Knoydart, part 2/3
I lay awake in the middle of the night, listening to the driving rain pooling outside the window. If it kept up, the three of us had agreed we wouldn’t attempt the hike up Ladhar Bhenn in the morning. Truth be told, I secretly hoped we’d get rained out—hikes in Scotland are much more enjoyable in the imagination than in reality; even if we set out on a sunny morn, I was all too familiar with the fickle Scottish weather—rain and cold often show up without notice, any time of year. Having already decided to forego the 3-day hike for the ferry to Britain’s most remote pub, we’d set a precedent of “beer over pain”; a day spent in the Old Forge would suit me just fine.
Unfortunately, as we arose in the morning, I found that the rain had let up, and a pleasant dampness hung in the air. Wonderful. We packed up and hit the trail, procuring several bacon rolls at the tea room (the other restaurant in town) on the way. Keeping to old forest roads up a long glen, we made good progress, admiring the purples and pinks of the blooming heather blanketing the valley. Low clouds clung to the damp hillsides, and rivulets tumbled down through the gorse and heather to meet a swiftly flowing river, along which we walked. Ladhar Bhenn now loomed before us, all barren and hunched, rising some 3,000 feet above the valley floor, and most unwelcoming. Having passed the ubiquitous Land Rover (they truly can go anywhere) and having stopped for breakfast at a dilapidated stone bothy (an old farm building), we departed from the solid ground of the road and began to make our way toward the mountain.
The thing about hiking in Scotland is that there really aren’t many trails. As the Highlands were severely deforested long ago, one can see long distances and can simply pick out a route from one place to another. This doesn’t always work out so well, however: We soon found ourselves trudging through a large bog. Besides the incredibly uneven footing, probably my favorite feature of Scottish bogs is the thigh-deep pools, carefully tucked away among the brush so that they always catch one by surprise. Though the Irishman somehow managed to emerge unscathed, the Finn and I partook quite heartily of the bog’s offerings. There’s really nothing like a couple bootsful of brown water to make for a great day of hiking in the rain.
And there was rain. Just about the time we left the hard-packed forest road, the rain decided to make an encore appearance (I guess it had slept in). Scottish rain comes in many varieties: driving, spitting, misting, intermittent, vertical, diagonal, horizontal. We had a good helping of each, a nice variety, as we emerged from the bog and began the steep ascent up the barren slope of the Munro. Clad in waterproofs (as requisite as boots for hiking in Scotland), we constantly adjusted hoods, zippers, and sleeves in an endless cycle to accommodate the rapidly shifting weather. On up we climbed, at many instances grabbing onto the coarse grass to prevent a tumble down the precipitous mountainside. And the rain, in all its manifold glory, continued.
After a long and grueling ascent, we spied a pass—the summit still hovering high above—where we might be able to catch our breath and eat some of the food we’d brought with us. As we stumbled up onto the exposed ridgeline, however, we discovered that the wind there was howling with such ferocity that we had to run for cover behind the far side of the near-vertical slope. Exhausted, drenched, and now buffeted by gale-force winds, we reconnoitered behind the rocks, overlooking the steep, socked-in valley on the far side of the ridge. One question soon presented itself, burning at the forefront of each of our minds—Irish, Finnish, and American were all of one accord: What on earth were we doing out there?