Conquering the wild: A seven-day odyssey through Scotland’s majestic West Highland Way
I lifted a creaky latch on the farm gate long enough for me and Toni to slip through. The sheep seemed disinterested in escape and who could blame them. I wanted to be locked in here myself. For the first time in days, clear skies did little to dry our wrinkling feet and soaked socks, but our spirits rose. I couldn’t tell you exactly where we were, my watch didn’t have a preloaded map for this area of the Scottish Highlands. All I could say is that we were somewhere between a village named Kinlochleven and heaven.
It was an honest start here on the West Highland Way. My hiking buddy, Toni Brewington, and I were lured with prom- ises of big clouds and endless views. And this 96-mile footpath delivered, initially. Offloading from the train we took from Edinburgh via Glasgow, we disembarked
at a little obscure village called Milngavie. Locals paid us little mind as we shouldered way too heavy packs in anticipation of all sorts of weather. I wandered about to locate a fuel can, welcomed by the first of many rains.
The town behind us ceded to agricultural pastures and hills. We were alone and sauntering in scenic splendor.
Halfway through this first day we spied the Glencoe distillery off in the distance and could not pass this opportunity to visit. Resisting their offerings was easy as there were many more miles to complete this day. One of the United Kingdom’s oldest pubs was up the trail and dinner was sounding pretty nice. The Clachan was our only option in this village ironically called Drymen. After a delicious meal we continued walking. The sun didn’t set until 11 p.m. so we had plenty of time to bed down with the sheep alongside a bucolic stand of pine.
My chief impetus for this journey was to take advantage of the Scottish wild camping law. This precept assures your ability to throw out a tent anywhere you like on any property in the country. Unlike in the States where national parks are adding fees and restrictions daily, the Scots realize the value of this disappearing freedom. And on this trip, so did we. We tented almost every night, six of them to be exact.
Our second day found us walking in the rain toward the first loch of our journey. My spirit is drawn to these mystical pools and their unspoiled beaches. We camped there our second evening along the bank of Loch Lomond.
Not only is this the biggest body of water in Scotland but the entire United Kingdom. Considered a boundary between the Lowlands and Highlands, we would walk these shores for several days with wet feet. My desire to swim was diminished by the cool temperatures and near hypothermic nights in the 40s. But this was welcome contrast to the heat we willingly fled in Tennessee. After 16 miles, any flat piece of ground was sounding good. A nice storm drove us into the tent which flapped throughout the abbreviated night. Daylight rolled in at 4:30 a.m.
We hoped for some abatement in the weather, but this was just not our present luck. Resigned to wrinkly toes in porous hiking shoes, we slogged north along the loch sloshing through puddle after puddle, finally encountering an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere. They’re called bothies in Scotland; back home we would label it a shelter. Nothing was more perfect as a respite from the rain except the company soon to join us.
Marius Prinsloo and his son and friend would also seek shelter from the drizzle in our humble abode this night; the teenagers managed a delightful fire for our pleasure. Toni and I complimented them on their willingness to tackle this hundred-mile journey, mostly for Marius, the father who was shepherding some high-strung boys.
Tyndrum was our next objective as we pressed deeper into the majestic Highlands. I was realizing that my partner and I were apparently roughing it on this trail when I saw people load their packs into vehicles here. What is nice about the West Highland Way are the many options for your trekking pleasure. Village hotels are available, provided you secure a reservation at one of the lodges well in advance. Services will ferry your backpack from point to point. Hoisting my wet, 40lb load made me somewhat envious of that choice, but not for long when we disappeared into a random stand of trees in a meadow with clouds clearing that fifth night.
Our biggest day was coming up. The “Way” carried us up and over the Bridge of Orchy into the pine forests past Crianlarich and back along another loch where the sun peeked out for what seemed like the first time in a week. Glistening in the distance was Loch Tulla and Loch Leven. The rains had stopped, and we skipped along happily, passing Marius and his boys who were battling tents in the wind behind the shelter of ancient farm ruins in a camping spot so beautiful it made us think twice about continuing. The Kingshouse Hotel was in our sights and 19 miles was plenty for one day.
We pitched out along a stream in the shadow of Ben Nevis, an iconic Scottish mountain, snoozing in the harmony of sheep and trickling water.
Perfect described day six. The “Way” pulled us onward with blue skies and a gentle breeze at our back. A hill called the Devil’s Staircase awaited and this much-decried climb required our attention. After all our miles on the Appalachian Trail, I have to say it fortunately didn’t live up to the hype. We have bigger hills back home.
Nestled ahead in a small village was somewhat of an anomaly, the world’s largest indoor ice climbing arena. Wintertime is a different animal here in Kinlochleven, apparently, but not enough to support this endeavor which unfortunately shuttered the year prior to our arrival. You can bet I was disappointed.
After lunch in this idyllic hamlet, we climbed again back out of the river basin into the glacial scarred hills, still running with the water of a week’s rains. We had hopped and crossed so many puddles on the constantly dripping trails that even here, at higher elevation, the seeping was continual. At one crossing, Toni slipped and fell into a patch of water, wetting most of her clothing and gear. We decided to find a camp spot and get her dried out. It was time to quit for the day after 15 miles anyway.
As the afternoon ceded to evening, I built a small fire to stave off the burgeoning pestilence of Biblical proportion now invading our solitary and remote campsite nestled in a patch of peaceful spruce. We had heard of the Highland midge issue, but were now experiencing it to full effect. These micro mosquitoes would infiltrate any exposed skin, including nasal passages, and bite you into tortuous submission. I sat with a full net covering my head and still had them finding little exposed patches between a jacket and ungloved hand. Retreating to the tent was our only respite and sleep was certain on this last night of our adventure.
Squawking gulls heralded our arrival to the seaside village of Fort William. But not before we met our friends from days before who caught me on the tail end of trying to rescue a sheep from its fence entanglement. Marius and boys had doubled miles in hopes of catching their ride from this village back to their home in Glasgow. The five of us walked arm in arm into this salt air and sea of tourists to find that statue with the man rubbing his aching feet which signified the official end of the West Highland Way.
In seven days, we had hiked 107 miles and climbed over 12,000 feet. We slogged through moors and ascended glacially carved peaks. Four hours on the train back to Glasgow retraced our steps as we spied tiny dots in the distance shouldering packs and weaving through sheep. It is undoubtedly one of the greatest treks I have undertaken. “The Way” had made us official converts.