On Tuesday I left
the small town of Milngavie (pronounced Mil-guy) which bore the
concrete post marking the beginning of the West Highland Way. Before
my departure, I helped capture the photographs and still frames of the
other hikers posing for their cherished memories, and they for me. I
immediately became aware that I would not be alone on this part of
the journey. I did indeed come across many people along the Way. I
also came across the same hikers again and again periodically
throughout the day. It was a beautiful morning, the sun was
shining, the scenery was spectacular, and the Way was an easy jaunt. At
least at first.
It quickly became apparent to me that most hikers were doing, at the very least, the
first 12 miles out to Drymen, and some, the more adventurous ones,
beyond. After thoroughly enjoying the first 6 miles, I realized that
I too could make it a bit further and headed for Drymen with the rest
of the herd. About ten miles in I decided that I may have bitten off
more than I could chew. I had reached my proposed campsite, and what
I thought would be my accommodations for the evening, when I realized
that was not going to be the case. The campsite was overgrown from
disuse and apparently closed. Although my body was aching I had no choice but to move forward. Within
a few minutes, I ran into
Monica and Pierre who were from France, (It
was they who had taken my picture in Milngavie) sitting in a little
town called Gartness which consisted of three dwellings, one which
had a small refrigerator out front with a sign that read, “Honesty
Box.” The fridge, with the box sitting atop it, was filled with
chocolates, water, and sodas. We all took what we needed, paid the
box, and sat upon a stone wall gratefully eating our treats and
talking about the trail. I would run into them again later on, but again that is not the story that needs telling. Although I set off before
them, they once again overtook me and were out of sight before long.
(as was par for the course for most of the hikers that I had met.) Two more miles I thought as I continued to
drag myself, my pack
(that now felt like it weighed 100 pounds), and my weary legs up the
next gigantic mountain. Okay, so it was really just a little hill on
a road, but it felt like a gigantic mountain. I again found myself
alone at the back of the pack, slogging along, trying to enjoy the
scenery. I was thinking
to myself as I walked, how tedious the last miles had become when I
heard voices that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Just moments
before I had looked back and saw no one coming up the long road
behind me, but there they were nonetheless. Behind me coming up
the hill were two older men carrying day packs. They were smiling and laughing and speaking amicably
among themselves. I stopped and waited for them to overtake me and
said my perfunctory 'hello' as they pulled alongside me. I could
immediately tell they were Scottish as they returned an “ello”
with a smile. We made our way down the road together. I naturally
assumed that after a few minutes they would pull away as most other hikers did after pleasantries were exchanged. However, this was not to be
the case.
“Are you hiking the Way then?” One of them asked me.
“Yes, yes I am.
Are you?”
“Ah, no we live
here. We just like ta walk ya know.” (now for the rest of this
story just think of Sean Connery's thick guttural Scottish accent
when you read these gentleman's lines. It will lose something in the
translation if ya don't)
“What's ya name?”
“I'm Kristine.” I smiled in their direction.
I'm-a David,
Kristine, this-'ere is Michael.” We all stood in the middle of the
road and shook hands.
“So how far have ya come taday, Kristine?”
“Only
about 10 miles or so.” I replied.
The three of us continued down
the road chatting about this and that as we went. We paused at the
top of the hill to catch our breath and enjoy the view. Michael took
off his pack and began rummaging about in it.
“Hey Kristine woulda
like a beer?”
I just looked at
him, "huh?”
“A beer Kristine?
Woulda lika beer?” Michael repeated, digging several Budweiser out
of his pack. Now, I have had many people offer me a beer in a pub
in England or Ireland, but on a dirt road, out of a backpack, in
the middle of nowhere Scotland? I have to say I was a tad taken aback. Pleasantly so of course.
“Why thank you but, but, I can't take
your beer.”
“Whey-not? We
have plenty din't we, David?”
“Aye, aye, sure
we do. How about a smoke then too, Michael?”
Michael smiled and
handed me a bottle of Budweiser, then out of his backpack he pulled
this large, crumpled-up joint and placed it casually in the crook of his mouth. I just looked back at him and smiled, popped the top of my
beer, and shook my head with quiet delight.
The thing is,
instead of walking the last two miles of that day with my head down,
chugging away, just trying to make it the last bit in sheer
desperation, I found myself casually
strolling along a Scottish country road, drinking a Budweiser,
watching two Scots getting high, all the while giving me the grand tour.
David used my name each time he addressed me. And he was, without
doubt, a wealth of information. “So ya see here Kristine, this here
use to be a Roman encampment here. And ya see this Kristine? This
is used for triangulation. Stand here Kristine then and ya can just
see Loch Lomond there. So where ya going to stay tonight, Kristine?”
And so it went. Strolling, drinking and smoking, pointing and
laughing all along the way.
After a bit, some
familiar hikers caught up with us. We all strolled along down the
hill heading toward Drymen until eventually the hikers went on to
town and I was left wondering where I was going to be able to pitch
my tent.
“So you sleeping un ya tent are ya then, Kristine?”
Yes. I am if I can
find a place to pitch it.”
“Aye, well not ta
worry Kristine, Michael and I know where ya can pitch it din't we
Michael?”
“Aye,” Michael
replied. “Let's get down here on the Way and we'll smoke another one
and I'll show ya.” We ambled off the road along the Way, across a
stream, and down into a place that was protected from the wind, was
right along said stream, a safe distance from the trail and the
roadway, and had a rope swing tied to a giant oak tree. I
un-shouldered my pack and set upon the green grass that
peeled up the hill as far as the eye could see. It was perfect.
Michael took out another joint and David handed me another beer. David then proceeded to climb up onto the swing
which was hanging near
the brook and launched himself off the bank. And so it went. Michael
got high, I sipped my beer in what amounted to Scottish delight, and David swung to and
fro on his rope swing twirling and giggling all the while. And so, somewhere near
a small Scottish town, in the gentle twilight of a Celtic afternoon,
one could hear our laughter echoing out across the hills and valleys.
All good things they
say, have to come to an end, as did these few precious hours that
David, Michael, and I spent together. Michael indicated it was time to
move on. He asked if I had enough food. Although I indicated to him
that I did, he nonetheless left me the meats, buttered rolls, and
fresh tomatoes they had brought for themselves to munch upon along their walk.
David left me another beer to wash it all down with. I
hugged them tight before they left and thanked them for all they had
done for me. It was Michael who turned back towards me with just a hint of a twinkle in his eyes and replied, “It's what we do
Kristine. We all have ta look out for one another.” And with that
simple statement, the guardians made their way up out of the glen,
over the lush green hillside, and disappeared into the fading
sunlight.
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