too. After a boil-in-the-bag dinner, I whiled away my evening repairing my bike’s punctured inner tube, listening to Johnny Cash numbers and wondering why I was yet to see a single tree in Fisherfield Forest.
Back on foot
I opened the bothy door at first light to see the castellated A’ Mhaighdean, like a bastion of Fisherfield, standing sentry over the land; looming above Dubh Loch with an almighty presence. The morning was cool and clear, and leaving the bike at the bothy I set off on foot, approaching the great Munro via its north-west ridge.
Height was gained rapidly, and beads of sweat began to race down my forehead. I disrupted the glassy surface of Fuar Loch Beag to splash its icy water over my face. After overcoming a series of rocky knolls, the ridge stopped abruptly at a cliff, beyond which two insurmountable rock towers intercepted my path.
I was at roughly 870m with the summit less than one kilometre away, but further progress appeared impossible. After a moment of panic, I discovered the trail backtracked before disappearing down a steep scree gully on my left, bypassing the craggy skyscrapers.
Progress from here was easy and just before reaching the summit I made a remarkable discovery. Lying among rocks, concealed but to the most curious eyes, was a 20-inch feather. A discarded plume from the wing of a golden eagle. The thing was huge, its quill the width of a man’s thumb. I stowed the treasure carefully into my pack before the wind claimed it.
I was soon overwhelmed on the summit of A’ Mhaighdean, humbled by what must be the best view in Britain. “That is bonkers,” I announced to myself as the vista stretched out in front of me. I could see forever and beyond, so much so the point where land met sky was an unfathomably distant blur.
I stood there for what seemed like an age, ensuring the picture stayed etched in my mind. The sight of another eagle, this time a ‘goldie’, snapped me from my trance. It drifted overhead, passing just 100m above – and perhaps one feather light.
The neighbouring Munro, the crag-girt dome of Ruadh Stac Mor, was a short distance away. I descended the grassy north-eastern slopes of A’ Mhaighdean and crossed the boulder-strewn bealach. The southwest face of Ruadh Stac Mor is sheer and seemed an improbable climb, but there was a straightforward scrambling route that weaved through the crags to its 918m apex.
Immense views of the saw-toothed An Teallach massif in the north, the brooding Slioch southwards, innumerable Beinns in every other direction and about a thousand lochs and lochans in between qualify this as a summit to linger on.
Last legs
With two of Scotland’s most hard-won Munros in my pocket, I headed back to the bothy. My way travelled via the glen of Allt Bruthach an Easain, a breathtaking theatre of rock architecture. Outside the bothy, I found my bike resting against the same fencepost where I’d left it six hours ago.
A quick re-pump of the tyres and I’d set off for Poolewe, perhaps wishing I’d planned to stay a second night at my muddy-floored accommodation to savour this magical place – and also to rest my wearied legs.
Thankfully, as return journeys can often do, the six-mile ride back to Kernsary Forest seemed to take half the time it did in reverse. The terrain remained arduous and no less taxing than before, but I was buoyed by the euphoria of a monumental two-day enterprise. I reached the car physically exhausted and big with emotion.
Undeniably, an excursion into the wilds of Fisherfield isn’t one for the faint-hearted. The Great Wilderness demands a toll worthy of its magnitude. But with a mountain bike for company, no adventure in the hills of Britain can be too big. Now, time to update that Wikipedia page...
Bikepacking do's and don'ts
DO
Wear a helmet: Mountain Rescue teams are busy enough.
Think about going electric: It may feel like cheating, but in rugged terrain I wish I’d had some assistance.
Pack plenty of spare inner tubes: I carried just two and would have liked more for extra peace of mind.
Be prepared to hike-a-bike: With the extra weight, even innocuous uphills can force a dismount-and-push.
Practise fixing a puncture: Don’t wait until you’re on the hill, in rain, surrounded by ravenous midges, to find out it’s a fiddly job.
Consider padded cycling shorts: Even the softest of saddles will become unforgiving eventually.
Start small: If you’ve never bike-packed try a short route with easy terrain first. Remember that rough or steep ground can be hard work or even impossible to bike!
DON’T
Don't bunny hop every culvert: Eventually you WILL meet your match and bust a tyre!
Don't upset weight distribution: Pack carefully using the fixed luggage bags so you don’t unbalance the bike.
Don't get stumped by deer stalking: Deer stalking seasons will close some areas – like Fisherfield Forest – while shoots are ongoing. Check first.
Don't forget to check routes: The majority of Highland trails permit off-road cycling, but laws in England and Wales can be more restrictive.
Don't rely on midge repellent: Covering up is best. Consider a midge head net with built-in goggles in summer.
Kit yourself out for bikepacking
We rented Saracen Mantra Trail bikes from Perth-based cycle centre Comrie Croft Bikes, with luggage packs provided by cycling brand Madison.
Comrie Croft has a friendly shop stocking everything you need for bikepacking, including clothing, safety gear, bike accessories, padlocks, repair toolkits, energy food and drink, and route advice.
You can also simply search for your nearest cycle hire centre – and always pack a bivouac or bikepacking tent in case your target bothy is already occupied.
Check out our reviews of the best bikepacking tents here.
Packing for bikepacking
There’s a certain science to packing bike luggage. The handlebar pack is best for stowing light, compressible items that require infrequent access, such as a sleeping bag, camping mat, tent and clothing.
Overfilling this would hamper handling and steering. Items of a similar bulk should go in the seat pack beneath the saddle to avoid upsetting the bike’s weight distribution. Finally, a bag within the bike’s frame can be stuffed with as much cargo as possible.
Things such as inner tubes, repair tools, stove, gas and food will help to keep the bike’s centre of gravity low and allow for optimum stability.
Scotland's best bikepacking mountains
It should come as no surprise that the majority of near-to-nowhere mountains with monster walk-ins are located in the Scottish Highlands. Bagging these peaks in a single day on foot is a devilish prospect that can only be vaguely realistic on long summer days.
Munros such as Ben Alder (central Highlands), Seana Bhraigh, Lurg Mhor (both in the north-west Highlands) and Beinn Dearg (Cairngorms) are very remote and therefore make ideal candidates for bikepacking adventures. Plus, like A’ Mhaighdean, they all have the added bonus of a bothy in proximity to the peak.
About the author
Jake Kendall-Ashton is an experienced communications professional with a background in journalism and conservation, and a passionate interest in all things to do with our natural world and the great outdoors.
Jake has previously worked for Trail magazine, WWF, The Wildlife Trust and most recently at Natural England. He's a long-time contributor to Live for the Outdoors.