To The Bothy We Go - Glen Affric, Scotland

We started our journey into Glen Affric at the late hour of 9:30p.m.  We had had much to do that day, including downing a couple pints at the local pub (Slater's Arm) with our friend David before hitting the trail, thus such a late start.

Darkness soon closed in and we found a non-descript but level spot along the trail at which to pitch our tents.  The men celebrated with a half bottle of Scotch whiskey and the kids and I drifted off to sleep while listening to their muted voices.

The next morning we awoke to hordes of midges buzzing outside our tents.  With the decision to conquer the Glen Afric trail, we had become honorary highlanders we conjectured, and so therefore, midges could be easily handled.  We were incorrect.  Hundreds lit upon our bodies at once and began to nip at us, nay, rip at our flesh.  David was choking on the mass that had managed to make its way down his throat, and the kids were going into hysterics as ears and eyes started to fill with these “wee beasties.”  Taking down camp while being feasted upon was quite a nightmare, and I am not exaggerating when I say that it was the most awful experience with nature I have ever encountered.  

 

WEE BEASTIES - very small pests

Moving was the only way to escape the midges, and so we walked and walked quickly.  The landscape soon opened before us and we were quickly consoled by the tableau on display.  Loch Affric, a pretty little loch, became the River Affric, and the glenn we were now in stole up on either side, small green hills layered upon each other with purple heather threaded in between. The wind blew a bit and the clouds moved over the sun more often than not, but in Scotland's highlands this is not only to be expected, but welcomed for the mystique it brings.  

After about eight miles of hiking we came upon a youth hostel, a welcoming green building that offers accommodations to those who are not keen on sleeping in tents; likely because of the midges.

Then, only two miles further we saw it.  An old stone bothy with a red tin roof lies in the middle of the glen, a free refuge for backpackers.  At this point our family had been tent camping for a total of fourteen consecutive nights, and a stone room with nothing more than wooden bunks and a trestle table brought huge grins to our faces.  Who needs the warmth of a mountain hostel, when the much more rustic and romantic bothy is only a short walk away?  Dehydrated meals by a small fire was the order of the night, and everyone seemed to listen quite attentively to my reading of “Jo’s Boys” in such a fine setting.  There was only one night time visitor, a country mouse who tried to climb up the backpack leaning against my bed, but I knew his intentions and thwarted his plan.

                             BOTHY - a small hut or cottage, especially one for housing farm                                             laborers or for use as a mountain refuge.

                

There are a few things I don't like about backpacking, namely digging a hole for “the number that comes after one,” as Luke so delicately puts it, but washing my face in a cold stream is a ritual that I relish, as is brewing my coffee with natural waters.  In this exact order, the next morning's obligations were met and we continued on with only day packs, as we planned to return to the bothy for another night of rest.  

This day the sun was completely covered and a steady wind had begun to blow.  The scenery became nothing short of dramatic as the hills turned to mountains, streams to rivers, and waterfalls roared forth from many a bend.  I felt a wildness steal over me and my heart beat quickly with appreciation for the fierce beauty in which I was immersed.  Worldly obligations and standards were forgotten; the mountains only exacted awe, asking nothing more.  

We returned several hours later laden with scavenged firewood and attempted to warm our bothy as a storm, a real “howler” set in around us. To this date, there have been many an opportunity for difficult circumstances to be our undoing.  Never yet has it occurred though.  That second night in our bothy was no exception. The storm that raged outside our walls I am certain would have bent up our tents, exposing us to the biting rains, even if we DID spend a small fortune to have the name “Big Agnes” splayed across them.  This didn't happen however, as again we were saved by God’s love and grace given in the form of four solid stone walls.  “I would hasten to my place of refuge, from the stormy wind and tempest." Psalms 55:8

Returning the twelve or so miles to our car the next morning was a challenge, but one we surprisingly enjoyed.  We set a quick place, stopping every so often to wring out sodden socks and re-tie  ripped ponchos around our backs.  Luke and Serenna kept up the rear, and when I would stop to ensure they hadn't blown off the trail or entered into hysterics, I found them laughing whole heartedly and yelling pleasant words to each other over the rain and the wind.  Sometimes you want to throttle your children, and other times your heart swells with pride over them.  Glen Affric had given my children its best and its worst, and they loved every minute of it.