Pilgramage

"Daddy," asked the girl in front of us on the foot path, "is Ben Nevis the tallest mountain in the world?" Her blonde pony tail swung as she looked to her father for confirmation.

"No, not the tallest."

"The second tallest then?" She piped up, in her perfect aristocratic accent. Ben Nevis is certainly the tallest mountain in her world. At 1,344 meters (4,409 ft), it holds the title as the UK's tallest peak.

We passed the family, and worked our way up Nevis's shoulder, pausing to catch our breath or for a sip of water, but always pacing ourselves to keep ahead of those moving more slowly and allowing faster walkers to pass. We were two of a hundred? Two hundred? Five? that streamed to the summit. So many different languages, ages, levels of fitness and preparedness. Families climbed, dogs climbed, single people, couples, and groups climbed. People in jeans and people decked out in trekking gear climbed. We passed a family speaking German and then stepped to the side as three men wearing black belt uniforms passed us. A man climbed in a kilt, sporran, and knee socks; and another in a leather jacket, cowboy hat, aviator glasses, corduroy shorts and Keds. Some climbed slowly, some plodded, some ran, all moved steadily upward. The night before we had watched the parade of ants as it crawled down the mountain, and now we were a part of it. A communal society formed around the sugar bowl of the summit.

The path turned and climbed more steeply past blooming heather and wild thyme. We passed the Half Way Lochain. Starry Saxifrage bloomed from the shelter of a rock. Down below us, the pilgrims climbed on, a serpent of aspirants, single file. The flowers gave way to sedges, then ferns, and finally lichen. We climbed through a meadow of rock: felsenmeer. The exposed contours and subtleties of color enchanted me. Fog swirled around us, parting to reveal a glimpse of Fort William then the curtains drew closed again. The mist thickened. Cairns marched into the gloom, centuries along the avenue, guiding our way.

I've never been to India or Nepal, but it made me think of the pilgrimages to a hilltop temple or shrine, and I wondered what we were all seeking up there in the clouds together. But I'll tell you, it was something. As we neared the summit, those heading down met our eyes and smiled broadly, their faces alight.

At the summit, the pilgrims held a party. They scaled the summit marker and snapped pictures, drank wine, pulled out picnics. They ducked into the once-observatory, shrugged on outer shells of bright nylon, and kept moving. They peered into the cloud as if they could summon a view from force of will. Then they turned and headed downhill, leaving their crumbs to the snow buntings. We turned, too, shouldered our packs and started down, smiling brightly into the faces of those who climbed toward us.