Go tell it on the mountain: size isn't everything

SO, BEINN Dearg is waiting to hear if it has joined the elite group of mountains known as the Munros. And though the peak above the Corrieshalloch Gorge near Ullapool will not have moved one foot, membership of the club will mean its fame, footfall and parking arrangements are never quite the same again. Baggers disappointed that Foinaven failed to stretch past 3,000ft earlier this year can re-wax their boots and book a weekend in Ullapool instead. Maybe.

But is Munro status the highest accolade Scots can bestow upon a mountain? Or is Munro-mania slowly giving way to a less summit-focused experience of our hills?

It's easy to sneer at baggers - especially when you haven't the legs, stamina, time or dedication to haul yourself up the 284 peaks Sir Hugh Munro listed 116 years ago. But watching Griff Rhys Jones slog up Ben Hope in a snowy whiteout during the BBC TV series Mountain, a lot of people will remember why compulsive Munro-bagging ain't for them.

By contrast, Griff's more leisurely experience on Suilven, near Lochinver, was a sensory treat and a stony show stopper. It may be several hundred feet short of Munro status, but Suilven is so steep, the route up is invisible until your boot is rising to find the next step. When I climbed "little" Suilven and sat astride the summit ridge with a 2,000ft drop on either side seven years ago, the word "saddle" seemed completely appropriate on a mountain for the first time.

Morven, in Sutherland, is another "minor" peak that takes careful autumn walkers through deer herds as bold and numerous as bison in a Wild West film. Skye's "other" ridge - the Trotternish Ridge - has six sub-Munro peaks, and takes a day to walk between the Quiraing and the Storr, with 5,000ft of ascent and descent along the edge of Europe's biggest and most stunning earth slip - past the "Table" and the "Prison" (weird rock formations once used by locals to hide livestock during cattle raids). Breathtaking. And about to feature in a Robert de Niro film. But, once again, off the baggers' list. Shame.

Because some Munros are boring. Ben Chonzie above Comrie is just one long view-free slog to a rounded grassy top. The Cairnwell Munros above the A9 offer a 1,000ft head start, with the sound of traffic on the A9 whooshing along throughout. Some Munros are so busy they involve high-level queuing - a strangely mundane way to experience our most thrilling, exposed and dangerous mountains. Some Munros climbed during a rushed "multiple bag" are indistinguishable from their neighbours - the mountain equivalent of a pub crawl. Grahams - hills between 2,000 and 2,500ft with a drop of at least 150 metres all around - are sometimes harder.

Of course, like any well defined task, completing the Munros has encouraged thousands of people to walk, climb, travel and explore. But it's also helped limit our experience of the beautiful Munro-free parts of Scotland - and their fragile economy. Take the Outer Hebrides - not a Munro between them, but a fabulous set of hills along the Uig coast of Lewis, and wonderful, iconic stand-alone peaks on the Uists, such as Hecla and Eabhal.

Maybe, though, this is missing the point. The big revolution in mountain experience is happening away from the summits. Quietly - since it involves no venerated Old Men of the Hills - Scotland has moved into pole position in the world of mountain biking. Go into any bike shop and you'll see modest black Lycra has been completely overtaken by full-head helmets, flexible body armour and garish accessories designed for the PlayStation not the Play School generation. The epicentres of the new mountain experience are Laggan, Glen Tress and Aonach Mor. Only the latter is a Munro, but very few of the young bikers using the ski-lift to get halfway go on to the summit. Their excitement - and great skill - derives from the thrill of the swift descent.

On the Outer Hebrides, islands such as Mingulay and Pabbay are home to adventure climbers attracted by vertiginous cliffs once scaled by islanders collecting seabird eggs to survive. It would be hard to persuade these young folk that an assault on Ben Chonzie was more rewarding. Mingulay trips are hard to arrange - and, with unpredictable weather, a three-hour climb can involve a week on the nearest thing to a European wilderness we possess. That experience is worth having. Indeed, an adventurer who's slept on all but one of Scotland's islands believes no Munro-bagger could equal his achievement, not because of physical difficulty or loneliness, but because he needs what they don't - human contact with local people. You can't swim to St Kilda or drive to Mingulay in the middle of the night. Above all, you can't rush. The result is a truly memorable encounter with nature - human and physical.

In fact, the joy of experience over tick-lists explains the recent surge in walking and cycling holidays, and explains why hill culture is booming.

Angus Farquhar has encouraged thousands of people to witness his nocturnal mountainous light displays - first in Glen Lyon, then among the eerie pinnacles of the shattered Storr on Skye, and his latest "destination theatre" will take place next month among the standing stones of Kilmartin in Argyll. The Falkland Estate in Fife is running themed discussions during Sunday climbs around the Lomond Hills. The forthcoming Blas Festival features music created by folk living among the hills - not standing fleetingly on top of them.

Munro-bagging is fine. But life among Scotland's mountains is even better.

So if Beinn Dearg doesn't make into the Munro Club, let's send up a small cheer for a beautiful mountain - just the way it is.