When we leave the house at 9am, the sun is still hidden behind the Cairngorms and the sky is a luminous wash of palest blue, fading to cream at the edges. Above the hills, small drifts of cloud glow pink and gold. But we are headed the opposite way – to the older Monadhliath range, the Grey Hills. Not grey today though – they are cloaked in snow, and shining as they look towards the rising sun. The humpy camel’s back of Creag Dhubh is our destination, a hill we have summited several times from the southern end but have always been foiled from the north. Any semblance of path disappears into undergrowth, bog or spills of rock. But we are determined, and accept the inevitable stumbling across snowy tussocks through waist-high birch scrub. Not far off, deer bound in silent elegance across the same terrain. They turn to watch us, as if amazed at our clumsy progress. Gaining the ridge line, we take turns to plough a route through the snow, soft and shushing as its millions of dry crystals fall in our wake. We see the crisscrossing routes of deer and mountain hare, and the prints of grouse. Below us, the strath is a patchwork of frosted fields, clustered villages and dark trees. A fine mist hangs like breath above the Spey, gradually dissolving under the mounting sun. On the other side of Creag Dhubh, to the north-west, the River Calder curves down through Glen Banchor, a valley rarely explored now, though in the 18th century it was the main artery north and home to several hundred people. Today, a flock of crows sweep across it, stark against the white world. This hill deceives us every time with its series of false summits, and the hours melt into a thousand snow-sinking steps. A man appears coming the other way, replete in ancient family kilt and tweed jacket, with bare head and hands. He lives nearby and we stop to exchange notes. When we get to the summit, a cold wind has brought cloud and we can see little except where slivers of light break through to set a slope shining. One ray hits a serpentine bend in the river and sparks a corona, like a small fallen sun, caught in the mist.