Chasing Light in the Highlands: An Evening on Stob Mhic Mhartuin

"Sometimes, you don’t need to go far, or climb the biggest peaks, to feel completely in tune with the world. You just need good weather, a quiet trail, and enough time to truly see what’s in front of you."

Scotland doesn’t often hand you perfect weather on a silver platter, so when it does, you'd be a fool not to make the most of it. With the Highlands basking in a rare stretch of sun and calm, I knew I had to get out there . That’s how I ended up heading toward Glen Coe late one golden evening, with a pack on my back and a plan forming around Stob Mhic Mhartuin.

A Late Start with Purpose

It wasn’t an early start by any means — quite the opposite. I set off in the early evening, chasing the light as it began to soften and stretch across the land. The path leading toward Stob Mhic Mhartuin was well-trodden and welcoming, weaving and zigzagging steadily uphill with the drama of Glen Coe unfolding over my left shoulder. There’s something about walking into the evening, with no rush and no one around. Just the crunch of boots on gravel and the breeze brushing the heather. As I climbed higher and reached the pass at the top of the Devil's Staircase, the views began to open up to the north with the Mamore mountains stretched out before me and the reclusive Blackwater Reservoir shimmering in the evening light. These stunning views gave me a real boost to head left and climb the ridge up to the summit of Stob Mhic Mhartuin.

Looking north east from the summit of Stob Mhic Mhartuin past Corrour Forest and the mountains of Loch Ossian & Ben Alder

A Summit to Myself

Stob Mhic Mhartuin isn’t the highest or the hardest to reach, but it rewards the walker tenfold. The summit gifted me a 360-degree panorama of Scotland at her finest. To the west, the iconic pyramid of Buachaille Etive Mòr caught the warm light perfectly — a photographer’s dream. Beyond lay the dramatic cleft of Glen Coe, its ancient, glacial-carved walls glowing amber in the setting sun. Farther still, the Mamores rolled in layers of dusky blue, and on the northern horizon, the hulking presence of Ben Nevis stood proud — the highest point in the UK.

Tent, Tripod, and Time

I found a level patch of soft springy grass just below the summit — exposed enough for views, but with enough shelter to keep the breeze at bay. With practiced hands, I pitched my tent, carefully aligning the doors to catch both the last light of the sunset and the first light of dawn. The camera went on the tripod. The drone buzzed into the air. For a while, I just let myself play — composing shots, chasing shadows, and drinking in the highland hues that only come alive during the golden hour.

Three frames, three moods.

The first photograph that I took looked south to Buachaille Etive Mòr, the late evening light catching its rugged flanks. Every ridge and jagged edge stood out, sculpted by light and shadow, as if the mountain itself had been chiselled into focus by the last glow of the day.

The second was a view of Glen Coe from an unusual angle. The familiar landscape felt transformed—the perspective compressed, the sides of the glen steepened, tightening the gap and adding a sense of drama and weight, as if the whole place were holding its breath.

Food, Fire, and Thought

Once the light began to fade, I turned to the simple joy of cooking — nothing fancy, just something warm and filling, made better by the location. I sat with my meal in the growing twilight, the landscape fading from fiery orange to deep indigo, silence settling around me like a blanket.

With no signal, no noise, and no distractions, I found myself studying the land before me, not just admiring it, but thinking about how it was formed. The jagged ridges, the sweeping glens — all shaped by fire, ice, and time. Scotland wears its geological history like a storybook left open. You just have to stop and read it.

Sunrise Silence

The morning came quietly. I woke before the sun rose, unzipped the tent, and was greeted with a sky slowly turning from steel to rose. The landscape that had been shadowed the night before now stirred with light. I made some hot porridge and sat on a rock in silence, wrapped in layers, camera in hand. Not snapping wildly, just watching and waiting. The world felt suspended in a moment of quiet anticipation.

The sun finally crested the hills of Corrour to the north east, pouring golden light towards Buachaille Etive Mòr, the heather glimmered with dew, and the distant lochs caught the light like polished glass. I raised my camera, knowing this was one of those rare, fleeting moments where nature feels almost otherworldly — and I was lucky enough to be there, ready to frame it.

The third image faced northeast, towards the Blackwater Reservoir. While the mountains held their sharpness, here the mood softened. The water shimmered faintly, reflecting the fading light—one last quiet moment before the landscape surrendered to dusk.

Three photographs, each capturing a different face of the Highlands in the space of a single evening.

A dramatic and unusual view of Glen Coe

Sunrise over the reclusive Blackwater Reservoir

Through the Lens at Dawn

With the Highlands stirring into life. I found myself facing Sgurr Eilde Mor and Sgurr Eilde Beag, their rugged forms bathed in the soft, golden glow of the rising sun. Between them, the small, serene Lochain a’ Choire lay perfectly cradled in the hollow of the corrie — still, silent, and reflecting the awakening sky.

Turning slightly, I was rewarded with a view of the mountains surrounding Loch Ossian, with the distant bulk of Ben Alder commanding the scene. Above them, the sky burned softly with hues of amber and gold, a fleeting moment of Highland magic as night gave way to day. Capturing that light — fleeting, fragile — it felt like bottling a secret only the lucky few ever witness.

Sgurr Eilde Beagg & Sgurr Eilde Mor cradling Lochain an Choire at an impressive 750m above sea level

Reluctant to Leave, Grateful to Have Been

With the camera packed away and the last of the morning light fading into the day, it was time to break camp and begin the descent. As I folded the tent and shouldered my gear, a sadness crept in — reluctant to leave this wild, beautiful place behind. But more than anything, I felt uplifted, grateful, and fortunate to have witnessed such moments. The effort, the weight of the pack — all of it had been more than worthwhile. These hills had given me something special, something I carried with me long after the path wound its way back to the car.

Tech Equipment:

Canon 5DS R

Canon EOS 24-70mm f4 L lens

Canon EOS 70-200mm f4 L lens

iPhone 11

DJI Mavic Air 2 Drone

Camping Equipment:

Big Agnes Copper Spur HVUL2 Tent

Thermarest Sleeping Pad

Rab Ascent 300 Sleeping Bag

Trekology Pillow

Jetboil Flash

Black Diamond Trekking Poles and Head Torch