Mountains and life lessons

Hillwalking, I've come to realize, is much more than walking up a hill. It's something of a national pastime, and, in a way, it sums up everything I've come to love about Scotland in my first month here. Scotland is, well, full of hills -- they surround Glasgow and Edinburgh, and they keep getting larger the further north you go, until they tower around villages and crofts in the Highlands and loom large around the sides of innumerable lochs. Glasgow proper is actually quite flat, so I welcomed the opportunity to see Scotland from somewhere higher off the ground.

In the States, I would never consider hiking in January -- winter is for skiing, perhaps a brief walk, and tea by the fire. It would never cross my mind to wake up early to hike through the snow with no promise of speeding down the other side, and yet I found myself waking up in the dark and packing a lunch to do precisely that. 

Along with several friends who share my affinity for elevation gain and sore feet, I took a bus to Ben Arthur, known as 'The Cobbler' to most. This mountain is one of Scotland's 'corbetts,' a certain type of Scottish hill, and had been recommended to me as a spectacular hike. By the time I realized that hillwalking in January was not going to be the same as the luxuriant, sunny green pictures I'd seen online, it was too late. I was in line for the bus, and in front of me stood two men equipped with ice axes. 

The only thing I had brought was a bamboo spork.

As we walked up the trail, it became abundantly clear that ice axes might have been a good idea. And yet, despite the chilly weather and icy rain that soon turned to snow as we climbed higher, the trail was filled with people. Small dogs, some wearing windbreaker jackets, trotted gamely through slush and snow. Middle-aged couples held nothing but walking poles and small packs, while groups of students toted crampons and compasses. Mist set in, and we wondered aloud if we would actually make it to the top. We realized that we hadn't known quite what we signed up for. We sipped some icy water and took some photos. We looked around, followed the many footprints on the trail ahead of us, and kept going.

Men with gaiters and little else jogged up the trail past us, Perhaps some die-hard mountain junkies would have climbed this mountain, I thought, but no one else. Yet it looked like hiking through snow and slush up an icy trail was not an adventure for just the rugged, but a common activity to be enjoyed by anyone on a Saturday. Fellow hikers and their dogs greeted us and informed us we weren't far from the top. The wind picked up. It was hard to tell what was fog and what was snow. It came to my attention that a panoramic view of Loch Long and the surrounding munros was probably not in my future. 

Finally, the distinctive shape (which allegedly looks like a cobbler bending over his work; having never seen a cobbler, I can't really weigh in on this) of the summit loomed in front of us, barely distinguishable in the heavy fog. My hair was frozen into an attractive, icy helmet. The entire world was white and cold and whirling. 

Hillwalking seems to be a four-season sport here, but more than that, it's simply a way of life. Weather in Scotland can't really dictate how you spend your time, because so often the sky is grey and there's a 60% chance of rain and it's kind of cold but also the sun could peek out from behind the clouds at any moment. You have to just go about your day wearing a coat that will keep you dry, and be constantly on the lookout for a bowl of soup.

To sum up my initial impression of hillwalking: my hands turned blue, I slipped and fell, and I laughed more than I have in weeks. I think hillwalking is the best way Scotland has of making you feel alive, of showing you that you're capable of both climbing summits and of making a total mess of things. Delightfully imperfect and deeply fulfilling, 'hillwalking' is a bit of an misnomer since I really climbed a mountain. Yet there's something that feels right about dramatically understating your Saturday activity, of seeing a mountain covered with snow or a lone flight overseas or a plunge into the unknown, and thinking, hey, just a walk up a hill. Maybe that's a good way to think about whatever we're doing: putting one foot in front of the other, admiring the view no matter what it is, and knowing there are other people running and walking on the same path even if you can't always see them.