Inspired by the personal demons of boredom and existential disenchantment, Mike Cawthorne sets out to climb all of Scotland's Munros in a single, grueling, four month odyssey, made in the middle of winter. Battling the wild gyrations of the weather, the journey is highly organized, with food and supply caches buried strategically along his course. The detailed descriptions of landscape, hand-drawn maps and bleak photographs give a crystal-clear sense of the sheer vastness and monumental scope of the Scottish Highlands. Some days are sublime, distilled magic, bottled and delivered straight to the page; they feel almost mystical or spiritual and as we read, we feel the tearing of the unseen membrane which separates him from his surroundings. Still, there are many setbacks, and there are days of wrenching loneliness, desperation, near-failure, with no company save the creak of his boots in the snow. For Cawthorne, each day is unique, and somehow remarkable, and each day burns a distinct hole in the fabric of his memory. When the journey is over, we feel a tinge of anticlimax, of sadness, a craving for the grim, austere wilderness which he left behind. I thoroughly enjoyed the book.