A silly walk up Slioch

Day 1: Slioch (means 'The Spear' in Gaelic)



My gear was new. It was expensive. And damn good quality. Spirit was high, but the snow on the (mountain) tops diluted it slightly. But hey, my boots were the best, and this time I had trekking poles (a.k.a. walking sticks) to boot. For good measure my bond with the Scottish Highlands held strong, and I had splendid weather. This was nothing short of a miracle, considering that there was sleet the day before. But then I have a special connection with them far hills.

Smirk.

I reached the car park early. 9 am. Was the first there. By the time I got my rucksack packed, there was another car. Yet another while I tied my spanking new shoes. And another while I located my trekking poles. All these worthies got out, strapped on light daypacks, picked up the sticks, and started walking.



I continued tying my compass to a loop in my rucksack. Then I carefully hung my map, cunningly camouflaged in a waterproof map-case (in case He turned on the tap) and tied it to the backpack within optimal reach. Engineering training comes through.

I was a trekker well prepared for any eventuality, and good to go. Then the fit hit the shan.

The camera case: With the rucksack strapped, I looked for a place belt my camera case. Being the possessor of only one waist (as of now), there was room only for either the rucksack's or the camera-case's belt.

Quandry.

It took all of fifteen minutes to solve this one, by which time another coupla trekkers had come, seen, sniggered and scooted. Oh well.

The solution? Strap the case around the chest. This left about five square inches of the torso in atmospheric association. But, at least I could begin hillward movement. The first thing I came across was a graveyard. Bad Omen?



The pyjama plot: Progress was slow. Being a frustrated aspiring Andinist and a wannabe trekker, I had loaded myself with a full 70 litre rucksack, which averaged to about 20 kilograms. Training. Meanwhile, others were swiftly covering acres of ground underneath light five kil0 packs. Their packs contained the odd jacket, mine had everything that a a seven day trip demanded. Like change of underwear. The Scottish Highlands were treated for the first time to the unusual sight of an Indian taking his pyjamas uphill.

Now if night fell suddenly, I could sleep comfortably. That, dear reader, is foresight! Talking about sights...



A sticky mess: The walking sticks were becoming a nuisance. They were supposed to aid walking by shouldering some body weight. Accordingly, I was thrusting them viciously into the mud, with subsequent withdrawal pains. Not much good. It turns out that there is technique involved. For sticks? Go figure.

Moreover, whenever I needed to get rid of them to take pictures, they refused to balance stand up on their own ... er ... foot. So, hold camera, drop stick, pick up stick, drop camera cover, pick up camera cover, drop sunglasses... hop around in frustration and scream to the high heavens.
Eat your heart out Clouseau.

You get the idea?



The misplaced bridge: I kept walking. Even overtook a group. Overcome with joy, I decided to thrash my own way up the darn hill, forgetting minor details like bridges across rivers that separate one hill from another. I walked for ages along the wrong bank, saw the overtaken group on the other side, felt sick in the stomach, waved hello, and got told that I had missed the bridge by a mile. Downstream and downhill.

Swell.



Water bottle overboard: I slipped and slithered down to the bridge. Cursed, crossed and started climbing the real hill for real. I struggled up the first bluff, saw the grinning bridge-directors clamber over the next cliff, reached back for my water bottle, and groaned. The silly thing taking a strong liking to the highlands, had decided to plant itself permanently out in the wilderness. So, I went back downhill, crossed the misbehaving bridge and had a look around. No luck. So back up Slioch.

After an hour, the clouds let loose. The snow was very visible, and the sound of water omnipresent. This just made my muscles feel very high, dry, lonesome and downright sorry for themselves.

I stopped and looked around.



The cop out: Had lunch. The governing body decided that unless Darwinian evolution sped up and my skin developed some sort of water absorbing gills, my legs were heading back. The rest of me could do whatever it wished. The weight of a dozen underwear and several pyjamas cannot be borne up Slioch without water.

'The Spear' had sure dented my enthusiasm.

It was still a long hike back to the car. Thankfully the Woods were very wet, brown and bleak, because I sure had miles to go before sleep.



The Bum's rush: Walking back I noticed that the weather improved, the Sun came out, and 'The Spear' presented its best face. It felt like I had just been given the bum's rush by Slioch.