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  So much for Liathach. Instead I followed a narrow trail up through a small pine forest west of Fasag and past the lovely waterfalls of Coire Mhic Nobuil (yes, I know all these odd names make it sound like a Tolkienesque Hobbit-land—and I love them).

  As I climbed higher, the great broken bowl of Sgurr Mhor rose up on my left, looking like the fractured crater of some ancient volcano. No more trees now, just the occasional eagles and some distant movement on the flanks of Beinn Dearg, which I took to be a small herd of deer. More lovely waterfalls too, skittering icy cascades; stick your head under and fatigue vanishes like magic.

  I crossed over the watershed, left behind the dry rocky landscape, and entered a strange world indeed—silent and very still. The narrow path vanished (obviously a warning I should have heeded) and ahead of me was a sodden infinity of bogs, mud pits, peat hags, and dozens of sinister black pools edged with brittle marsh grass, stretching as far as I could see. A series of equally black lochans followed the broad valley to the west. My map told me I was entering Shieldaig Forest, but not a single tree could I spot anywhere. This is definitely some of the bleakest scenery in Britain—or almost anywhere else in the world, come to think of it.

  Two sausage sandwiches, a slab of whisky cake, and I was ready to move on—right into my first bog. Then a second. Followed almost rhythmically by a third. (Which turned out to be particularly deep and enveloping and anxious to devour both my boots.) Lea had given me good advice for situations like this—“head for higher, drier ground.” The problem was that these were rather pernicious little bogs, hardly apparent to the novice eye, and unless you had developed Olympian standards of “bog trotting” (leaping from grassy tussock to tussock with syncopated grace), you could hardly avoid them. I must have struggled through every one of them on my scramble for steeper ground and eventually ended up half crawling (and caked in black ooze) along the rocky protuberances of Beinn Bhreac.

  And just when I felt firmer ground under my elephantine mud-caked boots, a whirling tidal wave of wind swept up the valley without warning, followed minutes later by a torrential rainstorm, then thunder, than hail, which hit me with horizontal machine-gun impact….

  At first everything seemed manageable. After all, this was Scotland, not some balmy Caribbean hotspot, and the weather came with the territory, certainly with this territory. And I’d had good luck too. My life had been saved by an eagle a few days back so I could hardly complain when the greater powers were protecting me. Laughter was the only response, so I laughed into the hail and got mouthfuls of ice cubes, and I laughed even louder, like some deranged wild man of the mountains.

  I think the greater powers had other things to think about that day. At least they seemed to forget about me. I could see a stream ahead, swirling and grumbling through black rock crevices, but not too wide. Surely no more than six feet. A quick leap should do it. No problem. So I leaped. But at that moment my rucksack decided it needed a spot of liberation; the shoulder strap gave way and the weight of my pack went sideways as I tried to fly forward. Result—a sort of semitangential course right into the middle of the stream. For a moment I thought I could make it. My feet landed on a sloping rock and I floundered like a badly balanced ballerina, pirouetting on its uneven surface. But the rock was no friend. It was covered in slick moss; I lost my footing completely, my legs shot out from under me (I’ve seen it happen slower to lassoed calves in roping rodeos), and I was down, rucksack, maps, hat, boots, the lot, shoulder deep in tumbling waters, struggling to keep my head aloft, cursing the surging stream.

  When I finally clawed up the heathery bank at the other side, I was a very sorry sight to behold. There wasn’t a dry patch anywhere on my body, and I was freezing. As the adrenaline rush faded I began to realize just how cold I really was. My lower jaw began an insistent chatter, and my legs and feet were without feeling. To make matters worse, the hail had increased its pummeling and the mist was down again. I was mad, with myself, the weather, the stream, the maps that made no sense, the whole stupid idea of trying to cross this treacherous noman’s-land.

  I found a cave, well more like a crack, that widened behind two boulders into a hollowed-out niche hardly bigger than a two-man tent. But at least it was dry. Not warm, warm would be unthinkable up here, but with a flat earth floor and a ceiling that allowed me to stand to shoulder height. I removed my trousers and anorak and used them as a screen across the entrance. At least that kept out the wind and hail. Fortunately the inside of the waterproof rucksack had remained dry and I dragged out a towel, some fresh clothes, and my small butane stove. I’d almost left this behind as camp cooking was the last of my intentions. After all, this wasn’t supposed to be a long hike; cake and sandwiches were more than adequate. But, with some rationalization or another, I’d packed it, and now it was a key survival item, heating up the tiny cave so effectively that after a few minutes it all began to feel rather cozy.

  But something happened. Maybe it was the aftereffect of all these adventures, maybe I was just tired of making mistakes, trying to do things that I really wasn’t prepared for. Maybe…who knows? It happens. All wanderers know the feeling. A sort of deadening melancholic emptiness.

  Travel has odd rhythms. Most days you’re up, bright-eyed and brimming with the rush of new tastes, smells, people, situations. And then, for no apparent reason, the mind closes up, the eyes glaze over, and the feet no longer have that natural inclination to wander off in search of random experiences. Maybe it’s the weather, particularly this weather; maybe a touch of intestinal, or even intellectual, revolt; maybe just a case of sensory overload—the constant barrage of the unexpected and the unusual. Whatever. When it comes there’s not too much you can do about it. Fighting it doesn’t work for long. “Give it a rest,” says the tired brain. And that’s what I usually do. There’s nothing worse than a traveler trying to squeeze excitement out of something that’s suddenly lost its zing.

  So it’s snail-shell time. Back into the quietude of small tight spaces; a modest hotel room, a tiny hidden beach with no intruders, a mountain hideaway with a pup tent. Anywhere the mind can make its own peace. No writing. No sketching. No interviews. Just mindless mind meanderings for as long as it takes to see the dawn again with fresh eyes.

  It’s hard to break the rhythm of constant movement, but it’s worth it. You forget the schedule, no matter how loosely structured, and just flow with the flow. Time becomes elastic again and the sweet numbing of nothingness soothes away all the petty problems of the journey. The mysterious inner journey runs its course for a while, digesting, compiling, perceiving new patterns, rearranging the images, seeing previously unseen truths. The thrill returns, given time. It always does.

  So I curled up and dozed. The cave was warm. I was tolerably dry. The howling tumult outside seemed to make my little hibernation hole even more appealing. I’d move on later. Or maybe I wouldn’t. There was nothing I needed for the moment.

  I dreamed of home. Anne by the fire. The two cats. The view across the lake. The sound of breezes rattling the leaves outside the living-room window. The prospect of an evening of reading.

  Ah, reading. At home I’m always promising myself more time to read. We have a small library there, bulging with untouched volumes and always increasing in size as dear friends and relatives, who correctly assume writers should be avid readers, add to our collection. But it always seems that something else takes precedent—cooking for friends, entertaining house guests, general home maintenance, keeping up with the newspapers and magazines that flood in daily, and if I’m lucky, some watercolor or oil doodling. Reading, alas, always seems to be pushed way down the scale of priorities and only becomes a real option if I’ve hit a momentary period of blockage and want to enjoy the sweet guilt of doing something I really shouldn’t be doing because I should be doing something else (a sort of principled procrastination).

  But when I’m traveling, reading takes on an entirely fresh significance. I’ll forgo a week of decent dinners t
o purchase a handful of tattered, hand-me-down paperbacks, and invariably they’ll be travel-related works. Talk about a bus driver’s holiday. I can think of nothing more delightful than sprawling on a deserted beach with a couple of Theroux’s earlier works (yes, I know he can get a little cranky and, in some of the later books, downright depressing, but he’s still hard to put down).

  I can’t remember how many times I’ve read The Great Railroad Bazaar and his Riding the Iron Rooster and every time, as if I were listening to a fine symphony, I discover whole new segments either missed or read in that half conscious fuzzy time just before sleep. And Jonathan Raban. His Old Glory is a masterpiece of cameos and caricatures threaded together by an ever present fear of riding the fickle Mississippi. Then, of course, there’s Peter Matthiessen’s The Snow Leopard, the epitome of the inner journey wrapped in rich externalities. I’ve found his book in stores from Kingston, Jamaica, to Kathmandu, invariably in the used section and well marked by previous readers, along with many of my other favorites: Jan Morris’s Journeys and Spain; Peter Jenkins’s A Walk Across America; Andrew Harvey’s enticingly mystical A Journey in Ladakh; Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia; John Hillaby’s ascetic and ascerbic Journey Through Britain; Durell’s Sense of Place and his close friend Henry Miller’s masterpiece The Colossus of Maroussi; Somerset Maugham’s The Gentleman in the Parlour; and Robert Bryon’s The Road to Oxiana.

  I usually keep a copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road somewhere handy (always good for a refresher course in earth gypsying), and Ted Simon’s free-spirited tale of his round-the-world motorbike odyssey, Jupiter’s Travels. And then of course there are Laurie Lee’s little gems (my tattered copy of As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning is one of the most lyrical travel books ever published). Finally, lying around somewhere close at hand are John McPhee’s Coming into the Country and his earlier The Pine Barrens, as reminders of what real writing is all about.

  If I’m in a reading mood I’ll seek out the longest, least interrupted way of reaching my next destination (night trains in India justify a caseload of reading material), cocoon myself in a corner, and devour words, rhythms, images, textures, emotions, even little wisdoms, with the appetite of an aardvark.

  By the time I arrive home, travel wearied and ready for days in the tub, half my baggage is books. Shirts, socks, and underwear rarely seem to make it back but my beloved books do, torn, covers rubbed raw from jiggling about on buses with no shock absorbers, buckled from dousings in streams and monsoon storms, scribbled on (blank pages at the back teeming with “notes to myself” of varying degrees of lunacy). But they’re home with me, safe and loved.

  So I dozed and I read John Krich’s “bad mood” travel odyssey Music in Every Room (my latest find) and dozed again. There was no point moving on any further. The storm gave no signs of easing and it was getting dark anyway. Another sandwich, a sip or two of whisky…I’d feel fine tomorrow.

  Oozing into morning wakefulness. A slow, crisp dawn; strips of scarlet and gold on the gray walls of my cave. Lighting the stove again and feeling the heat rise. Pulling down my “door” of frosted trousers and shirt and looking out across the lochans and bogs bathed in a soft amber glow. No wind. No hail. A few flecks of ice on the ground outside, nothing worse…and no melancholia. The night had done its repair work. I felt fresh again (a little stiff maybe but that would pass). The storm had long since bansheed up the valley, over the towering cliffs and screes of Sgorr Dubh. Everything was at rest now. My traveler’s lethargy had disappeared. It would be a good day today.

  And it was. I took my time repacking the rucksack and fixing the broken shoulder strap. My boots were dry enough for walking. The rest was easy.

  Leaving my cave I found firm ground, a dry sheep track, and, after another hour or two, at tiny Loch Gaineamhach, the semblance of a footpath heading slowly downhill for miles to Shieldaig. Much, much later came the most wonderful sight of all—rose-colored Shieldaig Lodge and all the Victorian comforts of home in this restored hunting lodge overlooking Loch Gairloch.

  Later that evening a weary, but very happy (and well-bathed) wanderer sat down at a window table watching the stars twinkle over the water, feasting on home-smoked salmon, venison pie, and summer-pudding. What more could a bruised bog trotter ask for? I had paid the first installment of my dues to this wild country, and I was content to rest for a while on a laurel or two (albeit rather small ones).

  8. ENGLAND—THE PENNINE WAY

  Along the Backbone of England

  The subtle art of bog trotting still eluded me.

  For the eighth time in as many minutes I was calf-deep in a slurping black goo that clung gleefully to my walking boots. After five hours of my journey I was seriously questioning the sanity of my attempt to conquer the Pennine Way, a 270-mile footpath across some of Britian’s wildest country, up the spine of England.

  “Oh it’s an easy two or three weeks’ walk,” I’d been assured by experienced members of the Ramblers’ Association. Inspired in the 1930s by journalist Tom Stephenson’s idea for a national equivalent to the Appalachian Trail, the Ramblers made him their leader and finally achieved such a route after years of “mass trespasses” across privately owned moorlands. In 1965 the Pennine Way was declared the first of Britain’s nine official long-distance footpaths, which now total over 1,650 miles.

  Today, the ninety-one-year-old Stephenson is amazed by all the recent enthusiasm for walking: “I did my little bit, but I had no idea it would ever be the way it is now. Quite marvelous!”

  “It’s a big, wet, soggy mattress for the first twenty-odd miles,” said Gordon Danks in the information center at the start of the footpath at Edale, in Derbyshire’s Peak District National Park. Andy Barnard of the National Trust warned: “People don’t believe you when you explain how bad it can get. They get lost, they don’t trust their compasses, they panic, and they end up in the oddest places way off course and waist-deep in bogs, or,” he added somberly, “worse.” He advised me to leave the name and address of my next-of-kin.

  Wild desolation is characteristic of much of the route, which meanders like an inebriated snail along northern England’s mountainous “backbone” from Edale to Kirk Yetholm, a few miles over the Scottish border. This is not the picture-postcard England of thatched cottages and downy woods. Much is treeless terrain especially in the boggy moors of the south.

  After the first fifty miles of this kind of soul-grinding terrain many contenders retire. Tom Stephenson estimates that only around six thousand manage the whole distance annually: “It takes a heck of a lot of stamina, determination, and real spunk to finish.”

  Those who persevere after the first boggy stretch still have a long way to go among the limestone mountains of North Yorkshire, cut by glaciated “dales,” across the bold intrusions of hard dolerite “sills,” over the Northumberland fells and the grumpy stumps of old volcanoes in the Cheviot Hills.

  “Oh, but it’s such fine country,” said Arthur Gemmell, member of the Open Spaces Society and creator of a series of footpath maps for the Pennines. “You can see just about every phase of history here—Iron Age hill forts, Roman roads and Hadrian’s Wall, farms and villages started by Anglo-Saxons and the Norsemen, remnants of the Norman feudal system—particularly those superb abbeys—Fountains, Bolton, Jervaulx, and the others. The church was all-powerful in those days—the monks ran huge sheep farms in the Yorkshire Dales. But the Scots kept coming down and stealing the livestock and the women, so the barons built those castles in the main market towns—Richmond, Barnard Castle, Middleham, Penrith. You slice right through the last two and a half thousand years of English heritage when you walk up here. There’s a tremendous sense of endurance and permanence. But;” he added, like the others, “watch your step. It’s hard going.”

  Yet after all the warnings, demure Edale (starting point of the Pennine Way) throbs to the thud of walking boots for much of the year. While villagers hide behind peek-a-boo curtains, hundreds of hikers from tiny Cub Sco
uts to gritty bog trotters, with formidable boots and enormous framed rucksacks, gather on summer weekends around the Old Nag’s Head pub to prepare for their individual odysseys.

  I joined them in the quieter fall, sketchbook in hand, looking for adventures and fresh understandings of regions I had roamed as a youth. I prayed for fair weather but knew the Pennines are no respecter of seasonal fripperies. They’ll turn a balmy day into a rollicking thunderstorm at the twist of a thermal. Equally obtusely, while the distant plains lie sniffling under blankets of fog and drizzle, the air up on the tops can be as crisp as the crust on a well-baked Yorkshire pudding.

  After all the initial wallowing, walkers are delighted to find a neat footpath of chestnut pailings tied together and packed down by sandy gravel. “This used to be terrible here,” said Geoff Truelove, a hiking enthusiast. He was out looking for remnants of old aircraft wrecks on Bleaklow and Featherbed Moss and had found seven so far, including a World War II Lancaster and a Boeing Fortress with engines still intact.

  “People were coming across the moor in all directions so they put this path in to keep them on course.” He forgot to mention that it finished half a mile away in a dip, reverting promptly to molasses. Peaty streams burst like frothing ale from the soggy hills all around. A haze of heather flowers floated over the moor like a mauve mist.

  By Black Hill, though, I was taking the tussocks with the best of them, and in a surge of complacency, made errors that could have been fatal. I had joined a morose bunch of hikers protesting some proposal for yet another reservoir in these overburdened hills. A turnout of thousands had been hoped for but there were eleven in all. We climbed up Laddow Rocks to an undulating ocean of mud and jollied along swapping tall tales of hiking exploits, until one of the girls fell and twisted her ankle, and they all decided to go back.