Walking Home

reveries of an amateur long-distance hiker

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 33, June 12, 2022

June 13th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 33, June 12, 2022

Yesterday’s many crossings in heavy mist veiled a bit my awareness of a significant change in the overall terrain (though the rocks and my feet made me acutely if unconsciously aware of it). This glacial nature of landscape, the earth’s skin is scraped raw, exposing boulders prone to roll, massing in huge rock fields. My hike out from a sleepless night in that primitive shelter was still in driving rain, strong winds, and a lot of fog though there was some light low in the distant sky giving some optimism.

Much like yesterday, the trail was often indistinct and wound across several watersheds in what felt like a random pattern though the intent was clearly to take me close to Eas a’ Chual Aluinn, the highest waterfall in the UK. I stood and looked at it for a bit before I realized that was what I was watching. It is incredibly high, but was obscured by the rain and fog. Given the severity of the weather and the stress of yesterday’s trek, I opted for a trail taking me more directly off the mountain to the road to Kylesku, avoiding some navigationally difficult pathless bog trekking. The guides for the Scottish National Trail and for the Cape Wrath Trail all emphasize flexible route choice, so prudence won out over some sense of purity.

The skies did lift a bit, and occasionally I saw my own shadow, and the sheer scale of these rock-strewn slopes pressed hard. It is jaw dropping landscape that requires immersion in it— photographs are pale facsimiles. The other landscape feature— water—also asserted itself. I’ve never been on a mountain with water pouring out of seemingly every rock. It is impossible not to be walking in streams as the whole mountainside is more or less a stream. I followed that water from high loch to lower loch, to burn, to river, finally picking my way to the flatlands and the highway to Kylesku.

My initial plan was to push past the village to reduce tomorrow’s long trek a bit, but the ongoing bad weather and my experience yesterday prompted a revision. Two miles outside of the village, I passed Newton Lodge, a beautiful building sited on a bluff with signs welcoming travelers to their restaurant. As it was around noon and I wanted to get out of the weather and eat something, I turned in— only to experience yet another bit of that fabled Scottish hospitality. As I walked to the door, a woman working in one of the rooms said hello through the window, informing me that—common story across the region— the restaurant was closed because of staffing shortages. As I was about to turn and leave, she hastened to open the door and ushered me into the pub area, insisted I sit a moment, then went to get the manager. Soon a young man appeared, apologized for the restaurant closure, offered a cup of coffee, then checked with their sister hotel in Kylesku that indeed their restaurant was open and would take walk-ins. He then offered to drive me there— I’m guessing I must have looked pretty rough to inspire such concern. I assured him I could easily walk the two miles to town, but thanked him for such hospitality. Both were such kind and concerned people.

Smelling the proverbial barn, I made short shrift of those last two miles and soon found myself at the Kylesku restaurant eating one of the best seafood soups I’ve ever tasted. The Loch here is an arm of the ocean so it’s a fishing village with seals and porpoises cavorting in the water. Just being out of the wind in a warm pub — just washing my hands in warm water—was the greatest pleasure. Realizing I was not going to walk further, I cast about for a place to stay, but, as I already knew, there were no openings anywhere. In wandering about, I found a nice small flat spot on a path above the hotel, just the right size for my tent. Pitched it, arranged my stuff, put on my dry town clothes, I returned to the pub, spending the evening talking to a number of people, particularly with a really wonderful couple— Andrew and Claire— who are fishers traveling about the area. They noted that the weather will continue bad through tomorrow and repeatedly offered to give me a ride to the next point, something given the circumstances I might consider. It was another two part day—profoundly difficult morning, and an exquisite afternoon/evening. It was a day for gratitude.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 32, June 11, 2022

June 12th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 32, June 11, 2022

The weather predictions for the next few days were foreboding and, given my experience earlier in the trek, I discounted the severity of what was to come. The first few weeks every day they called for rain, but usually it was just scattered showers, no need to break out the rain gear. This morning started with a light shower and an easy trek up an estate road. Apart from a boggy bit between the estate road and another (linked by a forestry road) it was a pleasant saunter up the Oykel river, a renowned salmon river that, owing to low water from the dry last few weeks, had been largely abandoned by fishermen. After passing the amazing Benmore Lodge (and greeting a pack of hunting dogs), the road began showing markers by the river— a number, small bench and parking turn-out marking a salmon fisher’s designated spot.

I’m afraid that was the highlight of the day, not because I didn’t have an adventure and see some amazing sights, but the weather came in hard with non-stop driving rain and often gale-force winds knocking me off the path (when there was a path). Even though I was a walking ad for ZPacks rain gear, I was completely soaked in no time (to be fair, no rain gear could have stood up to that weather). Navigation would have been difficult in clear weather, it was nigh impossible in the rain—I kept loosing the path or the line.

The trail took me up a number of watersheds, skirted the edges of others, before turning in unexpected directions— the mist made direction nebulous anyway. This area, while still boggy, is much rockier. Clearly glacial, the paths remind me of the Pennsylvania section of the Appalachian trail, though the mountains in no way resemble that state. I’m sure I passed some magnificent landscapes today, but they were all buried in the mist.

This leg was supposed to end in Inchnadamph, with tomorrow’s heading back up the same path for a bit. As there were no accommodations or facilities there, I opted to hike a bit into tomorrow’s leg— a mistake. I still felt strong and was comfortable with a couple more miles, but the alarms should have gone off when the path climbed quickly toward a bealach. Unlike most other places I’ve trekked, in Scotland once you are at any elevation there is almost no cover— no trees or steep stones to tent behind. The landscape is scoured by the winds with plenty of growth ankle high, but nothing that will break the weather.

Foolishly I decided to press on, hoping that in the evening the weather might calm down, or that a sheltered wild camping spot would miraculously appear, or the “small shelter” mentioned in the guide would be open and sufficient. All those hopes were dashed. The shelter was indeed open, but was a mere sod-covered roof over a 5’ narrow bench with some rocks chinked in the sides to form a sort-of wall. Disappointed in myself (and feeling the intense cold), it was there I decided I had to camp.

Trekking is supposed to be an adventure, which in some of its etymological history includes embracing chance and taking risk. My adventure today was tempting chance and was an unnecessary risk. Still we must make the best of bad decisions, so after shucking off dripping clothes and finding dry ones in my pack, I made a bed more or less on the narrow bench (I fell off once, hitting a rock and spraining my wrist). Crawling into my sleeping bag, wearing most of my warm clothes, I felt the warmth slowly return. The day’s exertions erased any appetite, so I choked down a few dry crackers, curled up in a knot (unable to stretch all the way out) and tried to sleep, all the while feeling my gear getting wetter and worrying that I might roll off onto a rock again. Still, I could not help but smile at all the day had thrown at me.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 31, June 10, 2022

June 10th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 31, June 10, 2022

Loosing track of the days of the week is definitely a phenomenon up here. The midday isolation is always total, so it’s hard to get a sense of where the people living here are in their week. The main cue of course is trying to book a room or a table in a restaurant. So I count myself lucky as Liz, the proprietor of the Oykel Bridge Hotel not only made space for me in the restaurant, she also had a room in “The Bothy”— a sort of bunk house with very comfortable rooms, beds, etc. As my hiking friend Adrian said, they are the perfect trekkers rooms— everything you need, but nothing more.

My time in Ullapool made me a bit anxious as the next four hiking days are long (most more than 30 km) and listed as 4-boot rugged on the chart. Today was actually the longest, but assuredly the easiest as I walked up the glen out of Ullapool, by late morning I crossed a low bealach and descended into the Oykel river valley, all on land-river tracks (except a couple miles when I walked the shore of Loch an Daimh). Weather called for rain, but there were only sporadic quick showers. Most of day was hot sun— glad I got a new neck cloth to replace my old bandana which must be on the trail behind me somewhere.

The Oykel Bridge Hotel caters to fishermen— two types: trout and salmon. So tonight, unlike earlier nights where I was in the company of long-distance walkers, or mountain bikers, or Munro baggers, tonight the lobby was full of fishing talk. What was fascinating is that they were all old-school fisherman, belonging to a club that has been around for 100 years. Some have been coming to this river and the lochs nearby since the sixties. You could hear the history, the tacit knowledge, the sheer being-at-home in the world in their every move. Today’s crew were trout fishers— happy with their day’s sport. Apparently the salmon fishers have abandoned for now because its been a couple of weeks with no significant rain (something I am grateful for) so the rivers are too shallow for the salmon to run.

The lobby talk tonight prompted reflection on just how many pretty strenuous sports the Scots of all ages participate in. Not only do they require skill, physical stamina, and will, but they also reflect a deep historical, local connection to place. You can see that connection in their faces and hear it in their voices— it’s uncanny but also gratifying.

T. Hugh Crawford

June 9th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 30, June 9, 2022

ZERO day in Ullapool. Woke to a large cruise liner moored in the harbor, so town (the village) is a bit more crowded than before. The hostel here is well-appointed and well-run. My bunk room had 6 middle aged men from six different counties, and I ended up in a good conversation with a bicyclist who does leadership training via adventure. Fascinating man. Then, as my only real tasks today are replacing my lost bandana and laying in food for the final push to Cape Wrath (a stretch that still makes me anxious), I wandered town after an amazing breakfast of salmon hash at the Cult Cafe, followed by a long and wonderful conversation with back home, and then a no-exaggeration epic late lunch of spicy seafood soup and a dozen langoustines at a food truck—Seafood Shack— they were fresh off the fishing boat and could not have tasted better. My food tour ended at the Argyll Hotel for seafood stew (Cullen Skink) and steak pie while a trad band played— good way to finish evening in Ullapool.

Have to admit my anxiety level is a bit higher than usual, given the daunting task of 4 straight 30+ km days in foul weather and sometimes trackless trekking. That got driven home when buying food at the Tesco—counting out ounces of protein measured against days of strenuous hiking. Some good news is the first night out will now include a meal at the Oykel Bridge Hotel and a night in their bunkhouse, all because the folks who work there are such great people. Still, this last week will be brutal.

But today was a quiet wander, watching the tourists from the Viking Cruise liner moored in the bay, and picking up little odds and ends to make this last big push a little more tolerable.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 29, June 8, 2022

June 8th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 29, June 8, 2022

Bad luck/good luck. So far the story of this trip. Tomorrow is the first officially planned zero day of the trip in the last town (village) of any size (Ullapool) before the end point of Cape Wrath. The plan today was to walk out the last 14 km and either hitch or call for a ride from Inverlael to Ullapool. My go-to trekking shoes have always been Salomon Ultra X… over the years. Comfortable, good grip, dry fast, etc. however they usually only last about 500-600 miles in rough, wet, rocky terrain. So, perhaps not to my surprise, I blew one of them out today. That’s the bad luck. The good luck was it was the one day when I had the prospect of replacing them— either by taking the bus to Inverness or finding a pair in Ullapool. As my luck was exceptional, Ullapool Outdoors had a pair of Scarpa’s that I hope will not only walk me out of the SNT, but be a good pair for the summer’s casual walks— fingers crossed. No doubt they will initiate a whole new set of foot woes over the next days, as all new shoes do.

The day’s trek out was surprising as it started on a Land Rover road, running down to a minor road with a car park. I assumed the Ullapool highway would be nearby, but the trail took me up a steep mountain for a long wander (couple hours) across a plateau before descending to Inverlael. I continue to be amazed at the utter wildness of landscapes that seem so close to settled areas— I guess in part because all these areas have once been settled, as the ruins I regularly encounter attest.

The day was mostly logistical— getting off the mountain, getting ride to Ullapool, getting new shoes, then gorging myself on seafood most of the early afternoon at the Seaforth restaurant— amazing place with wonderful staff. Then laundry and catching up with work. In other words, no blog worthy thoughts manifested today, but was exceptionally smooth given all its bumps.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 28, June 7, 2022

June 8th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 28, June 7, 2022

Today was a rhythm day— one where at different stages I found myself in a particular walking mode. Just out of Kinlochewe started as a long land rover road walk, a beautiful glen, passing some abandoned houses, but also an amazing modern one, shaped like the old cottages but with a gable end that was a wall of glass. I could see inside a bird spotting telescope trained on the opposite ridge— could happily spend some time there. I’ve settled into a 3+ mph pace on such roads, only slackening when they ascend (or descend — my old new knees). Then there is the rocky narrow path rhythm— much slower, more deliberate but still a fairly rapid pace.

On reaching a series of small lochs the path turned uphill and disappeared completely— time for much more deliberation, taking headings, picking landmarks and following. Give yesterday’s difficulty, I made every effort to maintain good humor as the pathless space twisted and turned up several glens to a bealach that finally positioned me for the long afternoon walk down a narrow glen, followed by an ascent up to a plateau with a good gravel road leading across and finally down in the directional Inverlael. Found a bit of dry level grass in an old cow pasture next to a fast running stream, pitched my tent and counted that 19 mile multiple rhythm day well-spent. The early evening brought a string of Munro baggers trickling down the track heading for a car park. As one said as he passed, “We are all knackered.” Guess I was too.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 27, June 6, 2022

June 6th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 27, June 6, 2022

A zero day (did not walk except from the campground to the service station/ cafe then to the Kinlochewe hotel). Had breakfast at the cafe run by wonderful people with a nice set-up and great sausage and bacon buns. As usual with people in this country, the Kinlochewe Hotel staff treated me with great kindness, letting me check into my room hours before official time, and my weary bones appreciated it.

No great sights to report. Instead I spent much of the day arranging for some travel later in the summer. Starting to think past the trail, including the classes I’ll be teaching in Oxford starting later this month. Some of that preparation took me to a book I’m currently struggling with— just trying to think through my reticence. It’s a book about walking trails recently published by an author much younger than I am. I kept wondering what it was that didn’t feel right, and then remembered a comment I once read about Peter Matthiessen’s Snow Leopard, a book written at a moment when nature and travel writing was both enjoying an upsurge and was being redefined (at least at that particular late 20th century moment— much has changed in the 21st). As Robert MacFarlane has pointed out, Matthiessen’s book was published just a year after Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia, Patrick Leigh Fermor’s A Time of Gifts, John McPhee’s Coming into the Country, and Nan Shepherd’s Living Mountain. The last remains to my mind the finest nature book ever written. I’m not sure if I imagined this comment or actually read it, but the claim was that the first person singular pronoun rarely appears in The Snow Leopard (don’t have a copy so I cannot check). The book was always about the world described and not so much about the describer (of course one could do a psychoanalytical read on that, though it would be of little interest). I’ve always been struck that much of the best nature/walking writing is about the place(s) and not the narrator.

It seems I’ve internalized that ideal, even as I constantly fail to live up to it as the first person singular proliferates on these web pages much to my dismay. But the crux of the matter is a sense that really good walking literature is not about the walker but instead about the walk.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 26, June 5, 2022

June 6th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 26, June 5, 2022

Long distance walking always brings new sights, but after many years, usually not any real novelty about how to walk. Today taught a lesson. Having grown up in the mountains of Virginia, I was early acquainted with wilderness paths, while at the same time, I became comfortable walking off path—bush whacking—in generally familiar regions. On leaving the Shenandoah Valley for long-distance tracks in different regions and faraway lands, I became more path dependent. The Appalachian Trail is perhaps the best marked path in the world, with white blazes nearly everywhere. The Camino de Santiago has its scallop shaped directional signs and the ubiquitous yellow arrows spray painted on sidewalks everywhere. Even the New Zealand’s Te Araroa, while often pathless, almost always has its orange plastic triangles or cylinders on fence posts which can be seen at a distance. This morning I walked out of the Bendronaig bothy with a well graded forest road for some miles up a glen. As usual, the higher the track rose, the more it diminished. When at last it plunged into the bog, I assumed before too long it would re-appear. After deploying two gps programs which confirmed my general direction but refused to lead me to a path, I finally realized that the absolutely straight line one was showing simply meant walk in that direction and eventually (at least an hour or more) a path would magically appear. Of course I was walking up a glen with the burn to my left, so all I needed to do was continue slogging, but it took a good while to shake the idea that somewhere parallel to me a clear and somewhat firm path existed.

It was a strange relief to let go of the security of the path, trusting simply to legs and an obvious direction to follow. Paths are the material manifestation of democracy— formed and maintained by many feet over many years, defining direction and possibility (see https://walkinghome.lmc.gatech.edu/pointless-essays/footpaths/). Unlike many places, here it is not as if the paths had not yet been formed, or that over long periods of time out of disuse they disappeared (which is very much the case across Scotland). In this area, the bogs just swallow up paths— the democracy of paths is obliterated by a riot of growth.

After a struggle, followed by resignation, I crested Bealach Bhearnais, finding myself once again in the company of ancient and recent feet trodding smooth a place an direction. Those feet were soon accompanied by voices. High up the peak I could hear, then see a couple of Munro baggers coaching each other across a treacherous part of their climb. I soon met their companions, two people from Edinburgh, hiking up to join them for the next two peaks. Then later I had to check my calendar. It was not June 21–the official “Hike Naked” day—but sure enough, an older man wearing only a backpack and a great gray beard was dressed as if it were. We exchanged greetings, and I passed down the mountain to Craig, the crossroads where I had initially planned to stay.

My revised plan had been to put in another hour or two, making the following day’s walk into Kinlochewe easier, but after a steep and difficult climb out of Craig on “the old pony track,” I found myself on a well-made (machine constructed) forestry road that would take me, more or less downhill, all the way to town, so I decided 33 km in a day that had a campground with a shower at the end was worth it, even in the blistering heat (unusual for this place for sure). Footsore, but showered and tented, I stopped for a moment to celebrate the Queen’s Jubilee with a glass of champagne provided by Sharon, the caravan park host, then made my way to The Stag for an excellent meal (and solitary celebration of a personal holiday), followed by a good night’s sleep, knowing all the while I do not have to walk any paths, marked or wild, tomorrow.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 23, June 2, 2022

June 5th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 23, June 2, 2022

SORRY— this one is out of order, too many days out in the glens

A day of two passes, divided by some time in a pub. It rained a bit in the night, just enough to give each blade of grass a crown. As I wanted to time today’s trek to get lunch at Cluanie Inn, I lingered in the tent, watching the morning sun—itself a surprise—gently lift the water from the fabric, getting a late start. The walk out was along a squtichy boggy path first up the Glen then up and over a pass in the gap between Creag Liathtais and Creag a’Mhaim (I missed that turn, adding 20 minutes to my day). The landscape remains magical, particularly in the bright morning light. Soon I was up and over, slowly descending to a well built road which historically was part of the “Road to the Isles,” which is now defunct because of hydro-electric projects. It made for a quick final 5km to the Cluanie Inn. There the proprietor let me hang out in the pub charging my devices (something I’ve become obsessed with given the frequency of encounters with civilization). Soon they opened for lunch, and I gorged myself, then lingered out front in the sun sipping yet another pint delaying my afternoon which was, in many ways, the mirror image of my morning.

On leaving the Inn I found the track into the An Caorann Mòr, a long gentle climb on a land rover road which, on giving out became in indistinct path even boggier than the morning. After several hours of slogging about I finally sighted the Affric river beyond which I could see the hostel, my end point. I gratefully forded the river in the last 1/2 km, happy to wash away the day’s accumulated muck before settling in. The Glen Affric Hostel (run by the Scottish Hostel group) is an isolated off-the-grid establishment frequented by mountain bikers and Munro baggers. Initially there was a mixup with my reservation, but it was soon resolved, and I spent a toasty evening by the fire (while it rained outside) talking with a whole crew of hard-core outdoors aficionados.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 25, June 4, 2022

June 5th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 25, June 4, 2022

I stopped briefly at a bothy this afternoon and had a conversation with Simon, a man walking part of the Cape Wrath Trail. He had settled in for the day while I was planning to push ahead to the next bothy about 8 km further on. A hot day tempted me to stay, but I want to get used to much longer days as the last week will be full of them. We talked about stopping in towns, and he took the familiar line used by most trekkers— a certain contempt for “civilization” as trekking takes you out in the wild and keeps you there.

That narrative thread is strong in most of the Cape Wrath Trail discourse— its draw is the wild. Of course I’m all for the wild— I relish the solitude of wandering in what seem to be empty spaces (one of the reasons I almost always trek alone see https://walkinghome.lmc.gatech.edu/pointless-essays/solitude/). And, for example, today I saw almost no one except Simon over a 30 km walk which took me via very steep and narrow paths down the side of one of the tallest waterfall in UK, Falls of Glomach measuring in at 113 meters. I walked around lochs, slogged through more bogs, and crossed several high ridges. In other words, I got the full wild experience.

But I also want to say a word for towns. I’ve had to coordinate maps, websites and guidebooks to see just how close the SNT comes to various towns— many it deliberately misses— in order to have the chance to visit them. For me, towns (crossroads, villages, hamlets— the maps have the full gamut of place names) can be every bit as interesting as an isolated mountaintop.

The Appalachian trail only passes directly through a few towns along its 2000 mile + corridor. Resupply usually involves hitchhiking down off the ridge to towns at some distance. Towards the end of my trek, I realized how much I enjoyed staying in decrepit motels near the trail. Mattresses lumpy, television often limited, the rooms had no real appeal except there was always an old lawn chair on the walk in front of the room, facing the parking lot, where in the evening you could sit, read, and talk to the people arriving. Hardly “exciting” but a real pleasure nevertheless. Since then I’ve hiked many trails, most with a similarly fraught relationship to towns. Of course there are exceptions— the Camino de Santiago winds its way through the main street of every town it approaches (primarily to afford pilgrims the chance to pray in each of the churches on the way). But by and large on most long trails, towns are viewed as infrastructure— a place to support the wilderness seekers— and not as another sight to be seen. Just a word for towns— they can bring such pleasure.

Today no town for me. I’m sleeping in the Bendronaig Lodge bothy— a comfortable estate bothy with a flushing toilet! (Of course you have to bring buckets of water from the spring). And tomorrow I will wild camp somewhere past Craig, a crossroads I should pass mid day. But the following day brings the village of Kinlochewe, and another place to explore—a town.

T. Hugh Crawford