In late August, I spent nine days in the western highlands of Scotland, the wilder, greener north of the United Kingdom. Following a route known as the ‘Skye Trail,’ I walked from the northern most point on the Isle of Skye through stunning vistas, ending at the coastal town of Broadford, close to the Skye Bridge that crosses Loch Alsh to join mainland Scotland. In all, this route follows a path of about 85 miles, and with various side trails and exploration, I walked nearly 140 miles over the course of 7 days on the route. I passed through various areas that are undoubtedly some of the most beautiful in all of the United Kingdom, including the Old Man of Storr, the Quiraing, the Trotternish Ridge, and the Black Cuillins. At the bottom of this page, you will find a link to some of the images that I produced along the trail. Please take the time to read the forward below and enjoy the images! I have another set that I will release eventually, but for now, all of the images you see can be purchased in lustre print or stretched canvas through my Prints page.

Wind is all consuming. It’s force cuts into my momentum with shocking strength, threatening to upend me altogether. Pelting rain stings my face and eyes, obscuring my already compromised view from the thick fog. I can smell and taste the saturated ocean air. The wind is all senses.

Just an hour before I had sat on the edge of the Trotternish Ridge, reveling in the geological masterpiece of the volcanically sculpted cliffs and the undulating land slips below like something out of a Tolkien novel. Sharp sun rays had been dancing across the landscape and the ocean beyond, mystifying the atmosphere to an ethereal state.

This would be the last calm before a seven hour saga with the sorceress that is Mother Nature. As I fought onwards, every mile became harder, a steep ascent before an even steeper downhill amongst the strongest of winds. Winds that were maliciously pushing me closer to the ridge’s sheer edge to my right. Each step sank deep into the bog underfoot, every inch of my body fully saturated from the driving rain.

Forward progress became only about the next summit along this monstrous ridge, the next ascent and ensuing descent. One obstacle at a time, the only choice was onward.

The wind would become so strong I could hardly stand and I would collapse to the ground against the nearest rock, trying uselessly to give my body a small respite in its war against the squalls.

Small victories along the ridge inched me ever closer to my destination, and my doubts of success began to be beaten down by the thrill of the finish line.

Nevertheless, she was not finished. I had reached the summit of the penultimate peak, and I knew that the only exit off the southern portion of the ridge lie just beyond the last. Upon the descent, the ridge to my left I had depended upon the last fifteen miles had broken into a sloping, uneven mess. The ground ahead trailed off in a winding, discombobulating way; the thick fog and driving rain gave me only the slightest levels of visibility.

I circled the area in confusion trying to find some semblance of where the ridge line continued. I knew to expect another steep ascent out of the saddle where I remained, but I could not find any coherence in the swirling chaos. The weather too strong to unfold a map, I alternated between my compass and electronic gps, both giving me a different reading, adding to the confusion. More than once I began a swift run into the wind in what I thought was the correct direction only to be quickly denied, returning to the saddle, eventually collapsing to the sodden ground. Ominous thoughts penetrated my imagination. I had been the only person on this island stupid enough to take on the ridge today. I lay there, wholly exhausted.

Minutes ticked by, and suddenly without warning, the thick fog, moving at tremendous speed through the deep saddle of the ridge broke for a short respite, allowing a visibility I had not enjoyed for hours. Just as quickly, the fog had engulfed me once again, but not before I had recalibrated, finding the route ahead, immediately continuing onwards.

My pace was quick now, as I tramped onwards with reckless abandon, desperate to get off the ridge. Every so often I would stumble and fall, immune to the impact, unaware of the bruises and twisted ankle I would notice later.

Finally, finally, I approached the final descent to the pathway off the ridge, but like the rest of the day, finding the path in the fog and rain did not prove easy. Eventually, aching bones, feeling the full impact of each step, brought me off the ridge, below the fog line, and out of the full force of the winds. Below, large groups of people dotted the hillside that is home to the Old Man of Storr. Completing the descent, I reinserted myself into the confines of civilization, reflecting on the drastic contrast to the day’s events, maybe the closest I’ve been to nature’s true essence, holding a deeper understanding of her wild forces that refuse to be tamed.

I continued to the village beyond, eager for a hot meal, a pint, and a place to pitch my tent far away from the sorceress on the ridge.

This is Scotland.



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