Milngavie - Drymen

The tiny town of Milngavie was far too small to room my excitement. Lesson 1: always book accommodation ahead. Especially when you arrive at your destination at 22.00 in complete darkness and that rural small town ain’t nothing like bustling Queenstown, NZ, but completely and utterly deserted. Fuck. I had ambled over from the train station to a deserted main street. Every light was out, there was not a single person to be seen anywhere. …Except that odd-looking guy who stood watching me from the dark shadow of the rail station tunnel. Long story short, he stalked me for 30 min while I ran around Milngavie and found shelter in a Premier Inn. Rape and dismemberment avoided.

You would think I was summiting Everest as I blazed along what can only be described as garden paths. I dug my trekking poles into the well-groomed ground with each step, flying high on my otherworldly accomplishment of actually doing it. This wasn’t hard! This was amazing! Into the woods, over fields, passing through creaky wooden gates, consulting the map because that’s what you should do. Everywhere was green, green, green. Everyone I passed sent me bright smiles, which I returned with doglike enthusiasm. A group of older women hiking the WHW southbound asked me if I was doing it for charity (apparently that’s a thing), and concluded warmly “Ye’ve got a big heart luv, doing it all on yer own”.

Hours passed as I bore along continuous woods and fields. It started to drizzle, but a little Scottish rain stood no chance against my virgin fist of trailmix! Right? More worrying was how tight my boots seemed to be. They’d fit in the store, although I’d forgotten about my giant custom-made insoles (got flat feet) upon purchase… Said insoles + two pairs of high tech Bridgedale socks + those lovely swollen afternoon feet = bad news. My feet were really starting to hurt as I passed the “Drymen 5 miles” signpost. The WHW is graded and easy trail, there are very few climbs or decents of any noteworthiness, but the days are quite long right off the bat. A thick mist enveloped all views but the trail snaking straight ahead, and there were no distractions from my increasing discomfort. Dark grey clouds hung low, and it rained and rained and rained.

 Drymen - Rowardennan

Last night I did indeed end up staying at Kip in the Kirk B&B. It was probably one of my wiser decisions of 2016, as I not only had a great night’s sleep while the rain poured outside, but also because hostess Francis lent me her boots. Her boots are slightly bigger than mine and fit pretty well. I was completely overcome by her generosity, it’s not like I’m taking them for a backyard stroll… I will of course send them back to her at trail’s end, but this was the first of my many encounters with Scottish hospitality. Years later I remain of the opinion that it is unparalleled in Europe!

I set off early this morning, waving goodbye to Francis – who was by now my favourite person in the world – with high spirits and happier feet. Today’s main challenge was the summit of Conic Hill, a rather massive mound overlooking Loch Lomond. Soon out of Drymen it became clear that this was an intersection of the WHW and dayhiking territory. I kept up a brisk pace and passed over a dozen hikers on the wide gravel road leading up to the base of Conic Hill. Families with kids swarmed everywhere, and it was a battlefield to actually hike up the hill at a decent pace.

Once at the top though… You get why people hike. I munched my crackers-meets-jam lunch in the bullseye of a 360 degree view of Loch Lomond and its scattered islands. Rolling green hills in the distance, sheep grazing, the whole Picturesque Countryside Deluxe package. After strolling down to the lakeshore, I embarked on a path so enchantingly beautiful that Anne of Green Gables herself would struggle to describe it. Massive oak trees framed the trail, and every few minutes I would stumble upon a small secluded beach – each one so romantic that I had to stop for a snack and enjoy them all. My body felt like it was full of butterflies, every cell fluttering with joy because I was hiking and loving it.

But it never ended… As pretty as the trail was, it did not change the fact that my feet were still pissed off, that my backpack was too heavy and (at sight of prohibition sign) what the heck do you mean no camping until Rowardennan! I became increasingly desperate to give my squashed feet a rest.

After what felt like a hundered miles I entered Rowardennan even more smashed than yesterday. Although a burger helped, my Queen of the Way attitude melted away as I crept out of town to find a campsite. Dusk settled, no place to camp. I was exhausted, all other hikers were lodged in comfortably in Rowardennan. Consult the Oracle/map, apparently there was a lodge just up the road here. Please, please have beds!

 Rowardennan - Inverarnan

As you can probably imagine, there was little morning glory as I stuffed my belongings into a wet clump in my pack whilst at the mercy of the midges. I’d slept fitfully all night, and could hardly drag myself outside into the rain to trudge onwards on an empty stomach. Last night I’d spent over 20 minutes popping and mending my blisters. The little devils had settled in all kinds of exotic locations now, no doubt to match both sets of boots.

From the minute I started walking, my feet were absolute agony. I grumpily munched on an energy bar that even smelled like diabetes as I sped away from Camp Fail and into the damp pine forest. The trail’s initial spurt of I’m-so-amazing-can-you-believe-this spunk was gradually replaced by an endless track of random memories running through my head, accompanied by tones from The Phantom of the Opera. That’s right: I marched along, head down, sending ugly thoughts to McKinley (all I ask is freedom, a world with no more night…), remembering my evil 2nd grade teacher in South Africa who liked to humiliate me in front of the whole class (Christine you’re talking in riddles…), hmm I wonder what it’s like to not have feet… (the PHAAAANTOM OF THE OPERA IS HERE!).

As it started to drizzle again, I desperately thought of the Te Araroa trail, and how I was determined to make this work. If only I could get to Inversnaid, prop my feet up and have my lunch before the midges could eat me for theirs…

Good things come to those who wait. I’ll be eternally sorry for letting my phone die, because the area around Inversnaid (think hotel-ish white building in the middle of nowhere) was essentially Rivendell. Forked rivers and paths spread like a cobweb amidst impossibly twisted oaks and alders, the ground covered in a thick layer of leaves. You’d almost expect Elrond to drift by.

Bench. Pack off, boots off, feet up, smile on, shoulders down, sun out. Right on cue for the cup-a-soup! Even the hard days have their comparatively glorious moments.

Of the section from Inversnaid to the northernmost end of Loch Lomond I can say only this: all the talk of having companies drive your backpack to camp suddenly began making an awful lot of sense. Think 5 km of scrambling over rocks and roots, squeezing between boulders and pushing through oceans of ferns significantly taller than I am. Ticks of the Trossarchs, yer favourite meal served to go! However, just as I seriously began thinking that this whole ordeal took a lot more effort than it was worth, the trail veered away from Loch Lomond and over a hill.

I believe the word “picturesque” was invengted in this spot

The sun burst through the clouds to reveal a splendid vista of Doune Bathy. To the left lay the village of Ardlui, and ahead lay evergreen mountains – real mountains – crowning grassy valleys speckled with wild flowers. Now, such a sight could turn any sour mind around! The cherry on top: a sign saying I had only two miles to go to Inverarnan, where there would be FOOD and BED. I let out a yelp and sped onwards on my minced-meat feet, triumphantly shouting “Fuck you, ladder!” as I hopped over the ladder designed to help hikers climb the low stone wall by the sign.

Now, I don’t know how long a Scottish highlander mile is, but it sure is real long. So long in fact, that I was almost crawling into Drover’s Inn after what felt like another 10 km. Screw the budget, my tent was useless, and my feet deserved the best bed on offer. After a heavenly shower I crawled into bed with Jude the Obscure (again: who the heck carries Thomas Hardy on a 150+ km hike?) and nursed my blisters.

 Inverarnan - Tyndrum

My room at Drover’s Inn looked like hell. Last night I’d spread out all my wet gear to dry it, and there was hardly a square inch not covered in me/my stuff/my dirt. A glance out the window confirmed that today was textbook Scotland: wet and misty. Oh well. I’d planned to only hike to Crianlarich today, a flimsy 11 km. One of the days on the trail would be short anyway, so might as well save this dismal weather for Jude the Obscure.

This particular section was the least charming so far. I trudged along the gravel roads in a less than energetic mood (aaaangel of music, guide and guardian). Would the weather ever improve? I find that almost regardless of the scenery, hiking is fun when the sun is out. The moment it rains however, fun is replaced by drudgery. A heavy mist enveloped everything, but somehow it was still warm and damp. It didn’t take long before I was thoroughly steamed like a vegetable in my rain gear.

Picking my way down a narrow walkway, I came across a young couple I vaguely remembered having passed coming down from Conic Hill. For us uptight Norwegians it is quite unthinkable to talk to strangers, but at this point I was desperate for anything that would prevent me from taking the train from Crianlarich straight back to Edinburgh.

-          Hey guys! Where are you from?

Thus I became acquainted with the lovely Tom and Jo from Tasmania. Give me anything from that part of the world, and I will be a happy woman! Like most Aussies they were super friendly and easy going, and we discussed everything from Australian politics to their upcoming wedding. Before I knew it we were in Crianlarich, the miles really do fly by when you have good company! Suddenly the road to Tyndrum did not seem long at all, especially since I was busy getting all the good stories from Tom’s work as a medical orderly in a hospital in Hobart. We munched our lunch in the waiting room at the Crianlarich train station – no more wishes to escape.

On and on and on through the pine forest. To ensure survival I peeled off all my outer layers, no point in overdressing when everything would get completely drenched anyway (thus my minimalist raingear philosophy was born. Less to wear, less to dry. Nothing is waterproof if it rains long enough…). Jo however, sporting a screaming contrast between her bright ginger hair and dark pink raincoat, remarking drily:

-          Watermelon’s my colour.

How lost I would have been without Tom and Jo, affectionally christened The Tassies. Sure enough, the weather was dismal, my feet were competing for Most Bothersome Body Part 2016, but at least we were moving forward.

That evening, a drowned rat dragged itself into the bunk room at a Tyndrum hostel. Dripping wet gear stowed away in the drying room, I was in flip flops and long johns when Molly Alice walked in and brightened by evening with her cheery smile. We had dinner together with future Appalachian Trail hiker James and plundered the local store for goodies. My hiker hunger finally kicked in today: when the waitress came with the bill she asked “Would there be anything more here?”, and I almost asked for another serving of everything… Back in our room was the lovely Magnolia, who treated us to wine and jumped straight into hilarious stories of dancing on pool tables and highland adventures. After so many days of complete solitude, I seemed to be wallowing in social blessings today. All three of us were in hysterics on the floor before long, and I really begun to understand that it is the people who make the trail. Where would I have been today without these amazing companions?

Our girl party lasted until 02 when we finally slumped into bed, wallowing in happiness.

Tyndrum – Bridge of Orchy

Thank god the hostel drying room had something to show. Taking on yet another day of mist and rain didn’t seem as bad with dry gear and newfound friends by my side. Every inch of us was covered by waterproof fabric as we headed out onto Tyndrum’s paved roads. I was still dreaming of last night’s wine and caramel pretzel pieces. Both Molly and Magnolia walked with me out of town and upwards into the rolling green hills. Magnolia had completed the WHW several times before, and her local knowledge had secured me a bed for tomorrow night. Wide rocky tracks slick with mud winded through the open pastures, think God’s Own Country.

Since I’d walked to Tyndrum instead of Crianlarich yesterday, today would be my short day. After an hour in the rain, Magnolia and Molly turned back. We exchanged long hugs, and still keep in touch sporadically on Facebook. Check out Magnolia Ace Photography for her epic Scottish wilderness photography!

It didn’t take me long to catch up to Tom and Jo, and we travelled through the mist together. Jo had an incredibly large blister on her heel, and with my nine to match we were sworn blister sisters. The landscape gradually changed from woodlands to highlands, but the mountains were covered in layers of cloud. I submerged into tunnel vision and focused on my boots squishing softly on the immediate path ahead. My feet ached deeply when we reached the Bridge of Orchy Hotel, which lay like a white pearl amidst the green and grey. This was by far the most fancy accommodation I splurged on for the WHW, the dining room glistened with tall glasses, vases of flowers and soft fabric napkins. I felt like a dirty child coming in from the playground.

Bridge of Orchy – Kingshouse & Glencoe

As much as I loved the company of the Tassies, the point of this hike was to see if I could manage on my own. So I purposefully set out a little early, leaving a pair of my Bridgedale sock liners to aid Jo’s blister. I meticulously packed up my Osprey and trudged up the path while trying to improve my trekking pole technique. The trail winded between windswept hills and into a grassy basin where I had my first encounter with a group of green-clad bikers. For all the times they stopped that day, I believe walking would actually have saved them time.

As I made my way up and out of the basin along a wide, stony path, the clouds cleared enough for me to see not high – but far. Remniscent of the eastern side of Norway’s Hardangervidda, the Scottish Highlands stretched for miles and miles in every direction, grassy slopes disappearing into cloud-capped tops. Plugging in my first music of the trail, I felt like I was breaking an unwritten hiking rule. Music seems to belong in urban settings, hikers are supposed to simply enjoy the sounds of nature. Well, shoot me. I harbour a particular fondness for film music. It’s designed to conjure specific emotions, and I could feel myself soar with a new lightness to notes from Blood Diamond, Legends of the Fall, The Hobbit and Spirit.

Now I passed other hikers like a racehorse coming down the final stretch of track, and soon I was alone in the open wilderness. I threw out my legs with each stride, ignoring my feet because they were no match for “Homeland”, “Over Hill”, “Return of the Lion” and “The Ludlows”.

And suddenly the road and Kingshouse came into view. I’d walked 21 km on my wrecked feet in under four hours! Suddenly I felt invincible. Could this stretch really have been only 1,5 km shorter than my agonising crawl into Rowardennan? Was it the entire bag of chocolate covered honeycomb pieces I’d ate last night that had propelled me forward? I suspect it was the soaring tunes that made all the difference.

As I’ve gotten older, I’d started shying away from challenges, quitting stuff I didn’t master right away. I’d quit piano and show jumping, term papers, activism and friendships. Quit having much of a life. But this I could do. I could walk this trail, carrying my backpack I’d now grown tremendously attached to, blisters de damned. My limits were in fact not my limits at all - I had already gone way beyond them. Faster, further, in rain and pain. Nevertheless, she persisted.

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.

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.

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!