Dacks and Toga Active Life August Issue For Web

mon Sense Pros. Finding my silk gloves, I slid them over my
icy talons as I looked into the distance and could just make
out a person colored like a highlighter. Slinging on my pack
I began my shuffling jog again, now several degrees warmer.
As I neared, I found a familiar face under the high-vis hood.
It was Nikki. I could turn around now.
She had hiked all the way from Fort William, meaning she
had already done about 14 miles that day. We had three-ish
miles back to Kinlochleven, and I was assured that this was
the prettiest stretch of the path she had seen. I didn’t feel as
bad about missing the rest.
Back at the pub, we tried to dry off and warm up. I ordered
a bowl of “Drunken Pig Soup,” which somehow seemed requisite.
An elderly couple at the table beside us turned out to
be from the states, and incredibly, the woman had taught
at Nikki’s high school!
The bed and breakfast was amazing. Fifty pounds got us
a room with a window overlooking the mountains, a communal
drying room, and a flat screen. The bathroom had a
Jacuzzi and the shower was about four times bigger than
the waterproof cupboard I had in my flat. And a full Scottish
breakfast was only an extra five quid each. We watched
dog herding on TV, I had two full entrees at another pub in
town (“I’ll have the burger and the mac n’ cheese” … “You
want two entrees?” … “Yes.”), and I felt completely spoiled.
The full Scottish breakfast: porridge, eggs, ham, beans,
and black pudding. I am not a picky eater, but breakfast is
my favorite meal of the day, and I just don’t have any desire
to eat beans that early. And the black pudding is pretty
weird. I had it several times and it always looked and tasted
like a charcoal hockey puck.
Boarding the bus that we thought would take us to the
visitor center, we sat down in the upper-deck. The bus
did not, in fact, stop at the visitor’s center. It followed
the route I had run the previous day, stopping two miles
short, near the gift shop where I had asked for directions.
It was an easy walk though, knowing the way. At the VC,
I made sure to stop into the art exhibit but unfortunately
Nicola was not due until later. We found the park ranger
station where there was a map and decided we could likely
hike Buachaille Etive Beag, between Glencoe and Glen
Etive, on the edge of Rannoch Moor. It has two summits
that are both considered Munros—a Scottish peak or summit
above 3,000 ft.—first tabulated by Sir Hugh Munro in
1891. In the lexicon, the two summits would be considered
Munro “tops” because they are not separate mountains, but
hold a requisite prominence between them. Walkhighlands
had this to say about the mountain: “Buachaille Etive Beag
is often overlooked in favour of its more illustrious neighbor
[Buachaille Etive Mor]. It is, however, a magnificent ridge
in its own right, offering superlative views down Loch Etive
and of the surrounding peaks of Glencoe.” Not to mention
it was listed as only “three boots” on the site’s difficulty
scale—just within Nikki’s comfort zone.
We lucked out and successfully hitched a ride before we
even left the VC driveway with an older couple from North
Carolina. We had them drop us off at the Three Sisters of
Glen Coe which was a bit too early. We had almost a mile
of highway walking before we reached the start of the trail
right off the A82.
The trail climbs quickly and pretty soon we were about
halfway to the bealach and feeling the expanse of the moorland
and mountains. Despite its proximity to the highway,
the trail seems far from civilization. Once atop the bealach
we had a choice of which Munro top we wanted to climb
first. Stob Dubh was the furthest away and the taller of the
two, and we were told it had the best views, so we continued
in that direction first.
Once on the ridgeline I was immediately struck by two
thoughts. For one, the view reminded me of the view along
32 | DACKS & TOGA activelife
This is not the trail
to Buachaille, as
we soon realized.
New Hampshire’s Franconia Ridge looking north towards
Mount Lafayette. And also, though not nearly as tall as New
Hampshire’s summits (Stob Dubh is 3,143 ft. while Lafayette
is just shy of a mile), I felt I was many thousands of feet
higher than I actually was. This I attributed to the absence
of trees for size comparison of the land features. The highlands,
bar some scattered forests and woodland, are devoid
of trees. The historic demand for timber was just too great
a pressure on the area and with the constant water erosion
and sheep and deer grazing, it is very hard for the trees
to return. The lack of trees though makes the landscape
extremely unique and unforgettable. We were afforded a
break in the clouds for a vista encompassing Loch Etive,
Bidean nam Bian, the Aonach Eagach ridgeline, and in the
distance to the north, we could just make out Ben Nevis,
the only peak above the clouds.
Nikki’s knee was bothering her on the way down to the
bealach, so she opted to sit and enjoy the views and the
occasional sun while I continued the quick jaunt up to the
slightly shorter summit, Stob Coire Raineach, with captivating
views of the Buachaille’s bigger twin ridgeline, but I
didn’t linger. The descent seemed quick, even despite running,
and it wasn’t long before we’d reached the road.
Walking back west on the A82 we soon caught a
hitch back to the VC with plenty of time before the
café closed, and well before our 5:30 bus. And yet,
when the time came, the bus did not stop. Worse, I didn’t
have cell service to call CityLink.
It was now dark, and completely quiet bar the occasional
speeding car. We had no idea what to do. But then, a man
came rolling down the drive on a bicycle, and, just as he
was passing by us, we heard his phone begin to ring. We
both stared at him, ready to pounce. He pulled over on the
grass fifteen feet away and pulled out a pink, bedazzled
iPhone. We were saved.
Steven was a typical lad, though in his forties. He politely
lent Nikki his phone to call CityLink, while he cracked
wise with me for several minutes. A defining Steve quote:
“Y’know, if this all goes tits up, I’ll be just up the road and
headed for Glasgow in the mornin’. You’d be welcome, I’ve a
camp and waaay too much whisky.” At one point Nikki was
writing down the time for the next bus (19:42) and showed
it to me when Steve scratched his chin and said with nostalgia
“Aye, t’was a good year” and began laughing. CityLink
allowed us on the next bus free of charge—we apparently
were supposed to wait on the other side of the highway
(there was no pull-off or shoulder) and the bus would just
stop. Despite being a bit peeved, I couldn’t believe the good
luck I’d had. Even with the heavy afternoon rains on Saturday,
Sunday’s weather was a rare treat for an autumn
day. And, I managed to find Nikki, despite knowing nothing
about where I was going, and events seemingly going wrong
at every turn. It all worked out in the end. For my first trip
to the Highlands, I couldn’t have asked for more.
The rockstrewn
summit
of Stob Dubh.
My first Munro
in the bag.
Ruins along the
West Highland
Way. This is where
I succumbed to
the heavy rains.