Land of dreams

Over the past two weeks, while the American economy was falling prey to the dysfunctional American political system, and while the cities of Britain were being burned by hopeless youths, I was hiking obliviously and happily through the Highlands of Scotland.

I've described my anticipated route in past blog postings. The scenery along the trail was beautiful every step of the way, from the pastoral suburbs of Glasgow, past the calm, fjord-like waters of Loch Lomond, into the Highlands, weaving through the crags and bogs of Rannoch Moor, down into the valley of Glen Coe, and back up over a final lobe of Rannoch Moor and down into Fort William.

The predicted rain fell, although not day by day, hour by hour. I had three days during which fairly steady rain fell during at least part of the hiking day: Day 2 approaching Loch Lomond; Day 5 approaching Inveroran on the edge of Rannoch Moor; and the final day, climbing out of Kinlochlevan across moors and mountains to Fort William. It was on that final day that I confronted the steadiest rain, a rain that obscured what was billed as the most beautiful mountain scenery of the hike. I hiked for miles on gully-like trails that flowed with running water as though they were creek beds, being repeatedly forced to find a way across the "burns," or small streams, that flowed across the trail every few hundred feet or so. But then, I'm a Northwest Corner hiker -- not unaccustomed to moisture -- and was able to take that in stride. And I did have appropriate rain gear.

Each day's hike, although usually lengthy, was reasonably gentle, and the trail was extremely well maintained. For a significant portion of the hike, I was hiking on abandoned military roads from the 18th century, roads so well built that they remain in excellent condition and have required little maintenance. My longest day's hike was 18 miles on Day 2, three miles longer than advertised because of a wrong turn I took in extremely heavy rainfall. This misadventure, together with another mistake on Day 4 that led me to make an unnecessary steep climb into the hills, wasting 1½ hours, reflect little credit on the author's navigational skills. Further discussion on this topic, therefore, will not be tolerated.

Midges? A few bites the last three days of the hike, despite my purchase and use of Smidge^®, a Scottish concoction designed specifically to battle the midge threat, but the tiny bugs certainly didn't present a serious problem. I've had worse experiences with mosquitoes right here in the good old US of A.

Why hike in Scotland, when we have beautiful trails on which to hike here at home? I sensed that question in the minds of some of the Scots with whom I talked. And if you're looking just for pretty scenery and good trails, the question has a certain validity.

To me, however, there's the additional appeal of historical and literary allusions: Celtic myth, warring clans, Jacobite rebellions against the English, reivers and highwaymen, Rob Roy, Sir Walter Scott. I've also had a strong yearning, ever since childhood, to walk unknown paths shrouded in mists and myth -- that fairy world that makes up so much of Yeats's poetry, perhaps, or the mysterious empty lands of Tolkien's writings. The popularity of the LOTR books and movies surely indicates that I'm not alone in this yearning, in this peculiar need to visit, however briefly, worlds somehow pre-modern in their strangeness and scant population.

Thus, poring over my maps in the months before the hike, I foresaw Loch Lomond as it really is -- a beautiful lake with many historical associations, but also a lake that serves as a recreational area for the urban residents of Edinburgh and Glasgow. But north of the lake, the trail would leave the modern world, in my imagining, and wend its way into the world of romance. I would cross the Bridge of Orchy, an ancient landmark in the wilderness marking the entrance to the moors of the North. A bridge that I somehow associated with Tolkien's Last Bridge, crossing the River Bruinen. I saw myself fighting off Dark Riders in front of me, while defending against trolls attacking my flanks.

The trail enters Rannoch Moor, crossing vast reaches of bog and grasslands -- a playground for Macbeth's witches, for hobgoblins and will-o'-the-wisps -- skirting the base of dark hills with darker names: Beínn Toaig and Meall a'Bhùiridh, Beíenn a'Chrulaiste and Buachaille Etive Mor. It leads down to the isolated Kingshouse Hotel, an ancient establishment that's been greeting travelers, smugglers and cattle drovers for over two centuries, an inn that recalled -- again, in the fevered imaginings of my mind -- Tolkien's "Prancing Pony" inn at Bree. The trail leaves "Bree" behind, and climbs back up to the moor by the sixteen switchbacks of the Devil's Staircase, thence descending into the isolated lochside village of Kinlochleven.

I would be wandering in a land of enchantment.

Now, despite your impression, I'm not an idiot. I know I live in the 21st century. I know that the fairies and goblins have long since been chased from Scotland. But it's possible to think on two levels simultaneously, right? Staring at the map, my rational mind clearly observed that the trail rarely wanders far from the A82 tourist road that runs from Glasgow, north to Fort William, and on to Inverness. But on my trail map, the A82 is merely a faint line, less prominant than the bright red line of the West Highland Way trail. The secret of a successful Scottish hike -- for me -- was to likewise subordinate the sights and sounds of that irritating A82 to the romantic imaginings of my own mind while I was actually on the trail.

This I'm fully capable of doing.

I sometimes think that everything is fiction and that travel is something that happens in your head.
--Paul Theroux

Exactly, Mr. Theroux. Exactly.

So it was a great hike. Wonderful exercise. Dazzling scenery. And eight days walking through mysterious regions where, at any moment, I might have encountered a Celtic sprite, a masked highwayman, a MacDonald or Campbell dressed for battle, a Brigadoon wedding.

I didn't, actually, of course. But what I did see, and even what I only dreamed, was far more enjoyable than watching the nosedive of the American economy and the rioting in English cities. Thanks, Scotland! I'll be back again some day.

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