Pain & Presence on the West Highland Way

I wake up and wipe hundreds of dead black flies off the side of my face. I feel around for my phone to check the time; it’s 5 AM. It's time to get up; I have a long day ahead of me. I’m disappointed to hear raindrops hitting my tent. I crawl outside my tent wearing my eyeglasses and underwear only. In the tent’s vestibule are my pile of clothes for the day. I pick them up and sigh. In my own head, I joke, “I don’t think these clothes could get any more wet. I think it would be scientifically impossible.” I hurry, though, to put them on because I am cold, and the black flies are starting another day off with a vengeance. I feel them flying and crawling all over my face, neck, arms, legs, and hands. They are biting me, which sucks, of course. But more than anything, I am just annoyed and fed up with them. I take a few steps toward my backpacking stove to boil some water for my oatmeal. With each step, I feel the all-too-familiar pain in my foot and ankle and am quickly reminded of my current situation. A thought pops into my head, “Why am I doing this? Why did I carve out time and pay money to do this? Most importantly, why am I basing my whole life around doing things like this?”

As I’m sitting there contemplating my life’s choices up to this point, I spot something out of the corner of my eye. I look up. Standing there, maybe 15 feet away, is a beautiful Red Stag. It is my first time seeing a Red Deer. It takes me a few moments to gather what exactly it is I’m seeing. We stare at each other, both equally surprised to see each other in our current situations. A few moments pass. He goes back to eating his breakfast. Now that I am no longer staring into his eyes, I can zoom out and take in the whole scene.

The ground surrounding the stag is a bright and deep green. Directly behind the Stag is a flowing creek. Behind the creek is a thick forest, so thick that it becomes pitch black after a few feet of looking into it. Above and beyond all of that are the mountains of the Scottish Highlands. The rain lowers to a sprinkle. There is a mist coming from the ground and the creek. The sun is just starting to rise, bringing more light to the scene. The stag continues to eat his breakfast 15 feet away. I simultaneously feel both grateful and unworthy to witness such a majestic scene. I then notice the black flies surrounding the Stag. This makes me again notice all the black flies crawling all over me and how cold, hungry, tired, and in pain I am. This shifts my perspective. I realize that I am not a witness to this scene, but I am a part of this scene.

Now, allow me to provide some background and context for the opening part of this story before we continue this adventure. I created what I call my “Life Goals List.” This list contains goals I am pursuing to complete before I die, commonly called a bucket list. On this list is the completion of “The West Highland Way,” a 96-mile trail through the Highlands of Scotland. For this goal, I decided to pursue a completion of this trail in 5 days, averaging 20 miles per day. I also decided to forego hotels, luggage porters, restaurants, and campgrounds (for the most part). Instead, I chose to wild camp most nights, carry all my gear and food, and cook for myself along the way. By “cooking,” I mean boiling water on a backpacking stove to pour into my dehydrated meals.

The trip was going fine for the first couple of days, walking through Scottish farmlands and up and down mountains with the cattle and sheep. I was used to backpacking at high altitudes up and down the big mountains of Colorado, so here, the miles seemed to melt away. I knew the black flies could be an issue, but my ignorance of their size proved troublesome on my first night. I brought a mosquito net to cover my face. On my first night, though, I quickly realized the holes were too big. Thousands of black flies crawled inside my bug net and were trapped right up to my face; it was unpleasant. The next day, I found a small store selling the correct bug nets and purchased one to save the rest of my trip.

I figured out a strategy. I had to boil water outside my tent for meals, so I would do that and suffer the black fly swarms. Then, I would pour the boiling water into my food bag, quickly get back inside my tent, and close it up. Next, I would sit there with my gloves and bug net still on and wait. After 10 minutes, most of the black flies would get caught and stuck on the inside of my tent walls, which were wet from condensation, and die. At this point, I could take off my face net and gloves and enjoy my meal inside my tent. Near the end of the trip, the inside walls were constantly wet and covered with dead black flies, thousands of them. So, when I would sleep, my face would brush on the inside tent walls, and all those wet, dead black flies would stick to my face. The first two days were mostly sunshine. I was in awe, having never been to Scotland and never hiked through so much history. However, on day 3, the ongoing rain started. More importantly, I started feeling pain in my foot and ankle. I was used to backpacking in Colorado in the steep mountains and altitude but not used to this high mileage. A good day of backpacking for me in the Colorado mountains is 10-15 miles. I wasn’t used to the 20-25 mile days loaded with full gear day after day after day. Also, most of this trail was either asphalt or large rocks; I was not prepared for either. Cardio-wise, I felt great, but my ankles and feet started to break down. Every step I took was agony. I started limping. No amount of pain reliever pills seemed to help. On night 3, I hoped that a good night’s rest would heal it. But on the morning of Day 4, when I stepped out of my tent, I realized the pain was drastically worse.

It was a good night, though. It was my first night staying in a campground. I met a Scottish married couple. We talked for a while, and I was able to cook my dinner in an indoor kitchen away from the black flies. The couple hired a luggage porter service. They pulled a bottle of wine and a deck of cards out of their luggage. We drank wine out of coffee cups, played cards, and talked about life, one of the highlights of my trip.

The next morning, I doubted whether I could finish or if it would be safe even to attempt to. There were every 10 miles or so towns with public transportation available back to Glasgow, so I had escape plans to stop and wasn’t in danger of being stranded or anything. I decided that I was here to complete this goal, so I was going to do it. I didn’t care if I had to crawl to the finish line and take months to recover. I was going to do it.

The beginning of Day 4 was tough. The black flies and rain started to wear me down. Once I got on the trail, the pain was overwhelming. I still had 50 more miles and only two days to do it. I discovered something, though. If I kept moving nonstop for an hour or so, the pain would start to fade away, or I would just get used to it. I’m not sure. So, I adopted a new strategy. I would eat breakfast, then hike nonstop until lunch. Then, I would eat lunch, chug water, and coffee, and take more pain pills. Afterward, I would pack up and start hiking again, deal with the pain for the first hour or so, and then not stop again until I reach where I’m camping for the night. At this point, I could eat dinner and set up camp. I figured if I could do this, averaging a pace of 2 miles per hour, hiking nonstop for 12.5 hours per day, 6 hours in between breakfast and lunch, and 5.5 hours in between lunch and dinner, then that would take me to the 50-mile mark in the last two days, completing my goal.

            By the end of Day 4, I managed 22 miles. The beginning part of this story was the morning of day 5 out of 5. I say five days, but the goal was to reach a campground that I booked that is one mile from the finish, which would be technically walked to on day 6. I was 28 miles from this campground. My plan was to quickly eat breakfast that morning, right before sunrise. Then, hike for 5 hours straight, hopefully taking me to a town 12 miles away to grab some hot water and coffee for lunch there. Then, after lunch, finish the last 16 miles in 7 hours, not stopping along the way, hopefully bringing me to the campground just after sunset. It is here, the morning of day five, that this story continues.

I watch the Stag for some time until it eventually makes its way back into the dark forest. I know I have a long day ahead of me, so I quickly get some water boiled and hop in my tent to follow the strategy mentioned earlier. I sit in my tent with my wet clothes, gloves, and bug net on until the swarm of black flies that were nice enough to accompany me into my tent get stuck to the wet tent walls and die. Then, I take my head net and gloves off, eat my oatmeal, and take a caffeine pill. There’s no time for coffee this morning. I quickly pack my wet tent, sleeping pad, and quilt into my backpack and start hiking. I immediately realize the pain in my foot and ankle is the worst that it’s been. I grimace and impatiently anticipate the time after an hour spent hiking in this agony when the pain will hopefully start to fade away. However, after a half hour, I spot a hotel. It’s an old, beautiful hotel located in a valley in between the Scottish Highland Mountains, like a mini-Hogwarts.

I walk up to it to see if I can steal some amenities. I spot a public bathroom, so I go use it. Then, I spot a kitchen/common area. I try my luck to see if I can use it to get out of the rain and make a proper cup of instant coffee. I was denied entry. Based on my appearance, they immediately see that I am not a paying hotel guest, the only people allowed to use the kitchen/common area. I look around and see a picnic table outside; that will have to do. I put my bag down and pull out my stove onto the table to make some quick instant coffee and take more pain pills. The sun never came out; it is overcast and raining. I am about as wet as I possibly can be and get cold anytime that I stop hiking. I am wearing all the layers I brought, but I am still underdressed and cold. The only thing that keeps me warm is movement. I look in the window of the kitchen/common area and see some people in pajamas holding their hot cups of coffee, initially intending to look out the window for the Highland views, but instead, I see them staring at me in pity. However, little do they know that I am also looking back at them in pity. They may be warm and comfortable, but they probably never experienced a moment like I had just this morning a couple of hours ago.

            As I sit in the rain, drinking my cup of coffee, I see people in the window pointing at me. I could just imagine them talking about how crazy and miserable I must be, and they’d be right. After sufficiency feeling like a zoo animal, I decide it’s time to get back on the trail. 

This portion of the trail is all asphalt. Every step feels like a nail going through my foot. I limp with every other step and try as much as possible to step in the grass with my left foot to soften things up a bit. When I can step off the asphalt onto the grass, it’s usually at a slant, so even if it softens the impact on my foot, it makes my ankle worse. I put my head down, try to block out the pain the best I can, and know I only need an hour of this, at which point I can then enjoy four hours of pain-minimized hiking.

This is exactly what’s happened; I’ve hiked for an hour now, and the pain has reduced. The rain has also slowed down. Sometimes, the sun will even peak its way out, the rain will temporarily stop, and everything warms up. I’m coming up on the highest and steepest portion of the whole trail, wonderfully called “The Devil’s Staircase.” I am not thrilled that the highest and steepest portion of the trail also happens to be on the day that I need to hike the most mileage and am in the most pain, but it’s just how things have turned out. I am a little intimidated coming up to this section. I think most of this intimidation is based solely on the name of this section; I mean, it’s called “The Devil’s Staircase”; who wouldn’t intimidated by that?

I start heading up. Thankfully, the pain in my foot and ankle is almost completely gone. Then, my Colorado roots begin to kick in. Climbing up this mountain makes me feel at home again, right into my comfort zone. I find myself almost running up this mountain. It feels like my body is saying, “Oh yeah, I know what to do here.” In no time, I make it to the top. I turn around and look down the valley I just came from. I see the lone hotel and sun rays peeking through the clouds down into the valley. Even though I'm on a timeline, I have to take a picture of this scene. I pull out my phone from my hip belt pocket and take a photo.

I put my phone back in my hip belt (waterproof) pocket and continue on. I hike for another four hours. I don’t see any other people, only a few tents set up here and there. I don’t see anyone outside; they’re probably hunkering in for the day because of the rain. I can’t blame them there. A lot of this trail is along the same paths the old Highlanders used to take. I’ve romanticized their lifestyle in the past. But that was usually while I was comfortable back home, dry, and possibly a little bored. Now that I’m out here, I don’t feel that way as much. I just feel cold, wet, and a little lonely.

I start seeing some mountain bikers, trail runners, and hikers coming up past me. I realize then that I must be getting close to this town. After turning one bend, I see it down below in the valley. It is a beautiful-looking village, especially from up here. You can see how isolated it is, surrounded by mountains on three sides and a lake on the fourth. I see a bunch of old-looking buildings, but all of them bright white in color. The village looks very inviting from up here, and the rain has temporarily stopped, so I hurriedly make my way down. As I walk through the village, I see a public water station. I fill my water bottle, chug it a few times, and fill it again. I realize how dehydrated I was. Then, I smell the nearby restaurants and realize how hungry I am. I walk around and find a restaurant bar that has seating outside. I go inside to order a coffee and hot water and bring them outside. I pour the hot water into my dehydrated meal bag. While waiting for the hot water to cook my meal, I lay out my wet clothes on my table to dry out a bit. I then take my shoes and socks off and feel embarrassed by the smell. I look around and see only another pair of backpackers sitting outside beside me; they understand. I sit there and enjoy my meal and coffee while watching some people go about their day in town. I try to soak in and appreciate the sunlight. I check the GPS on my phone, 16 miles to go. I reluctantly pack up my clothes and get moving again.

            I enjoyed my time in the valley, but now I must pay the price for that and climb back up again into the mountains. On queue, it starts raining again, but not nearly as much as this morning. It’s more of a light sprinkle, but the sun is still out. It is a strange thing, to hike in the rain, but also in the sun. I start doing the math in my head: “Ok, it’s 12:30, the sun sets at 7. That gives me 6.5 hours. My normal pace is 2 miles per hour, but if I can average 2.5 miles per hour nonstop for the next 6.5 hours, that will get me 16 miles to the campground as the sun is setting at 7”.

            Now that I’ve climbed up into the mountains again, the rest of my day should be relatively flat. I’ll be hiking through Lairigmor, which is Scottish Gaelic for “The Great Pass.” I feel good after eating lunch, drinking coffee, chugging water, and taking pain pills. My foot and ankle pain has diminished, and the trail is starting to flatten out. I shed off some miles. I haven’t seen anybody else on the trail. I’m not entirely sure why. This section of the trail shows no signs of civilization for miles, except for some old stone building ruins. I feel grateful to be surrounded by such history in a foreign country like this all by myself. I remember my months of planning and preparing for this trip. I remember researching, downloading GPS maps of the trail, booking flights, finding a dog sitter, and packing my gear. I remember waking up in the middle of the night to catch a shuttle to the airport. I remember my long flights over here. I remember walking around Glasgow exhausted after catching a bus from the airport, trying to find gas for my stove on four hours of sleep. All that lead-up, planning, spending money, waiting in lines, losing sleep, and riding on buses, trains, and planes allow me to be in this moment right now. This moment where I am all by myself, walking through the wilderness of Scotland, with all my gear on my back, surrounded by the best of European history.

I turn a corner, look across the next valley, and see where the trail continues. I softly chuckle and say, “Alright, here we go”. I see storm clouds and vast amounts of rain pouring out of them. I’ve never seen anything quite like this. This storm is isolated in the valley and moving incredibly quickly along the trail right toward me. I can see sunlight hitting the mountains, but this is contrasted by the dark hell moving at full speed right toward me in the valley. I have no choice but to accept my fate and walk directly toward it in defiance. Let’s do this. I put my phone in a plastic bag and check to ensure my hip belt pocket zippers are closed all the way. I take a deep breath to prepare myself mentally, put my head down, and walk directly into the storm as it impatiently approaches to greet me.

There is no warmup. I was walking in a sprinkle and am now immediately inside an onslaught. This is a next-level quantity of rain. I immediately regret the lack of layers and rain gear that I brought. But I wanted to save as much weight as possible as I knew I would be carrying all my gear and food with me. A nearby creek has started to flood sections of the trail. When moving across these flooded sections, I try my best to boulder hop across. I have many miles and hours to go, so I put my head down and keep moving. Then, abruptly, all the rain stops. I see the sun hitting everything around me. Everything is quiet. I take a second to appreciate this reprieve but must keep moving.

Then, I turn another corner and chuckle again. I see a similar scene in the next valley of storm clouds pouring rain. This time, however, the storm is bigger and moving drastically faster toward me. I realize now why I haven’t seen anyone all day. I didn’t check the weather forecast for today, not that it would have mattered because I am still on a time restraint. I accept my fate again and walk straight into it. This time around is more intense. It is loud, and sections of the trail are significantly flooded here. I give up trying to boulder-hop across these sections. The water flows in sections across the trail up to my ankle in depth, but I am now just walking through it. My shoes and socks couldn’t get any more wet than they are right now anyway, so I might as well not waste time and energy trying to find the driest routes across. The rain is now fully horizontal and blowing directly into my face.

The horizontal downpour blowing directly into me and walking through this ankle-high flooded trail occurs for the next hour. It’s usually not a huge deal getting rained on because your head and shoulders may get wet. However, with rain blowing directly into me, the entire front of my arms, body, legs, and face are as soaked as possible. My pants get so wet that they become too heavy for my belt to hold them up. I have to keep pulling my pants up to keep them from falling off. I’m wearing every layer I have with me except for one pair of clothes dedicated for sleeping. Every inch of every layer of clothing I have on could not possibly be any more wet. At this point, though, it’s almost a relief. I accepted my fate, accepted that I couldn’t get any more wet, and kept moving. I know that moving keeps me warm and that I am on a time crunch, so this motivates me to block out the rain and put one foot in front of the other. About a half hour ago, I hit a moment after this acceptance when I was kind of enjoying myself. I adopted an “Is that all you got?” attitude. I must admit to you that now, a half hour later, that feeling has worn off. I would love for this rain to stop at any moment.

            I walk in this situation for another 15 minutes. Finally, abruptly, the rain stops. Everything is quiet again. I take a second to gather myself. I look back and see the storm moving down the valley like a runaway train. I take out my phone to verify that it still works. I pull my pants up and take this moment to tighten my belt. I look ahead and see sunlight hitting the mountainsides on both sides of the valley, but the valley is still overcast, with no direct sunlight hitting the valley floor. However, it seems to be the last of the large storm systems, at least from what I can see. I continue forward.

I hike along this valley pass for another few hours. The sun never hits the valley, but I can see it on the mountainsides. It remains overcast and slightly sprinkling in the valley, but my body heat from my movement starts to dry my clothes a little. I look ahead nervously at every bend for another storm speeding toward me, but this doesn’t happen again. I start coming up on patches of trees again. I go up and down and around some mountains, taking myself out of “The Great Pass” section. I appreciate the reprieve from the rain and shelter in the trees, but this seems to go on forever. I haven’t stopped moving since lunch. I feel exhausted, hungry, and dehydrated. I’ve probably burned 5,000 to 6,000 calories so far today and have eaten only 1,000.

I look back on waking up, wiping the dead black flies off my face, and seeing that Stag and can’t believe that that was today. That moment seems like days ago. I start crashing. However, the thought of reaching this campground is driving me forward. I can’t wait for comfort. I can’t wait for amenities. I can’t wait to see other people. I can’t wait for dryness. Every time I go up a hill or around a bend, I look ahead, anxiously hoping to see Heaven (the campground), but every time, I just see more trees and trail. 

This cycle continues for another hour. I then see a sign for the remnants of an old fort estimated to have been built around 100 BC. I start to feel guilty because I should take advantage of being able to check this out all by myself, but I just simply don’t care right now. My mind and body are in no sightseeing mode right now. They are in you need to get water, food, warmth, and dryness right now mode. I reluctantly skip going to check out this fort and continue on. I turn another corner and, following my routine for the past half hour, look down into the next valley. I finally see it. I see, in the valley below, white boxes and colored squares, which I perceive to be RVs and tents. There’s the campground! At this moment, this campground might as well be Disneyland, El Dorado, and Heaven combined. I get moving as fast as ever.

The sun is almost setting, but it’s all downhill from here (literally), and I can see my destination. I make my way down a winding road. The RVs slowly start to look bigger and bigger. Eventually, I make my way down to the valley and enter the campground. I see families outside their RVs cooking dinner. I appreciate this moment, but I also know I still have work to do, and the sun is setting. I go into the office and check-in, trying not to smell myself once indoors. Once finding my spot, I quickly set up my tent. It’s still wet and covered in dead black flies, but I don’t care at this point. This is my last night. I throw my sleeping pad and quilt inside the tent. I go into the bathroom and change into my sleeping clothes and sandals. I then go to the laundry room and put the rest of my clothes into a dryer. After this, I go back into the bathroom to take a shower, my first shower in days. I put in some coins to start the shower. I see there’s no time limit, so I plan on setting a new world record for taking the hottest and longest shower in history. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror with my shirt off and see my abs showing. My first thought is, “Damn, I look good”. Then I realize that I don’t look healthy. The reason I “look good” is because I’m dehydrated and underfed. I look at my hands and fingers and see they are more pruney than I’ve ever seen them. My hands have been constantly wet for the past three days straight. I limp into the shower as my brief time now spent not hiking brought the pain into my foot and ankle back. 

It's hard to describe the feeling when I enter that hot shower. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for all day, and it is not disappointing. I wash all the grime off that accumulated from the past 50 miles and then just stand there. As I mentioned earlier, this shower has no timer, and the campground has a large hot water tank, so I just stand there in the steaming hot water. Eventually, I decide to let the other residents enjoy some hot water of their own and turn the shower off. I sort of dry off. I just have a travel towel, and it’s soaked like all my other gear. I put on some shorts and head to the laundry room. My clothes are now dry, so I put them on. This feeling of putting on warm, dry clothes is hard to comprehend. I walk outside. It’s all the way dark now. I use my headlamp to make my way back to my tent. I grab my water bottle, find the campground water station, chug what feels like gallons of water, and then walk back to my tent. I quickly throw some stuff inside and grab my phone and wallet. I’d heard about a restaurant that’s a quarter mile down the road; that’s where I’m heading next.

I start walking on a sidewalk on the side of this road toward the restaurant. At this moment, an unexpected feeling sweeps over me. I can only describe it in words as being hyperly aware and present. I look to my left and see Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the United Kingdom. I look up. The clouds have dispersed. I see a crystal-clear night sky with bright stars. I hear birds in the trees next to me to my right. I feel the warmth and dryness in my body and clothes. I smell food cooking. I look ahead in front of me and see the windows of this restaurant in the distance emitting a warm, inviting light. I faintly hear the chatter from the people inside enjoying their meals and each other’s company. I feel connected to everything.

            This moment only lasts a few seconds, but I immediately realize it is one I will remember for the rest of my life. During those few seconds, there was no thinking, almost like I went into temporary unconsciousness. There were only feelings and senses and an overwhelming feeling of presence and connection to everything. Is this the experience that lifelong meditators chase?

            I try to force that feeling again for the rest of my short walk to the restaurant, but it is gone and cannot be forced back. I think the fact it is fleeting and cannot be forced is part of the beauty in it. I follow the restaurant’s warm, inviting lights like a moth. I go inside and immediately order water, a pint of beer, and fried potato skins to get warmed up for my upcoming feast. I then proceed to set a world record for the quantity of potatoes and haggis eaten in one sitting. This is my second world record in one night, not bad. I then satisfyingly roll myself out of the restaurant and back to my tent. I set no alarm and sleep deeply and happily.

I wake up to the sun beaming down onto my tent. I put on my dry clothes and head outside. It is a beautiful blue sky, sunny day. It’s going to be a great day today. All I have to do is check out from the campground by 10:00 AM, hike the last mile to the finish line, catch the 5:00 PM train back to Glasgow, and walk to my Air BnB to sleep before my flight back to Denver tomorrow. I plan to stretch my campground stay all the way until 10:00 AM to take full advantage of all the available amenities. I go to the bathroom, grab another shower, and brush my teeth. I return to my tent and lay out all my gear on my campsite’s picnic table. The sun is now hitting the table, so hopefully, everything should start to dry out. There is a breakfast food truck in the campground. I walk there next and order a coffee and an oatmeal with peanut butter and a banana inside. I sit at a table outside the truck, eat my oatmeal, and stare at Ben Nevis. As I mentioned earlier, it is the highest mountain in the United Kingdom. This campground is located right at the base of it. It looks beautiful. This is my first proper look when it’s not raining or nighttime. 

I see climbers looking like ants as they climb their way up to attempt a summit. When planning this trip, I set it as a possibility to also climb Ben Nevis this morning, but I decided days ago to skip this. I don’t feel guilty at all about this decision. I’ve given enough this trip.

The sky remains crystal clear, and the sun feels incredible. I finish my oatmeal and enjoy my coffee. I purposefully sit in the sun and soak in the rays fully. This amount of enjoyment in a morning can only come for me after hiking 95 miles in pain and rain. I’m able to fully appreciate the beauty of Scotland, the warmth of the sun, and my coffee. I also feel proud and excited; I only have one mile to go.

            I walk back to my campsite at 9:30 AM. I feel my gear on the table, bone dry. I walk over and feel my tent walls, also bone dry. This puts a smile on my face. This is the first time my gear has been dry in 3-4 days. I drink some more water and take my vitamins. I then start to pack up slowly. I feel clean, refreshed, fulfilled, hydrated and full. I get all my gear packed up. I’ve always found it satisfying to look at all my gear needed to survive for days in the wilderness, all spread out, and then see it all compacted and organized into one bag. I put my bag on. It’s as light as it’s been since the start, as there is less food in there now, and I was able to get rid of my cooking gas. I go inside the office to check out. This time, I’m not worried about my scent. I then hit the road again for the last mile.

            I walk slowly, soaking in the moment. It’s not a grand ending. You walk on sidewalks into a tourist town for the finish. That is fine with me, though. I’m thinking about how rare it is for me to have fully present experiences and the fact that I had two of them just yesterday. It’s a cliché thing to say: It’s about the journey, not the destination, but that is the truth. However, it is a need for me to constantly strive toward new, harder, and more exciting destinations and goals. I think the more difficult-to-reach and exciting destinations lead to more fulfilling journeys.

I make it to the finish line. I’ve completed enough similar experiences to know not to expect too much of the finish itself. I am excited to mentally unpack the entirety of this trip and tell my friends and family about it back home. I start talking with a married couple who also finished at the same time as me. They mention that they did the trail in 9 days. They stayed in hotels, hired a luggage transfer service, and ate out at restaurants. They tell me that they thought the finish was disappointingly anti-climatic. They said they thought Scotland was supposed to be rainy, but they stayed dry the whole time and did no hiking in the rain. They also say that they believe they gained weight during their hike. I smile and verbally agree, but I know I had a much different experience than them, even though we both completed the same trail and reached the same destination.

            We say our goodbyes. All I have to do now is kill time before my train. I walk around and check out the town. I find a pub and order fish and chips and a pint of beer. I then proceed to spend a few hours in there and drink a few more pints. I enjoy the dark wood furniture, the fireplace, and the mountain pictures on the wall containing some scenes I now recognize from the trail. This pub resembles what I imagine a Scottish cottage should look like. I sit there, drink some beers, people-watch, and kill time. After five days of not having a second to spare, it’s nice to relax and consume all the fried food and beer I desire, guilt-free. I then head to the train station near where the Hogwarts Express leaves in the Harry Potter movies. I grab the West Highland Line train that makes its way south back to Glasgow along a similar path I just spent the past five days hiking north. I’m able to grab a forward-facing window seat. I’m full and slightly buzzed from the beer. The train starts moving. I stare out the window and watch the sunset as the Scottish Highlands roll by.