Best Laid Plans (Scotland '15)

I woke up bleary-eyed, the weight of sleep still heavily upon me. I forced my eyes fully open to take in the day. I was in a sleeping bag on the floor of my apartment room in Oxford where I was staying with my family. I took the room in with its sparse decor, sitting chair, and desk, and was hit with a sudden pang of stress. I could see everything too clearly. The sun was already high in the sky. I grabbed my phone off the charger and confirmed what the sunlight had already told me. I had slept in! “This can’t be happening,” I mumbled to myself, as I hastily pulled up the train schedule for the day in a panic, and had an even ruder awakening. The train that was necessary for my trip was going to depart without me, and I would now need to take four trains, making it impossible to arrive in time to make my hike. I wouldn’t be able to take the trip that I had meticulously planned for months, and my heart sank.

Nature had always been my home, the place that I felt safest, and I had grown up hiking and camping across the US with my dad throughout my childhood. Some of my most formative memories were in Aspen groves sitting at a fire or following my dad up mountain trails, but I was now 17 and desiring to experience nature on my own. I wanted a new formative experience as age 18 and adulthood grew ever closer, and while it seemed daunting to do for the first time, I had fought the self-doubt down over the past months and challenged myself by planning my first ever solo hike in the Isle of Skye in Scotland. I had researched extensively and created my own trail to some of the most beautiful places I could find, and now all my best laid plans had collapsed in an instant. 

The disappointment was heavy in my chest. I saw in my head the visions of being cleansed and refreshed in the icy cold water of the Fairy Pools or gazing up in awe at the spikey peaks of the Old Man of Storr, only to have them fade away after months of research and daydreaming. It was the months of research that had built my confidence to journey alone, as unknown circumstances were my greatest fear. Unfortunately, the choice seemed clear. If I wanted to salvage the trip, I would have to wrestle with the unknown and throw myself fully into a situation where I knew little, and blindly trust that things would be okay.

I pushed the fear down and entered problem-solving mode. After an hour of slightly panicked research, I settled on a trail called the West Highland Way. It was still in Scotland, and I would get to have my nature experience, though I doubted it would be as formative or beautiful as I’d planned. I packed my dad’s green backpack (the one I had grown up following along trails), took screenshots of the hike instructions, and left the apartment. As I walked through the streets of Oxford to the train station everything around me was a blur, focused only on getting to the train station. I scanned my ticket at the turnstile and crossed the bridge across the track to board my first train. The train took me to Wolverhampton Station where I caught my second train to Glasgow. I listened to music the entire five-hour ride, as the landscapes changed and the rolling hills grew larger so did my anxiety and anticipation. I finally came into Glasgow and confusedly wandered the main station, overwhelmed by the peppering of announcements and the rushing people. My train was nowhere to be seen and it took what seemed like ages to finally assess that my train was underground. I sprinted down multiple flights of stairs to make it. 

My small train dropped me off in the town of Milgavnie, about seven miles outside of Glasgow. I walked through the town, past small shops and along the rain-soaked brick lane, following the signs for the West Highland Way. My anticipation was starting to grow, and my excitement had built back up. I was ready for my journey. I finally reached the sign marking the beginning of the trail. I took a deep breath, taking in the refreshing smell of the trees and the rain, and smiled. I took my first step and began my hike.

The creek babbled beside me as I walked through the trees, the path winding slowly uphill until the tops of the village houses were visible, and eventually faded away until the buildings were no longer in sight. I was alone. I walked along the path, feeling equally unsettled and calmed by the silence. Each long period without any indicator of where I was fueled my anxiety, but the trail markers provided a calming beacon of hope each time I passed. An engraved stone in the ground at one of the markers reminded me to breathe, and I did. The day grew darker, and I walked for hours without seeing anyone. I felt even more alone. 

I would occasionally pull out my phone and look at the written instructions to make sure I hadn’t missed a waypoint, and alternated listening to music to make me feel less alone and listening to the sounds of nature. After walking a while longer, I stumbled upon a small clearing off the path with a large stone in the middle protruding a few feet into the air. It was surrounded by sticks, smaller stones, and an inscription in the stone circling them. I read the inscription. It was a monument, marking the place of a formerly eternal fire that burned during the depression of 1930. Young people during that period would explore nature as they attempted to find a bit of joy in the world during a difficult historical period, and used to gather around this place which had once been a fire. This symbol of hope and companionship made me feel strangely less alone, and I was filled with a sense of purpose. I set off again.

I hiked a while longer before coming to a large wooden gate. I unlatched it and pushed it open. The trail opened up into rolling green hills, fully exposing the sky as the sun completely faded. I quickly picked the smallest hill and began the process of setting up my tent. I finished and took a step back to admire my work. This was it, the final step that my dad had always been there for, and I had done it alone. I took a deep breath in, letting out a massive sigh of exhaustion and relief. I had done it.

Many wonderful memories would stick with me from this experience: The calm of the rain, the sound of the wind in the trees and the sight of endless green, the creeks with their water tinged brown from mineral richness, and honesty boxes in front of little cottages, offering chocolates or a refreshing Coke in exchange for leaving a pound coin behind. Above all, what would stick with me forever was the feeling of being completely alone and self-reliant, setting up a tent 4,000 miles away from home. I had proven to myself that good things could happen even when being unprepared, and that allowing myself to an unknown experience wholeheartedly could be massively rewarding. I could travel and explore the world all by myself without self-doubt, and I was ready for what adulthood and a lifetime of travel had to offer. I got in my sleeping bag and fell asleep with the rain pattering on my tent.