Kinlochleven - Fort William
My last morning on the West Highland Way dawned with a – surprise, surprise – largely overcast sky. Mr Sweeney served me breakfast while Mrs Sweeney made sure I had all my belongings and knew exactly where to find my bus in Fort William. I don’t have grandparents, and I’d gladly place a bid on them. Having a schedule felt strange after a week cut off from real civilisation, and I sped off towards the trailhead as other hikers flocked the streets. I followed the crowds to a narrow, stony path that climbed steeply into dense birch forest. Climbing up in the frisky air, I ignored the stingy pain in my feet. In a few hours they’d be free of their miseries. I passed hikers quickly on the rocky path which was washed out by countless rainfalls. My arms were the strongest they’d ever been after manoeuvring my extra pair of legs over almost 100 miles.
At the top, having just passed the treeline, I stopped for a sip of water, a decadent energy bar, and a last marvellous view of Kinlochleven nestled in the deep valley. Around me, the green mountains of the highlands towered majestically. The wide trail ahead looked promising as it shot off northwards. I aimed for the turquoise backpack of another hiker way ahead and marched onwards. For once I felt like I’d gained some altitude. The clouds looked ominous enough that I donned the now pretty shabby rain poncho. After an hour of Drink Up Me Hearties, the pitter-patter turned into a full on downpour unlike anything I’d experienced yet. For fuck’s sake. Even my headphones had to seek shelter in an inner pocket. I loved the evergreen hills, but I wouldn’t have minded some scorching brown canyonlands a la Utah right then. I passed the iconic hut ruins in a wet blur, estimating I was over halfway on my 25 km route.
Soon after crossing the wide basin where the ruins lay, forestry trucks started appearing, and the path gave away to road. My map was buried deep inside my backpack, and hadn’t Tom mentioned something about a long road walk today? Two grim-looking women sat next to a large map sign by the roadside, and I smiled at them as I strode on confidently down the tarmac. The blasted surface pitched my feet into the real pain-cave. An hour. An hour and a half. Semi-sunshine, farm animals and a… very… empty… road. Goodness. Where was everybody? The trail had been crowded since this morning, surely I’d start running into some southbounders soon? Determined not to be wrong, I walked even faster. But my footsteps faltered after only a few minutes when I realised that something was indeed very off. There wasn’t a single human being in sight for miles. I quivered as I pulled out my map. No! The Way had continued into the bushes behind those sourly women. I was on a road which disappeared off the western edge of my map.
What the hell would I do? I’d been on the road for almost two hours, there was no way I could walk all the way back. Cue for trail metaphor: you can only ever move forward. Add this to my failures in a neat line behind boots, tent and rain cover. Marching on with an icy clump of dread in my chest, I spotted a truck on top of the next hill. The guy chilling inside stared at me incredulously when I asked for directions (without admitting to being lost and unspeakably fucked yet again). His English wasn’t what I would describe as “tip top and tickety-boo”, but he kept reiterating “Fort William one! One!” One what, Mr Haven’t Been Reached by Globalisation? One mile? One hour? One day? I walked onward no more enlightened than I came. Until I reached the following hill and almost sank to my knees in relief. There, nestled in the bay below me, lay Fort William. Civilisation. The end of the Way. I had made it.
Walking down the High Street felt like a dream. So many people! And shops, a Tesco! A WHS Smith! Propped up on a stone wall munching a hot steak pie, I felt like a sore million dollars.
I’d shamelessly spent 11£ on fudge, a bag of which I’d stuck in Frances’ boots before dropping them off at the TravelLite company along with a note saying “Thank you, Frances, I had an adventure!”.
I contemplated the small enormity of what I’d just done. 156 km (more or less given my little slip at the end). Now all there was left to do was purchase a Call the Midwife memoir and follow Mrs Sweeney’s direction to the coach station.
Riding the bus back to Glasgow in the afternoon sunshine was the strangest experience. We drove right along the Way, reversing the miles I’d toiled for eight days. Tyndrum, Crianlarich, Drover’s Inn and the western bank of Loch Lomond. And there, on the other side, lay the ghostly abandoned lodge where I’d spent my miserable camp night! Beautiful as they were, it occurred to be as we entered the suburbs of Glasgow that it wasn’t the places that made this trail for me. It was the people I’d met. Jo, Tom, Molly, Magnolia, the Sweeneys, Frances, the women who’d driven me around – and Gaby from Adelaide who shared 12 glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts with me in our hostel room that night. And having walked the Way convinced me that this hiking life was for me. I had no problems that new boots wouldn’t fix. The West Highland Way was a test of how I’d cope, and I was more enamoured with wild dreams than ever. Suddenly the Te Araroa wasn’t just a crazy idea, it was tangible, achievable, and not even far away in time. Hello world, bring me that horizon!