West Highland Way
James Forrest tackles the 96-mile trail – in three days
I AM THE TRAIL. The trail is me. We move together, fluid and smooth. There is no hesitation or resistance. Every step is intuitive yet somehow precise; every movement fast, light and agile, not laboured. It feels effortless and natural, like I’m in auto-pilot mode. Like the trail wants me to succeed. I have discovered my flow – that undiluted sense of connectedness to the craft of walking.
This feeling of harmony often eludes me, but here on day two of the West Highland Way it washes over me – and I know why.
It’s because I’m challenging myself to put in big days and quick miles. My mission is to walk the 96-mile (154 kilometre) West Highland Way, which is usually hiked in five to seven days, in less than 72 hours.
I’m outside of my comfort zone, on the edge of my abilities, and that boundary is where I find this flow. Why it comes, and then disappears again without trace, is difficult to pinpoint. But I feel it now as I march towards Tyndrum on the lumpy-bumpy track of an old military road. It’s a rhythm in my pace, an emptiness in my head, an energy coursing through my veins. The whole world is the trail below my feet.
LESS IS MORE
Weighed down by monstrously gigantic backpacks, like heavilyladen Himalayan pack mules, my fellow West Highland Way-ers don’t appear to have found the same zen. Their faces grimace with discomfort. Their posture is crooked and contorted. “I feel like I’ve got a house on my back,” one female hiker tells me, half-joking, half-cursing the weight of her 70-litre gear hauler, complete with sleeping mat, tent and cooking pot all dangling from various straps and hooks. “If I sit down, I don’t think I’ll get back up –
I’ll be unbalanced, roll over and end up like an upside-down beetle, unable to right myself.”
I try not to feel smug each time I pass a similarly unhappy hiker labouring under the burden of the kitchen sink on their back, but I can’t resist – the more miserable they look, the more palpable the Schadenfreude.
My own approach is an experiment in minimalism. I’ve packed as ultralight as possible, and everything I need to survive – tarp, bivvy, sleeping bag and mat, waterproofs, first aid kit, toiletries, food and water – fits into my Haglöfs L.I.M 35-litre backpack and weighs just 7kg. My clothing and footwear, also exclusively from the Haglöfs L.I.M range, is light and athletic, and I’ve kept overall weight down by planning three re-supplies at Kinlochleven, Tyndrum and Balmaha.
We all have our different motivations when we head outdoors, and I can certainly see that my low-weight, high-mileage approach isn’t for everyone. Why would I want to ‘rush past’ through such a spectacular mountain landscape? How could I possibly be comfortable?
There are a few ways I could answer this. I want to challenge myself. I want to see if it’s possible to complete a classic longdistance trail in the space of a long weekend. But, above all, I want the feeling of freedom. Going fast and light unleashes me from the progress-hindering shackles of a heavy load. I have less to organise, less to look after, and less to pack (and unpack, and repack). Less is more. My trail life is uncluttered and uncomplicated, leaving more space for that elusive flow to kick in.
FEELING ALIVE
The only flow on day one of my trek, however, is the vertical flow of rolling rain showers. They come and go all day, mostly light but occasionally heavy, as I tramp from Fort William towards Glen Coe via the village of Kinlochleven.
I’m taking on the West Highland Way the ‘wrong way’ round. Around 36,000 people walk the trail in one go every year, and the vast majority hike south to north, starting in Milngavie on the outskirts of Glasgow and journeying 96 miles (154 kilometres) north to Fort William. This ensures the easiest terrain comes at the beginning and the most spectacular scenery towards the end. But I’m going against the grain, walking south for no other reason than the practicalities of bus timetables and a ScotRail strike on Sundays.
At 7.45am on Monday morning I stand next to ‘The End of the West Highland Way’ plinth in Fort William, pause for a brief moment, and take my first tentative step. Only 200,000 more to go. That’s a long, long way to walk in less than 72 hours. Old cattle drover routes and 18th Century military roads, the winding pass of Devil’s Staircase into Glen Coe, the sprawling wilderness of Rannoch Moor, and the never-ending, energy-sapping shoreline of Loch Lomond lie in my way. Will I make it? And will the ultralight, minimalist approach prove inspired or idiotic?
By dusk I begin to wonder if it might be the latter. The day’s 21 miles (33 kilometres) of walking was enjoyable – views of the cloud-cloaked Ben from Nevis Forest, flanking the Mamores range on a long and lonely-feeling glen, and steadily climbing out of Kinlochleven to the dramatic bealach above the Devil’s Staircase – but now I feel vulnerable. Perhaps I should have packed more?
I’m wild camping on the western shoulder of Stob Beinn a’ Chrulaiste. Wind is pummelling into the side of my A-frame tarp and heavy raindrops are performing a percussive symphony on
the canvas. The open, airy setup feels somewhat defenceless and exposed, only a gossamer-thin layer of ripstop nylon protecting me from the full venom of the Scottish weather. But I don’t actually lament my lack of tent at all. There is something perversely exciting about packing so little and still being safe. I’m dry, warm and comfortable – and I feel alive.
THE MIGHTY BUACHAILLE
Two hours later and the rain symphony ends. I venture out of the tarp, shuffling awkwardly from my sleeping bag and tentatively enter the world beyond the safety of my triangular green shelter. The air is damp and the breeze awakening. My bare feet sink into wet, mossy ground and my eyes are drawn to the sky, an ill-tempered greyness ready to unleash its wrath at the slightest provocation.
The brooding weather suits the landscape: a place snarling with intrigue and mystery, brutally built and in places terrifyingly sheer. It almost looks unreal, as if a JRR Tolkien pencil sketch of a mythical land has come to life. There is a fabled, fairytale quality to it all, and it’s easy to imagine legendary quests of heroism and glory taking place in every corner. From this angle, even the smooth curves of the A82 morph into a secret highway – in my imagination, at least – for hairy-footed travellers seeking safe passage beyond The Three Sisters, Bidean nam Bian and Aonach Eagach.
This is Glen Coe, Scotland’s best-loved and most dramatic
“I don’t actually lament my lack of tent at all. There is something perversely exciting about packing so little and still being safe. I’m dry, warm and comfortable – and I feel alive.”
glen, and I have the best seat in the house. Directly ahead of me looms the colossal sentinel of Buachaille Etive Mor, fearsome and handsome in its pyramidal profile. It is a fractured blockade of rock of awe-inspiring proportions: a gnarled, burly chaos of crag and cliff, scarred and gashed by the claws of a violent geological process. There must be a thousand gullies and a thousand more cracks and crevices that add depth and texture to the grey bulk of the mountain. It is a masterpiece, alluring and mesmerising and impossible to take your eyes off.
By midday the following morning – after a rainy few hours crossing the boggy badlands of Rannoch Moor, bypassing the Black Mount range and arriving at Inveroran on the shores of Loch Tulla – I’ve found the flow. Every sinew, tendon and muscle fibre works in harmony. I move fast and light over Mam Carraigh towards Bridge of Orchy. I’m not battling against the trail. I’m not trying too hard. It all just flows. Every footing grips, every pole placement strikes accurately, every twist and turn in the path is velvety. Even if I slip, my forward momentum never dips. I have an unblinkered focus on the task of walking. It all feels organic and subconscious. The miles pass and the hours go by, and I just keep putting one foot in front of the other as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.
LESS FUN, MORE PAIN?
I sleep in a small copse next to Dubh Lochan, at the northern
tip of Loch Lomond, and wake refreshed and ready for another big day. I need to be, as Milngavie is still 39 miles (63km miles) away, but I quickly realise the flow has deserted me. Tiredness is setting in. The soles of my feet are sore and achy. My toes burn with blistered pinch-points. And the trail, so often my friend and companion over the last two days, becomes spiteful and vindictive – and seemingly determined to slow me down.
The trail so far has been well-built and clear, but the eastern shore of Loch Lomond is a different story – a nightmare of a track for weary feet, a never-ending maze of slippery tree roots, wet rocks and undulating ups and downs. It saps my energy. My movement is no longer fluid or natural. Instead it’s strained and deliberate , and it feels like I’m walking through treacle. I have to dig deep, grit my teeth and power through.
I stop at the closed Inversnaid Hotel, sit on an abandoned picnic bench for a snack break and contemplate my morning’s battle.
Am I enjoying this? Does my ‘less is more’ approach actually mean less fun and more pain? Can I really walk another 54 kilometres
(34 miles) today when I feel so exhausted right now?
Another walker passes by, with a large rucksack but a happy smile. “Good morning, nice day to be out,” he says jovially. He looks like a man with an easy schedule ahead of him. He can stop when he wants, soak up the views whenever takes his fancy, rest his feet as often as he desires. Lucky sod. But I don’t begrudge him his leisurely itinerary. Everyone enjoys the outdoors in their own intimate, personal way, and he might just find his flow by travelling slow and steady. Each to their own.
CROSSING THE WATERSHED
But I know that’s not me. I thrive on a challenge. I love the exercise, the adrenaline and the sense of achievement. I love spending all day outside from dawn to dusk, knowing that – whilst other walkers are in the pub by 5pm back in ‘reality’ – I still have five hours left on the trail at the quietest, most charming time of day.
And, perhaps most of all, I love moving fast and light through a landscape. For me there is something optimal about travelling at 4-5mph: it’s fast enough to cram a lot into a weekend and to travel long distances in a day; but slow enough to immerse myself in the landscape and appreciate the magical little moments along the way. So I finish my porridge, pack up my bag and get back on the trail.
Six long hours later and I stand atop Conic Hill above
Balmaha. The isle-dotted expanse of Loch Lomond stretches out sumptuously towards towering massifs in the distance, but that is all behind me now.
Conic Hill sits on the Highland Boundary Fault, the geological ‘border’ marking the start of the Scottish Highlands. It is the watershed in this journey; the dividing line between the lowlands and the mountains; the symbolic crux of my West Highland Way adventure. Atop this dinky 361 metre (1184 feet) hill, I now know nothing will stop me making it to the finish line tonight.
I turn away from the summit, bidding a fond farewell to the Highlands, and begin walking the gentle home stretch. I notice a near-imperceptible change: a slight spring in my step, a nimbleness to my movement, an energy in my gait. The flow is back.