Kingshouse - Kinlochleven

I gulped down breakfast of toast and scrambled eggs in the company of a German motorcyclist and two Spanish couples who were in for a much more comfortable highland holiday than I was. Dark clouds loomed in the sky again. Scotland was consistent if nothing else. I walked to the town bus stop to catch the morning bus back to Kingshouse and the trail. The moment I stepped on the bus I realised with icy dread that my precious pack cover still hung in the bathroom at Ghlasdrium B&B. WHY! The sky looked ready to burst open any second, and all my gear would get soaked. First my boot failure, camping failure and now this. Once again I felt unspeakably fucked.

Riding past the beautiful landscape, I felt like such a fool. But wait… Hadn’t Tom mentioned something about carrying a 5 dollar festival rain poncho? He and Jo had stayed at Kingshouse and were guaranteed already on the trail by now. How would I find them? They could be anywhere. The trail ran parallel to the road for several km, I sat with my face glued to the window in desperate search for Jo’s screaming pink raincoat and orange pack cover. Come on, come on! But the trail was crowded, a number of people could have been her. Oblivious to the passing landscape, I kept looking until I was sure I’d seen her pass a dozen times.

At last I could set my raw, blistered feet (now covered in antiseptic cream) painstakingly on the ground. I hobbled for ten minutes until the soles warmed up and I could speed back up to yesterday’s race pace. The air was heavy with moisture, and my only chance was to reach the Tassies before the rains came – wherever they were.

I raced along the wide path, swimming along like a spider, lashing out with my poles and passing dozens of hikers. The dramatic landscape was beautiful, but I was all the wiser after a week of constant downpour and rotten luck. After a few km the trail started snaking up the northeastern mountainside. Traffic blockades formed on the switchback corners, unfit hikers stood huffing and puffing as I marched on by. This was the steepest terrain I’d hiked all week, but I felt pumped with adrenaline and dug in with all I had – just imagine that rain poncho! And will you believe it – I looked up towards the top ledge on the mountain – and there were Tom and Jo waving down at me! I gasped in relief and sped towards them at such a pace that Jo stared at me and exclaimed “You shame us!”.

The moment we stood face to face the skies opened. But Tom’s rain poncho was worth its scarce weight in gold. I was probably the only person on the Way who remained completely dry that day. The poncho covered both me and my 65L pack comfortably, and I made a mental note to always carry one on future hikes. We walked together for hours over the highland ridges, admiring the distant mountains and soggy greenery of the valleys. The descent into Kinlochleven was awful for our battered feet. A chubby American guy complained of knee pain, and of course Tom pulled out a supportive bandage out of his daypack. That thing was increasingly reminding me of Hermione’s beaded bag, he seemed to have everything you could possibly need in there. Down, down we walked, below the treeline on the blistering gravel road.

Of course, every single B&B in Kinlochleven was fully booked. I sat down at the bar of the village pub and lamented, Cheryl Strayed-like, why can’t things just be easy for once? The bartender looked at me and my monster pack, dripping wet, limping back from the bathroom, tangled mess of hair and tall order of tap water. And like the wonderful Scot she was, she drove me to an elderly couple she new who run a part time B&B in their house. Failté B&B ended up being one of my favourite stays of the trip. Free hot chocolate and scores of little bowls filled with dried flower petals. A shower stocked with obsessive amounts of fruity-smelling bath gels – I used them all.

Before meeting the Tassies for dinner, I sat on a bench in the town square to stretch my tired limbs. For the first time since day 3 the sun broke through the cloudcover, and I could close my eyes and bask in the comfort I no longer took for granted. What a day. Three strikes of incredible luck. And what’s more, I was tired – but not spent. I was fit as hell. My arms were lean and muscular from using trekking poles, my calves were like tree trunks.

My very last evening on the trail. The Tassies and I enjoyed a last feast, complete with STD-sounding desserts. I planned on making tomorrow a speed day to reach my bus from Fort William to Glasgow, and I knew this would be the last I saw of them. Saying goodbye felt so odd. We’d conquered this trail together. They would be off to Tasmania and get married, I would leave for a university exchange to Goldsmiths University of London after summer. But thanks to them, the Way would now not only be a memory of shredded skin and grey skies – but of great stories, inside jokes and comradeship. I’d think of them when I met two Tasmanian sisters on my second day of the Te Araroa trail one and a half years later. And if caught off guard, I can still do a very drawly Australian “naaouw” (=no) like my blister sister Jo.