Hoofing it In the Highlands
After my hundred year-old mother passed away shortly before Thanksgiving (a Covid infection tipped her over the edge), I began entertaining the possibility of a long-deferred personal “adventure.” As Nancy Schuler’s primary source of familial support (with significant contributions from my wife and son), it had been incumbent on me to stay close to home to deal with an ever increasing list of demands: medical, financial, emotional, logistical. Dealing with her decline had become time consuming, despite the services rendered by a cadre of conscientious caregivers.
First things first, however. Trina had booked the four of us (yes, the toy spaniels came too) into a small lakeside resort in Hot Springs, Arkansas, a city known for its soothing mineral baths and skilled massage therapists, where we enjoyed five laidback days in late February. That was refreshing, but now I was ready for something completely different.
For some time, my dear wife had been advocating for a father-son trip, and when I broached the possibility with Kyle — a seasoned traveler — he was more than game. With plenty of PTO to draw from, he agreed to spend twelve days with me at a destination of my choosing. But where? Provence and Tuscany were both attractive possibilities, but in the end I told him the place I’d really like to visit was Scotland – the picturesque land of Adam Smith, David Hume, Robert Burns, Thomas Carlyle, and the young John Muir. We’d ride the train from London, explore Edinburgh and Glasgow, and then embark on a six day excursion calculated to test our (or at least my) mettle.
The West Highland Way meanders 96 miles from the Glasgow suburb of Milngavie to Fort William. It boasts craggy mountains, a procession of quaint villages, and pastoral scenes rivaling those lush nineteenth century landscape paintings. It is suggested that walkers divide the Way into eight 10-14 mile segments, making for day hikes of around six hours depending on the terrain. Recalling the time (forty years ago) when I could cover a 26.2 mile marathon in well under three hours, I told Kyle it would be entirely feasible to complete the trek in a mere six days. He didn’t think that was too ambitious, and that’s where the fun began.
We had both been ratcheting up our exercise, with brisk two hour hikes in the natural areas of our respective communities (for me, the hilly UW Lakeshore Nature Preserve). But Wisconsin — even the Driftless Region — isn’t Scotland, whose trails are extremely rocky, punctuated with steep climbs and descents (one notorious stretch is ominously referred to as “The Devil’s Staircase”). At age seventy-three my balance isn’t what it was twenty years ago, so at home I’m always alert to tripping hazards. On the Highland Way, one risks stumbling every five feet. Kyle was always close at hand to catch me if I appeared ready to fall but, miraculously , I never did (it was somewhat sobering to learn that the current record for covering those 96 miles is thirteen hours and change).
By the end of day two, we were both feeling the effects of the unforgiving trail on our knees, hamstrings, and quads. But by day five the affected tissues had adapted and we ended up making good time, albeit with plenty of breaks to take in the view and admire the myriad lambs cavorting on the surrounding gorse-covered slopes. It helped that we were burdened only with day packs, having consigned our heavier gear to a transport service that ferried them from one B&B to the next.
The trek was arduous, but each day began with a meal of eggs, smoked salmon, and (occasionally) that uniquely Scottish concoction, haggis. At days end, there was local ale, single malt whisky, and generous portions of North Sea haddock & chips. While sociable Kyle made the after-dinner round of the local hot spots, I settled in with Scottish writer Alisdair Gray’s quirky novel, Poor Things, which I’d picked up at the historic Blackwell’s bookstore shortly after our arrival.
I realize this didn’t approach the challenge of walking the Pacific Crest Trail with a full pack, but completing the West Highland Way in my seventh decade was still gratifying, as was sharing the experience with a son half my age who proved to be both a patient helpmeet and stimulating conversationalist. Adding to the pleasure of the trip was the undisguised friendliness of the Scottish people. Almost without exception, folks went out of their way to be helpful and informative.
It was also the first time I’d been overseas since 1972 when, as a college junior, I spend a month studying in London. There may not be a “next time,” but the sweet memories of a bucket-list adventure shared with Kyle — and undertaken at Trina’s unselfish insistence — will linger for quite some time.
