The mist hung like a shroud over the a thousand upon a thousand rocks that made up the alien landscape of the summit. The land was barren and lifeless save for the moss and lichen, and even they struggled to exist. Just 1,000 feet down from the great summit of Ben Nevis, moorland grass and heather grew wildly, but here, at the top of the mountain, the most lively thing was the humans who had made the hike. They had journeyed sometimes thousands of miles to be there from all over the world, people of all ages and abilities.
Some struggled, but most endured.
Despite being the tallest mountain in Scotland at approximately 4,000 feet, Ben Nevis was not necessarily a very difficult mountain to climb. With a marked trail all the way up, it was no Mont Blanc. But its alluring accessibility had a way of luring unworthy aspirants. In fact, the authorities of the Ben Nevis park originally called it the “Tourist Track,” but after a few too many incidents of unprepared people performing poorly in the elements, they changed the name.
My dad and I had come to Fort Williams, the closest major town to Ben Nevis for two purposes: checking out the Oban distillery an hour south, and hiking around Ben Nevis. After we had our fill of whiskey and beautiful scenery in that gorgeous town that is Oban, my dad decided he didn’t really want to hike, so I decided to up the ante and climb Ben Nevis the next day. Worse come to worse it was supposed to take 8 hours there and back again.
It took me 5.
The stone stairway halfway up the mountain felt old and primordial, as if built by ancient hands. While it was helpful on the way up, those little steps were hell on my knees coming down. After I got to that halfway point, the midges, tiny little jumping insects similar to chiggers, were vicious. I stopped only to take photos, lest the little midgey bastards overtake me. There was a beautiful loch and a source of a river up there. The water was pure and restorative.
A little ways further up, the midges stopped and the stone stairs ceased to exist. Now it was just wild stone pathways, like large grain gravel, which was a real ankle-biter. I made sure to get photos and video when I could, but the mist dominated every scene. I kept going slowly but surely without rest. I eventually stopped 100 yards or so from the top of the mountain. The human-made towers of rocks known as cairns that marked the path felt magical. I made sure to get a few photos.
At the summit, there was an outpost of handmade stone structures people had made with the rocks. Some were just windbreakers for the people who would often camp up there. Some had fallen to age, but a few stood strong. One of those structures was a tower-longhouse that was totally out of this world. It had been originally made for a meteorologist back in the day, but people had perfected it. It had a wooden roof that looked like the hull of a boat. A metal wall and door covered in stickers and graffiti tags served as its face. Now it was just a port in the storm for any would-be campers.
It could get windy and cold at the summit.
The place was filled with all sorts of adventurer-types. They were laughing and joking, occasionally asking for someone to take their picture.
One shirtless French guy asked a Scottish guy to take his picture.
“I’m not takin’ your picture, bruv. You don’t got no shirt on. You’re gay,” the Scotsman said.
“I am not gay. I have 20 girls. YOU are the one that is gay. Take my photo!” Frenchie shouted proud and shirtless.
“Okay, fine,” the Scot relented.
They proceeded to become friends and the nucleus of the group of people chilling at the summit. I went up to the spot where they were standing to take a pic, and after that it was time to walk back down the mountain. I hadn’t even said a word to anyone up there. My mood was quiet and reflective, but things change quickly on the mountain.
“Ok! Time to go to the pub!” I declared suddenly as I left.
“Now that’s a MAN!” The Scot exclaimed.
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