The Living Mountain: why a second world war meditation on nature’s fragility and wonder is still relevant today

Nan Shepherd’s The Living Mountain is not a book about conquering peaks or mapping uncharted terrain. It is instead a deeply felt, poetic encounter with the Cairngorms.

This vast mountain range in north-east Scotland has been shaped by ancient glaciers and known for its high plateaus, deep corries and shifting light. These mountains, some of the highest in the UK, are rugged, remote, and often treacherous. Yet, they hold a stark, indifferent beauty.

First written towards the end of the second world war, The Living Mountain remained unpublished in a drawer until 1977, its quiet brilliance only gradually recognised. Now, with publisher Scribner bringing out its first US edition, a new audience will discover this landmark of nature writing.

Shepherd, a Scottish writer, educator, and poet, had an unparalleled relationship with the mountains. The best way to describe it is a word she herself used: feyness. There is a deep, almost mystical sensitivity in the way she moves through the landscape. She does not seek to master it, but to know it intimately – its ice, its rock, its light.

Each chapter of The Living Mountain focuses on an element of this vast range: the plateau, the recesses, the plants, and, most strikingly for me, the water. Her description of Loch Etchachan made me want to go there immediately, but such is the clarity of her prose that I felt as if I already had. Its pristine waters shimmering in the shifting light, the stillness broken only by the wind and the sheer presence of the place evoked so vividly that it felt less like reading and more like remembering.

Shepherd’s writing reminds me of the Scottish poet Norman MacCaig – though where MacCaig wrote often of Assynt in the far north-western corner of Scotland, Shepherd’s domain was the Cairngorms. Both share an awe, a humility and a sense of reverence towards their subject.

There is a poetic tenderness throughout Shepherd’s writing, in the cadence of her sentences, in the careful weight of each word. At around 30,000 words, it is a short book, yet every phrase feels hewn from the page, as enduring as the granite she describes.

A line I return to often is one that Shepherd uses to describe the water at the height of these peaks: “It does nothing, absolutely nothing, but be itself.” This is the essence of Shepherd’s philosophy. The mountains do not exist for our amusement or our conquest. They simply are.

This is a book not about “Munro bagging” – the practice of ticking off Scotland’s 282 mountains over 3,000 feet – but about being with the land, walking it slowly, attentively, over a lifetime.

A fragile land

Yet, The Living Mountain is also a stark reminder of the fragility of that world. Shepherd notes, as early as 1934, that summer snow is disappearing: “Antiquity has gone from our snow.” Was this, unwittingly, one of the earliest literary observations of climate change? Around the same time, British engineer Guy Callendar had begun linking rising global temperatures to CO₂ emissions, though his findings were dismissed. Almost a century on, Shepherd’s words feel prophetic.

For US readers encountering The Living Mountain for the first time, they may wonder what a remote range in the eastern Highlands of Scotland offers them. But these mountains contain, in their own way, the spirit of the Santa Cruz mountains, the Appalachians, the Rockies. In their solitude and permanence, they offer the same humility, the same respect, the same quiet self-reflection that comes with encountering something so vast and indifferent to human life.

With a framing introduction by Robert Macfarlane, a British writer known for his books on landscape and nature, and an afterword by Jenny Odell, an American artist and educator, this edition gives The Living Mountain the platform it deserves. This is not just a book about place - it is a book that is place. It remains as vital as the mountains themselves, urging us to look more closely. To listen more deeply. To move through the world with the same quiet reverence that Shepherd once did.

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Sam Illingworth does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.