Enter the last day of our long walk — 15 miles to Fort William and the end of the West Highland Way.
Mary and I were ebullient as we made the first slow and steady climb out of the Blackwater Valley where Kinlochleven is nestled, full of good breakfast and pride in having made it this far.
The path was lined with wild rhododendrons, just-blooming heathers and an occasional violet colored lupine look-alike as we chatted under the light of another sunny morning. We felt ready for the challenge — and its promise of more beautiful hillscapes, long silent spaces, cloud-studded views and the first glimpse of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the United Kingdom.
Less than two miles into the hike, however, we ran into a group of motocross riders. Muddy and pumped, they revved and fishtailed down the mountainside, cutting into the earth like sharp knives through a priceless work of art. The bikes ripped across the path, grouped in a mass of dark metal and wheels at the top of streams and then raced down the stream beds, seemingly with no regard for the plants or animals in residence there. Diesel filled the air and the sound of roaring motors drowned out any birdsong or silence.
The bikes continued to zoom up and down the path and up and down the hills surrounding it even as we moved past this first conference of riders. They continued to rev and ride for miles. Eventually we saw someone who looked like an official in the midst of all that flying dirt and noise and, ready to make a non-citizen’s arrest, we demanded to know why the bikes were abusing a national monument. The official informed us, not unkindly, that the bikes would be on the path all the way to Fort William. Our hearts sank. As it turned out, our last walking day coincided with the Scottish Six Day international motocross competition that has run these hills annually for more than a century. That is, well before Scotland designated the West Highland Way a national treasure.
“That’s a tough blow,” the official said, with what I now admit was true condolence. “You’re bookers should have told you.”
I was livid. Had our trip planner mentioned a motocross event to me, my response would have been an emphatic NO and a race to different dates. I have an ugly rage response nearly every time I hear motorcycles racing along the freeway beside me or muscle flexing up the hill near my house. Mary doesn’t hold such angst, but when I turned to look at her after getting this news, she was in tears. Watching dozens of bikes rip up nature in this way was like witnessing a form of landscape rape.
Strangely I had two bars on my phone in the middle of nowhere where we stood, so I called our trip arranger (as if she could do anything). I held out my phone to demonstrate the crucifixion of our last day by screaming motors.
“Oh nooo!” she too was believably distressed, having been told the riders would not be on the path. I don’t know what Julie looks like but I can imagine her stomping into Fort William in the near future demanding justice. She cares that much about the people she helps bring to this path.
Mary and I toyed with returning to Kinlochleven and busing forward. But I was determined to finish this walk on foot. Mary, bless her devotion to our friendship, wasn’t going to let me suffer alone.
And then, pulling it up from where I know not, my friend offered the reflection (and dare I say kindness) I needed to quiet my internal ranting. She offered a reframe of the situation:
“You know,” Mary said, “we need to look at it from their point of view. They’ve been holding this race for a century. They feel they have a right to race just like we feel we have a right to walk. They probably find racing around us just as frustrating and dangerous.” Those weren’t her actual words, but you get the idea.
From there we dived into an intriguing conversation about balance and negotiation and stepping into the shoes of The Other, especially the other we want to smack into submission to our way of thinking. Say motocross riders . . .
Thankfully, at about the 8 mile mark, the path diverged and the motorbikes dimmed into the distant mountain side behind us. The official was wrong. We continued our up-and-down stroll through primrose and violet beds, stopping to identify plants and basking in a sudden and perhaps more perfect silence. Because would that quiet have been so sweet if it hadn’t been prefaced by the chaos?
It was on this, the last leg of the last leg of our walk across the Highlands, that The Miracle of the Cuckoo occurred. Recall the cuckoo bird that started calling to us on day one. Remember we, in our magical thinking, had determined there was one and only one cuckoo in these hills and he had come out to strain his vocals just for us.
His telltale call filled the air once more, consoling us, enlivening us, making us laugh.
“I’m here! I’m here!” he called.
It was as if he'd been waiting for us, ready to guide us in. Hearing a cuckoo is one thing — if you are in the right place at the right time of year, his call is a harbinger of spring.
But, actually seeing a cuckoo is another thing altogether. They are quite shy and rarely seen by non-birders. But as we rounded a wide bin,, there he was, sitting on a branch in a spindly alder urging us on.
“Almost there! Almost there!” I translated.
A silver lining, a happy accident. Yes, much of the walk today was unpleasant. The bikes slowed us down, made us weep and cuss and scorn.
And yet, had we been going any faster or any slower or started earlier or started later to avoid them, we likely would have missed the cuckoo bird. We may not have heard his song at all, which continued all the way to the end of our walk, his final words echoing what he promised at the beginning: “You can do it! You can do it!”
Is it possible that all of it today was part of this blessing? The messy and the sublime?
We stumbled up to the small sign marking the end of the West Highland Way, got the mandatory photo and turned to march the 300 or 400 meters to where I expected our bed and breakfast lay. To my surprise however, it turned out that our accommodations were not at the same place I stayed when last I walked this route. Note to self: READ itinerary conveniently provided by your trip planner.
With the additional 2 miles we lumbered through to find Myrtle Bank Guest House, Mary and I clocked 17 miles today. In doing so, we proved you CAN do anything you set your mind to — in spite of obstacles, misunderstandings, motocross and aching limbs.
A final surprise awaited us at the inn. Our host led us dirty and bedraggled into a gorgeous bay view suite fit for the queens we are. Smaller rooms were full and so the owners put us in their finest room. Tomorrow we head up to the attic — into rooms once used by the servants (and much more our style).
But tonight, an unexpected and welcome luxury. During dinner (yes another gorgeous meal which I was too tired to record) we sipped fine scotch and made a toast to our accomplishment. We gave thanks for bodies that have not yet given out (much).
And then we made another toast, this one recognizing the privilege that got us here and and from which too many others are excluded.
This is our way, Mary and mine: to recognize both sides of a truth.
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