Dacks and Toga Active Life August Issue For Web

travel
A Will, a Way,
and Two Munros
Views along the West Highland Way,
headed towards Fort William.
Opposite: Two of the Three Sisters
of Glen Coe, featured in several
movies, one a big draw for tourists.
A late September weekend in the Scottish Highlands
by Ethan Katz
My mind wandered slightly from sleep to a state
of higher awareness. Rolling onto my right
side I paused as the last wisps of my dream
melted away like spindrifts. Wait. I snatched
up my phone; the glowing screen read: Missed
alarm 5:15. It was 6:39. My bus was for 6:50. I now had
Olympic seconds to throw together clothes and supplies
into my little red pack before I was out the door running.
A perfect series of events conspired against me. Nikki,
whom I meant to meet for this hiking trip, had planned
everything—I often do the planning and gladly let someone
take responsibility. Also, she didn’t have a UK phone number,
and I’m me and didn’t turn my alarm off vibrate when I
went to bed, knowing full well my tendency to sleep through
early alarms. So, there I was—6:48—full-tilt running down
Cathedral Street toward Glasgow’s city center. Things were
literally flying out of my pack.
Unbelievably, I made it the five blocks to the station with a
minute to spare, not that it mattered. I hadn’t a clue where
the bus was leaving from, and instead of asking the desk,
I spent 50 seconds hopelessly running around the station
looking for the bus and Wi-Fi to contact Nikki.
The plan was to take the coach from Buchanan Bus Station
to Fort William and hike the West Highland Way to
Kinlochleven, where we’d stay the night at a B & B. Then,
in the morning, take the quick bus ride over to the Glencoe
Visitor’s Centre and get in a little more hiking before our
CityLink bus left from there at 5:30 that evening.
Weighing my options, I decided to buy a bus ticket to the
Glencoe VC and hike the WHW toward Nikki instead of trying
to catch her from Fort William going the same way. I
didn’t know where the trail came through the towns, and I
figured a visitor’s center could help.
It was now 8:00, leaving me thirty minutes to completely
re-do my hasty packing job, try to eat something, and run
back to the station. Bag packed, I slugged a protein shake
and multivitamin (no time to cook my usual feast) and bolted
out the door again.
The coach ride was about two and a half hours, and were
some of the most impressive two-and-a-half hours of landscape
I had ever seen. Indeed, I was constantly hopping
across the aisle to absorb as much scenery as possible, not
containing my excitement in the least. We passed by the
ever amazing Loch Lomond, whose blue waters and low
mountains barricading the far shore reminded me more
than a little of my own Lake George. Rumbling northwest
on the A82, deeper into the highlands, the greens turned
to rich reds and tawny browns, and the low fells grew taller
and rockier, their craggy peaks scraping at the hanging,
gray skies above. Small rivulets turned to burns, and finally
into waterfalls, as these tree-less giants shed their coats
of water. This was the scenery made famous by the movie
“Skyfall”, and it did not disappoint.
I
left the bus on the side of the highway and began walking
up the drive to the VC. Snooping around looking for
the information desk, but finding none, I poked my head
into a Hamish MacDonald art exhibit where I found a lovely
woman, Nicola, who was in charge. Explaining my situation
and my plans, she told me that I should continue up
the highway along an adjacent footpath toward Fort William
and wished me luck.
Two dubious miles further, I stopped at a gift shop to ask
for further directions. The clerk presented me with a map—
I needed to be in Kinlochleven. “You’re a bit out of your
way,” she said passingly. Kinlochleven was seven miles
from this intersection and it was getting close to noon. It
was no small fact that I didn’t know the distance Nikki was
hiking or her speed (we’d never hiked together). So, with a
shimmer of doubt, I ran.
The heat I had begun my day with shattered away to miserable,
freezing rain. But when the sun did poke through
on occasion, I was granted with spectacular rainbows over
Loch Leven. And it was in a break like this that I ate my
peanut butter sandwich on a guardrail beside the highway—my
only real food so far.
An hour and a half later, I pulled into Kinlochleven, a
quaint but inarguable ghost town. As I entered the streets, I
saw one person smoking outside of the Ice Climbing Center.
He must have been used to hikers and gave me very detailed
instructions on getting to the WHW as well as a pub
that I could warm up in near where the trail cut up the hillside.
Incredible. The only visible person told me everything
I needed to know. Luck was once again running with me.
Squelching into the pub, it immediately struck me how
wet my belongings were as I drenched the oriental lobby
rug and soaked up the disapproving looks of the manager
with the best show of American naiveté I could muster. I
threw on a dry shirt, updated my location to Nikki, and
headed back to the trailhead, marked by a wooden post
with a cryptic symbol embossed in white denoting that this
was, indeed, the Way.
The path rose quickly with frequently placed stone steps
Nikki and I atop the summit of Stob Dubh.
Loch Etive is behind us.
and I was soon above the trees and into the barren mountain
pass. Looking back towards Kinlochleven, I could see
the small town nestled between the high hills and Loch Leven,
framing a perfect postcard image. Looking forward, an
occasionally pebbled dirt path snaked and rolled straight
through a valley until it was obscured by a marching wall
of rain in the distance.
For now, though, it was very warm again, and I picked up
a high-spirited running pace, finding great pleasure in covering
the rolling terrain quickly. On one of the steeper uphill
sections I power-hiked past a large group of backpackers going
the opposite direction. They looked like wearily animated
statues, both surprised at my pace as well as my appearance.
I was wearing running shorts, trail shoes, compression
socks, and a thin windbreaker, and only carrying my
2L hydration pack. Most of their lot had full waterproof suits
on and were weighed down with large packs of 35L or more.
I smiled and continued onward, now buffeted by 30 mph
winds and pummeling droplets as I crested the hill. It would
seem I had met the wall of rain. Quite quickly I was becoming
soaked again and was losing zeal, but I forced myself to
continue at a brisk pace. I felt guilty for sleeping in.
Further on, atop another rise, I could see almost a mile
ahead. Scanning the trail like a hawk I searched for
human-shaped irregularities but found none. Just a
muddy stripe cutting through the valley until it receded
into opaque nothingness. I stopped to do this with increasing
frequency, as I was getting wetter and colder by the
minute in the unrelenting rain and my pace and mood were
both suffering. Nearing some ruins I decided it was high
time I put on my New Balance tights I had been guarding in
the dry bag for later.
On the “porch” outside of the ruins and next to the
sign warning hikers to stay out of the unstable building, I
stripped down, being careful to place my feet on my shoes,
though I don’t know why I bothered, my socks were pretty
wet already. With the tights on, I proceeded to struggle with
fumbling cold fingers on the quick release laces of my Salo-
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