It’s a long road that has led me here, along this major road in the pitch dark, lugging a heavy load. Months of staying inside, long days in white hospital light. Months of heartache, where I sank low, lost myself, and slowly started crawling back. I was so far away from fresh air, muddy feet and my hands on the rocks.

I needed an experience that would put my feet back on the ground, give me back my strength.

The West Highland Way was the answer.

154 kilometer from the suburbs of Glasgow into the heart of the Highlands. I’ve never walked such a long distance, not together with someone, and not in summer. Now I want to go alone, in the middle of November.

The West Highland Way (WHW) isn’t a particularly technical route; every year thousands of people, young and old, walk the trail. The challenge lies in its distance, through a weather-beaten landscape. It’s late autumn now; night is twice as long as day. And in the 8 hours of daytime, whether the sun makes an appearance remains to be seen – she often hides behind clouds for days. November on the West Highland Way demands extra perseverance and discipline. There are no fellow hikers who raise up your spirits, there’s no evening in the sun waiting for you after a long day of walking.

And beside all that, I also want to do it in 5 days.

Most of these roads I’ve passed by many times before; it’s the physical and mental challenge I’m seeking. Can I do this, alone and self-sufficient, when the rest of Scotland is hibernating?

I’ll push myself further than I ever have before. It might be a fool’s errand, but it’s one I’m glad to make, to feel alive in my body.

Day 1

Goal: Conic Hill
Distance: 28,7 km
6,5 hours in daylight, 2 hours in moonlight

At 9 o’clock in the morning, after a much too short night of sleep, I rush to Partick Station, with a rucksack that bounces up above my crest. It’s later than I intended, so I really don’t want to miss this train.

I’ve been ready to leave for days, waiting for a spell of good weather. Now that the time has come, I still leave in a chaos, like only I can do so well. As if I’m not about to embark on my greatest hike to date.

It won’t come as a surprise that I realise I’ve forgotten something just minutes onto the trail. And not just anything: my hiking poles.

I could turn around and take the train back to Glasgow. In hindsight that would’ve been the better decision. But at that moment it seems a whole undertaking for something I haven’t needed on any of my hikes this past year. Besides, if I go back, I can forget about reaching my goal for tonight, Conic Hill. I’ll see how far I get, I decide. If I really don’t manage, I’ll beg my friends in Glasgow to drive by with the poles. My first mistake: underestimating what difference hiking poles make.

Within the first few hours I start feeling it; my rucksack is weighing me down and my hipbelt cuts into my femur. It’s a good thing I didn’t weigh my rucksack, or I would have instantly lost courage. But it can’t have been much less than 18 kg. Most of my equipment is essential in November, but there's some things I could have left at home. My second mistake: a couple kilos may not seem like much, but over 154 kilometers they make all the difference. On the top of my scrap list are my crampons (600 g) – those I packed for a possible detour to Ben Lomond, a plan I soon abandoned – and my analog camera (1,2 kg) – although I wouldn’t have had what little photos I have of this trip.

But all those kilos would’ve been much more bearable, if only I’d had those hiking poles. It isn’t until much later, when I’m long back home in the Netherlands writing this blog, that I realise Milngavie has an outdoor store, and I might’ve been minutes away from a new pair of poles..

The first stage of the WHW is through Mugdock’s lovely deciduous forest. But anyone walking the Way will be eager to get through it, to catch the first glimpse of the Highland hills. Those come at Dumgoyne, a striking bump in the distance, part of the Campsie Fells.

My first hiking day goes smoothly. It’s a calm, windless day. Sometimes the sun peeks out, warms the meadow where a group Highland cows is grazing. I am in high spirits and make good progress. Tonight the clouds should break, and then I might just wake up with brilliant sunshine on Conic Hill.

There are enough hikers on the trail, but they’re all day trippers, here on a brief escape from the buzz of the city. An old man walking his dog greets me with a look of recognition, and wishes me good luck. I encounter just one person with a backpack nearly the size of mine. She pauses to put something in her pack, and I don’t see her again. It will be days before I see another rucksack like this.

Towards Drymen I encounter fewer and fewer walkers. For a while I walk on a paved road. The landscape is rural here, pastures with curious horses. I stop by a bench for a late lunch. A cyclist passes by me. She is on her way from Inverness to Glasgow – today is her last day on the road. She’s had lovely weather. We wish each other a good journey, and again there’s that recognition in each other’s eyes – two women out on their own, I at the start of my journey, she at the end of hers.

Friends that walked the West Highland Way this summer have warned me for the easy to miss turn near Drymen. If you walk past it you’ll head straight into the village, instead of off the road into Garadhbhan Forest. Dreamer that I am, I miss it anyways. Luckily, it doesn’t take long for me to notice, but the busy A811 does force me a long way back until I can continue. The WHW exits the paved road onto a soggy grass field. I can either go through the boggy mess or around it past a herd of cattle. Even from a distance they already move into my direction, looking agitated. Then I’d rather take the bog. Miraculously, I keep dry feet. Across the A811 and into the shelter of the woods.

For a couple minutes I stand there, contemplating what to do. When I have set my mind on something, it’s hard to let go of it. On the WHW website I read that, when water levels are low, it’s possible to ford the river a little downstream. I don’t know how high the water is currently, but I cannot ignore that possibility. It’s a half hour walk to the river. On the way there I look out for alternative camping spots, but I don’t see much other than tall bush. It turns out to be unneeded; the bridge is indeed closed off, but a few meters downstream large boulders form an easy ford across the river.

I let out a sigh of relief; Conic Hill is back within reach! It’s a small victory, but out on my own there’s a lot more depending on the choices I make.

This morning I started out on a whim. My only preparation were 2 nights in the wild of Arran earlier this month. I love the outdoors for their unpredictability; they demand flexibility, problem-solving & quick decision-making. On the other hand, this trip has been in my head for months. All possible scenarios have crossed my mind dozens of times. And what else have I got to do, all these hours walking, alone with my thoughts? But in the end you can speculate all you want; reality is always different.

Day 2

Goal: Doune Byre Bothy
Distance: 30,5 km
7 hours in daylight, 4 hours in moonlight

I first stood here a year ago, the first of September, with trembling knees. I had just moved to a flat in Glasgow, and was full of hope for the months to come, but also terrified. Conic Hill marked my new beginning.

I had no idea then just how much Scotland would come to mean to me.

Now I stand here with the imprint of time in the freckles on my cheeks, in my bruises and calf muscles. My body has felt all seasons, my eyes have seen the smallest details of the land. I have lived through great highs here, as well as deep lows. And yet I keep returning. It’s the peaks above Loch Lomond, and all the peaks behind it. I know their contours. All my muscles relax; I have come home.

The sunrise is more exuberant than in my dreams. A lucent blanket of fog covers Loch Lomond and the pastures in the south; a cloud inversion. Treetops peek through the mist. And the hilltops are coloured pink, where the sun, still invisible for me, reaches them. It’s as if the tips of the hills have been dipped in a paint bucket. A few early birds are already on Conic Hill’s summit to watch the sunrise. I can’t blame them; you don’t get many mornings like this in November.
I am sitting by my tent when the sun’s tip appears above the clouds. The first sun rays of the day on my cheeks.

So far everything is going according to plan. This is the camp on Conic Hill that I'd hoped for. However, between dawn and breakfast it’s half 9 before I start descending to Balmaha. Low sunbeams shine through the tall oak trees, with branches as centipedes. This is promising to be a beautiful day.

Balmaha’s coffee shop is open. I can’t resist the temptation to slip inside for a quick coffee and cake. This could be the last café that’s open for many many miles.

While I drink my coffee, I chat with a friendly Scot from Dymen. My massive backpack sparks curiosity; he wants to know all about my morning on Conic Hill, and my plans after this. Today he’s going up as well, but he takes his time; his dog and he are not as young as they used to be.
Yesterday he saw a couple lads camping along the WHW. I’m not entirely alone on the trail, after all.
Throughout the years the Scot has walked many sections of the WHW. One day he hopes to walk the entire route with his son.
I cannot stay long; today I try to walk the entire length of Loch Lomond. He wishes me good luck on the rest of my journey; I wish him a good walk on this sunny morning.

It’s wonderful walking along Loch Lomond’s shore in the morning sun. Often in the shelter of the woods, with sometimes a beautiful view out over the rippled lake, and then a beach covered with autumn leaves, where two girls are getting ready for a swim. I don’t want to rush through it, but even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. The weight and the distance are starting to slow me down. There’s a constant ache in my right hip, that doesn’t go away no matter what I do. Lifting my rucksack off my hips brings only temporary relief.

The good thing about walking the West Highland Way in November is that I can come and go as I please. In the summer months, camping along Loch Lomond is only allowed within the ‘designated zones’, but now I can pitch my tent on any strip of land. No one would be bothered by it. That’s a reassurance; if I cannot go on, I can stop at any moment.

When I arrive in Rowardennan around 14:00, I have to force myself to walk on to the car park for Ben Lomond. I wanted to pause by the hotel for coffee, but the lights are off. After the 13 km I’ve walked, a couple hundred meters extra suddenly seem impossible.

The sky has turned grey. This morning I saw the top of Ben Lomond, Scotland’s southernmost munro, from Conic Hill. Now it’s hidden behind clouds. Imagine I’d gone up there now? I’d never have made it to Fort William.

At the car park I find everyone I’ve missed on the path today; many hikers have taken adventage of the radiant morning to climb the munro. One by one, they’re now returning to the car park.

I’ve got 17,5 more kms to go till my intended sleeping place at Doune Byre Bothy, on the northern end of the loch. A 5 hour walk according to my GPS. While the sun is setting in 2 hours. That’s gonna be many dark hours on the trail. I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, now the thought of dragging my rucksack onto my back is too much already.

Older hikers who join my picknick table all have something to say about it; one thought the latter half of Loch Lomond was the hardest part of the whole WHW; someone else says it’s perfectly doable in the dark; yet another warns me for slipperiness after rainfall. The weather is turning, so I better get past it as soon as possible.

My filled belly gives me a short burst of energy. I try to cover as much distance as possible while it’s still day. Little bites of chocolate keep me on my feet. When I can’t go on, I plump down in the bushes along a narrow cliff with a small waterfall, where I can almost touch the water of Loch Lomond. I don’t have the energy to unbuckle my backpack so I sit leaning back against the harness. It’s a spectacular place, and my last glimpse of the loch in daylight.

Then the battle against twilight begins. As long as possible I make use of the natural light. But in the forest darkness settles in much quicker, and it isn’t long after sunset that I start stumbling over tree roots, and I know time has come to turn on my headtorch. It’s around this time that I pass by Rowchoish Bothy, another bothy on the lochside. There is just enough light to distinguish the hut in an open space between the dense trees. It’s an eerie sight at this hour.

For a moment I consider stopping here. How nice it would be to take off my rucksack and put my feet up next to the hearth. An evening of rest. But that evening could make the difference between getting to Fort William in 5 days or walking another day.

So I soldier on. 11 km up and down the endless banks of Loch Lomond. The path starts getting rougher, I scramble over narrow ridges, tree roots, and boulders, guided by my hands in the earth. A cool breeze has risen, but the sheltered lochside holds a lot of heat. Besides, I need to stay sharp on the bumpy shore. Adrenaline rushes through my body and those last hours I keep moving without breaks.

Around 18:30 I pass by Inversnaid, a tiny settlement, nothing more than a hotel and a few houses, which can only be reached on foot over the WHW or over a backcountry road through the Trossachs. The hotel is closed in November and the village is deserted. I cross the lantern-lit square. There’s light on in one of the houses. In a sofa by the window, a man is reading a book. I must be a mysterious passenger, a headlight in the darkness.

The woodland is thick in this section, so I’m not missing out on many views, just the occasional reflection of water down by the loch. The obstacles in front of me have all my attention. I awake from my focus when suddenly there’s dozens of white eyes staring at me, feral goats on the slopes along the shore. They look at me curiously with their big horns; me, an uninvited guest in their nocturnal world.

Near Doune Byre the landscape flattens out into marshy fields. For a moment I walk under the moonlight. I am deceived by a ruined cabin but soon after I finally reach the bothy.

To my surprise there’s already someone inside. An old wanderer from London. For years he has roamed the trails of Britain. He has stayed in Doune Byre Bothy for the past few days. Tomorrow he wants to go to the coast to start walking the Kintyre Way.
At first I am cautious, alone in the hut with this old man. But he is friendly, like everyone I have met on the trail. He hands me a very gross cup of coffee, and we talk of the beautiful places we’ve been to over the years, and the places we still wish to see. I wonder if he never gets cold, in his tent on the darkest winter nights. I’m happy to do it for a few days, but I can hardly imagine doing it the whole winter.

The change in the air persists. That night the wind blows and raindrops clatter on the roof tiles. But I’m warm inside my down sleeping bag, with four walls around me. I try not to think of what comes after this. Today I was having a hard time, despite the good weather. But to walk all day in the rain..

To be continued..