You'll Take the High Road: A Summer Mountain Adventure on the West Highland Way
- Henry
- Aug 7
- 9 min read
A summer hike along the Weet Highland Way gives Henry time to look up and enjoy the mountains around him.
Blinking off the last waves of sleep, I stumbled out of the tent and observed the land around me, shrouded in rain and mist and wind as another day dawned.
A few sheep stared back from the other side of wide gravel stream, just a few hundred yards down the valley from where it had sprung from the soft, mossy turf.
All of a sudden, a rumbling sound ripped the morning in two. A train appeared on the embankment behind, the diesel locomotive straining as it hauled its load up the last metres of the bank from the station on its way north. It was the down Caledonian Sleeper from London, the "Deer Stalker" as it's sometimes called, and as I watched I waved, greeting anonymous travellers who had made the 700 mile journey overnight.
The night before I had done the reverse, fighting off waves of sleep as I watched the up Sleeper wind its way up the long drag from Rannoch Moor. I stood and watched as the clouds boiled around me, the wind swirled, but otherwise miles and miles from any form of civilisation.
We were in the Highlands; a vast swathe of Scottish mountains into which we had stepped for a week of summer adventures on the West Highland Way.
The Stagger Inn
The day before, we had stepped off the bus and watched as it disappeared over a hump in the road and headed off without us. Suddenly, the road was silent, a marked change from the seemingly endless stream of motorbikes and campervans and forestry lorries that had passed by the coach windows as we wound our way along the edges of Loch Lomond.
We struck out along the road, heading north past a solitary coaching in, who's fading sign reluctantly informed us that it was called The Stagger Inn.
Ha. The Stagger marked a point 40 miles into the West Highland Way, a thru-hiking route that links Milngavie (pronounced "Miln-guy", as I realised after far too long) to Fort William over 95 miles of disused railway line, drovers tracks, 18th century military roads designed to control the local population, and 19th century parliamentary roads designed to improve connections to these remote areas.
We had decided to take on the northern 55 miles of it out of a sense of ... I don't actually know.
I quite like the outdoors. You might be able to tell from the rest of this site. And yes, I like a good walk, both day hikes out in the hills across the UK and Ireland but also any other chance I get - I will regularly walk the few miles home from the office or at the very least the last mile from the tram stop, and work from home days are regularly broken up with long strolls over my lunch break.
And I love the mountains. Adore the mountains. Being in the mountains in summer is very different than in the winter, partly - if not mostly - because I get the chance to look up and take it all in. I don't get this chance on skis, too focused on my control, pole plant, weight and body position, and not hitting other people.
But to spend five days hiking and sleeping in tents? This was something I had not done since my Duke of Edinburgh Award expeditions some 15 years ago, which back then were part of a school-organised eruption of regimented fun. To do so fully voluntarily? Madness, surely.
Ski Touring Country
We set off from the Stagger Inn, cutting onto the West Highland Way proper about 100 yards further down the main road.
The first day was long, but marked the transition between forest and mountains. We wound and wove our way through the trees and over waterfalls, following the course of the River Falloch as it tumbled its way down the valley towards the Loch from Crainlarich.
Summitting above the village of Crainlarich itself, we watched the village sleep peacefully below us. Crainlarich sits at the watershed of three different river systems; to the south, the Falloch feeds Loch Lomond and the Irish Sea at Dumbarton; to the east, the Fillan flows down to Loch Tay, eventually feeding the Tay and falling into the North Sea at Dundee; and to the Northwest, the River Lochy serves Loch Etive and Loch Linnhe, meeting the Atlantic in the Hebrides.
It is also the point where the forest ends. The relative shelter of the woods had been left behind as we continued through Tyndrum and beyond to our campsite, a c.25km slog to open proceedings.
Day one was long, perhaps slightly unnecessarily so. We had tacked on a few hundred metres at the start getting from the bus stop to the path, and struck on out of Tyndrum to find a wild camping site - something not permitted without a permit in the National Park, who's limit lay beyond the town limits.
We set up camp at the head of yet another valley, this time the Kinglass that became part of the Orchy and would carry us to the edge of Rannoch Moor.
That first night was blustery, with rain occasionally hammering the side of the tent. We scoffed down our camping meals and tried to grab some sleep in the less-than-ideal conditions.
Day two and three passed much the same, navigating along the Orchy valley then up and over the hill to the head of Glen Coe. We could have squeezed all of this into one day, but with the tough conditions expected on days four and five we hedged our bets and took them easy. The weather played ball as well, what was expecting to be sodden, soaking week becoming wet but navigable, dodging showers throughout the course of the week rather than dancing in sodden downpours.
Our route over these days saw us running along the side of long valleys, hugging railway lines and roads for the first part before setting off away from civilisation at Bridge of Orchy. Here we entered what I observed as "ski touring country". Long gentle inclines guided us up and away from the lake and villages, leaving the treeline behind as we gradually gained elevation. Valleys faded off into the distance but, unlike many other views we witnessed along the way, came to an abrupt halt only a mile or so away. Add in sole nice elevation gain and a lump of rock - a marker of glaciated days of past millennia - at the head of the sub-valley, and you had a nice circular route to tour up and round. Immediate flashbacks to the Balme de l'Our route occurred, and I swore to return in winter.
The same could be said for Glencoe resort, too, our campsite for the end of day three. About as remote as it's possible to get for a mountain resort, we took the chairlift up and, if you can believe it, hiked some more around the plateau at the half way point.
Glencoe managed to squeeze 66 ski days out of its operations last year, absurdly impressive considering the abominable winters the rest of Scotland's five resorts have experienced. Add in the fire that burnt down Glencoe's resort lodge in 2020 - now thankfully rebuilt and better than ever - and it has been a worried few years for the Scottish ski industry.
Standing at the edge of Creag Dubh, the rolling moorland of Rannoch off to one side and the dramatic gatepost of Buachaille Etive Mor at the head of Glen Coe, I resolved to return in winter. To do my little bit to support this flagging industry, yes, but also to see this view again, stunning as it was.
The Final Furlong
The cloud boiled and rolled up the glen but as we watched but the worst of it stayed away for most of the week.
The exception was day five. Having navigated up the Devil's Staircase about a third of the way along Glen Coe, then the seemingly interminable descent to Kinglochleven on the other side, we set off from the head of the sea loch, Loch Leven, in a rare moment of sun.
As we emerged from the woods surrounding the town, the rain started to fall. And fell. And fell. And continued to fall. For the next 20km of hiking we trudged over the high mountains that formed part of Lochaber through pouring rain. A brief pause to wolf down the last of our camping meals left us feeling cold and damp, so we sped up to restore feeling to our extremities.
The last 3km through Fort William were the worst. 55 miles of hiking across sodden mountain and gravel paths had weathered our feet to the soft terrain, so suddenly to find ourselves trudging down paved roads nearly killed us.
We stumbled into the hotel, the receptionist staring at us like we were stray animals wondering in off the street. Drenched to the bone, with all of our hiking gear, tired and grumpy, we were not friendly faces. But we had done it.
Lose Yourself in the Moment
I guess the question remains - why?
Why do this? Why leave the world behind and lose yourself for a week in the mountains?
I guess the reason is the same as I go skiing.
The mountains are stunning places to be, and where I've lived and grown up - south west England, London, Ireland - you don't ever get to experience the "mountains". I take any opportunity to get to the mountains, therefore, simply to be there and to experience them.
There's also the challenge of the mountains. Skiing is unique, utterly unique, in that it is you vs. the mountain and nothing else matters. We all see it as a social gathering, and regaling our friends with tales of tumbles and triumphs at après is part of it, but those triumphs are yours and yours alone. Every turn is a challenge to overcome, and the same is true here off skis.
The speed might be far slower, the terrain easier, and the decisions therefore made simpler to take rather than snapshot, in the moment things. But it is still you vs. the mountains, vs. the weather, vs. the conditions, vs. your fitness and technique, and the results of a bad decision can still be catastrophic ...
And finally, it is to lose myself. I turned my phone off for the whole week we were walking, forgetting about not just work and Skiing Unlocked but Reddit, Instagram, WhatsApp. And whilst I don't turn myself off from the outside world in quite the same way when skiing - you, my dear readers, need updating after all! - I find myself doom scrolling reddit and Instagram far less than I would normally.
The mountains are also a place that needs more love in the summer. The impact of climate change means traditional ski areas are now looking to diversify, bringing in more visitors in the summer to ensure those that live there can continue to do so.
No where, perhaps, is that more true than in Scotland. The five ski areas in this part of the world have all openly stated in recent years that their ski operations make a huge losses every year; that they effectively run these operations as a "feel good" rather than out of any business need. The Lecht, on the northern flanks of the Grampian mountains, had to run a crowd funding programme in spring and summer 2024, all as a result of the third down winter in a row - plus COVID restrictions during the last good snow year - ruined the destination's finances.
And these are communities that, in some cases, are hanging on by a thread. Kinlochleven, once thriving aluminium smelting town and the world's first community to be fully hooked up to the electricity grid, is now yet another village starved of jobs and purpose. A bucolic bus service links it to nearby Fort William - which is far more than what many other places in the UK receive - but otherwise, as a prisoner of geography at the end of the long, long Loch Leven, there remains little opportunity. The West Highland Way, the mountains, local micro breweries, pubs, shops, restaurants and the ice climbing centre are all opportunities for this community to thrive, and deserve supporting.
Final Thoughts
Walking the West Highland Way was a hell of an experience. I loved the remoteness of it (even though it wasn't that remote - its possible to have a pub meal at least once every day) but more than anything else, it was a fantastic opportunity to get out and experience the mountains in the summer, to actually stop and see them for what they truly are.
I'm extraordinarily grateful for the opportunity to do just this. The West Highland Way may not be the most difficult through hiking route in the world - you can stay in 5-star hotels and have your luggage carried for you the entire way - but it can also be as wild and remote as you want it to be. I have friends who have done the entire 95 miles in four days, marching for mile after mile and wild camping whenever they needed a break. A group of paratroopers joined us at the campsite at Glencoe, before yomping the last two days - some 35km - in one fell swoop.
We pitched it just right, wild camping for two nights and in a campsite for two more, boiling our food on a campsite on some days but running for the pub on others. This was a brilliant opportunity to step out into the wild, as wild as we wanted it to be, and forget about life for a week.
I loved it, and would recommend it to anyone. Just watch out for the midges ...
.jpeg)
Comments