Behind the Lens with Robert Andrew

For just over ten years, I’ve lived and worked all over the Scottish mountains with a small close-knit team of men and women who toil their hearts out to construct, maintain, and improve a network of safe upland routes for all who enjoy the wilderness of the Scottish landscape. I’m a trained photographer, among other things; my first photograph of these characters was made shortly after being handed a pair of gloves on a cold morning in February 2012 on a snow-covered field in Balmaha, Stirlingshire, with the task of bagging 180 tonnes of quarried rock for the path rebuild on Conic Hill. In pursuit of these photographs, I stick to using an analogue 6 x 6cm Hasselblad camera – a system that has neither electronics nor batteries to succumb to the cold, wet, harsh environments of the mountain altitudes.

In many ways it has been a very rewarding experience. Learning the craft of upland path construction has afforded an excellent opportunity to build up an extensive archive of photographic material that, I hope, will offer viewers a unique insight into a little-known occupation, considered to be one of the most physically demanding out there. The photographs I’ve made are inseparably threefold in genre - landscape, portrait, and documentary. A 1st place award I received from the 2020 Scottish Portrait Awards may be somewhat testament to the interesting portraiture aspect of these photographs.

The path-work itself is an ancient craft using fairly primitive tools – heavy hammers, iron bars, buckets and spades. The tools are carried up into remote locations where they will remain until a project is complete, and then they are carried back out. The work is very physically draining, often involving long daily walks of up to 25 kilometres. On top of the physical nature of the work, one must be prepared to endure whatever the weather may bring, with nowhere to shelter when the weather turns severe. Whilst working in Scottish mountain environments, I’ve had to endure blizzards, savage gales, endless heavy rain, hail-storms, -20 degrees celsius wind chill, as well as fizzing clouds of the dreaded Scottish midges – the worst of all!

I keep journals of these exploits, and have many times tried to write something that might capture the essence or accurately describe aspects of this occupation. An excerpt from a journal kept during work on a path to the summit of Ben Alligin reads –

“It’s raining, and before we exit the vehicle guys are doing things in order to delay the pending misery ahead...fumbling in dry-bags, eating a snack, checking phones, rolling smokes, chatting...

Walking uphill our oilskin garments are not breathable and quickly build up moisture and condensation on the inside, which soaks into the wearer’s dry clothes underneath. A rainy trek in oilskins is particularly disheartening, because one way or another, dampness and discomfort is absolutely guaranteed.

It is difficult to describe how a very tired body actually feels while it is perspiring profusely inside a rubber suit, carrying tools and a weighty pack, on an uphill trek on relentlessly steep rough ground – often being blown in the opposite direction by strong gusting winds. It is not a fun time. Sticky, damp, overheating, sweating, breathing heavily, drained, exhausted, pursued by bloodthirsty horse-flies, but alive. On so many occasions such as these, I have seriously questioned the value of going through with this suffering.”

Despite days like these, the Scottish mountains have a sublime quality that seems to redeem them no matter what, for they are timeless masterpieces of nature. Even in the foulest weather, they inspire awe; they behold an endearing majestic beauty that has beckoned me back time and time again with spade, pinch-bar, bucket, and my old veteran Hasselblad camera.