Adventure Holiday

We woke to a punishing wind and the tent billowing and shuddering around us. The wind had shifted in the night and the meager protection of the outcrop to our west was no longer sufficient. By 4:30 am, we decided there was no more sleep to be had, and we broke camp by headlamp. We are a good team and packed more quickly than we'd anticipated, so we paused, spooning granola into our mouths by headlamp in the lea of a south facing boulder and waiting for the sky to grow light enough for us to see our way.

By 5:15 we had our packs on an were headed to the main trail to assess the conditions. Our plan had been to rejoin our original trail, and continue on to Elgol, five or so miles further, much of the way wending along the coast. But by the time we reached the main trail, in the full force of the wind, a steady soaking roan was falling. A hundred meters down the trail, we paused by a boulder, blocked from the wind, but not the rain. We hovered over the bus and ferry timetables weighing our options.

When we reached our trail junction, we half turned, the hoods of our raincoats blocking us from the needles of rain and bid Elgol farewell. The next four miles, which we'd hiked in a rapture of sun and long views the day before was equally astonishing on our return. The mountains, by the slight-of-hand of the clouds, had vanished. At their trunks, we watched waterfalls form like ski-runs and tumble their way to the river that surged through the valley. And then we began to crossing. We waded through stream after stream of ankle and shin deep water. The wind was impossible, and we played with it, even as it played with us. We giggled at the way it plastered our clothes to our bodies, the way it arrowed across open water in gusts, ogled at the curtains of rain it pushed across the valley, even as the gusts slid our uplifted feet and packs in unexpected directions. We disturbed pipits and frogs sheltering in the incised path and sorrowed at their labored flight and chilled crawling to safer ground.

As the valley broadened, streams collected more water before meeting our trail. We approached each crossing with greater focus and communication. Always glimmering in our minds was the main tributary that we'd have to cross before reaching the road. At last, from its bank, we scouted the shallowest point to cross, looking for the wide braided riffles. We paused to unclasp the waist belts and sternum straps from our packs. Then, stepping into the swift current, we clasped hands, and faced up stream. Side-stepping, our feet found purchase on the upstream side of rocks. One of us anchored in place, while the other inched across the stream to a new anchor. Back together, we repeated the dance, all the while bracing against the current. I was grateful for Mike's expertise, and pulled him into a bear hug, when, wet to the thighs, we clambered out on the opposite bank.

By the time Sligachan came into view, pockets of sun slid through the clouds, but still, steadily, the rain continued. My raincoat, while offering an extra layer of warmth and some protection from the wind, was wet through. I could sense the full saturation seeping into my base layers.

The bus came soon enough and carried us on to Armadale. Where, on the advice of the ticket agent, we hurried to catch the ferry that was boarding. Calmac, it seemed, was considering canceling the next crossing due to the weather. So we squelched up the gangway and settled in as the ship pitched across the channel to the mainland. Once underway, I eased out of my wet clothes, turned my raincoat inside out to air, and headed to the cafe for a cup of tea.

Out there, our plans float like milkweed fluff held lightly in the palm. On this day, a gust had blown them away, and there, snuggled into our booth we wove plans anew; a campsite, a meal, a mountain. We wrapped our fingers lightly around them, knowing better than to hold on too tightly.