I’m a tractor on the motorway
Day six of an early-spring bikepack through the Scottish Highlands
This night was the coldest of the trip — even colder than my ill-advised night in wet clothes in the Blair Atholl RV park. A stiff wind rattled the thin fabric of the tent, pushing through openings in my sleeping bag and seeping into my skin. Another unfortunate thing I’d done two nights earlier is accidentally disconnect one of the zipper pulls from the bag. It would still close with the double zipper but there was no clasp to keep it closed. No matter how tightly I cinched the top of the bag, it seemed every hour I would wake up shivering as cold air poured in through a large opening. Why? Why do I bother with ultralight gear when I always end up finding more value in the heavy but robust stuff that is at least somewhat Jill-proof?
A couple of times I remembered the climber’s suggestion to watch for Northern Lights. I so badly wanted to witness the Aurora Borealis on a different side of the world. I would wait until I stopped shivering, slither out of the bag so as to not disturb the zipper, and muddle my way outside in my one pair of dry socks. Wind pummeled my face as I crouched for a quick pee and looked skyward. The stars were astounding. I could see faint purple and even red hues of the Milky Way, but none of the light was definitively an interaction of solar wind with the Earth’s magnetic field. My eyes watered after just a few seconds, and all I could think about was how much hard-won heat was leaking from the space between down feathers in my bag. There were still many hours until dawn. I thought wistfully about all of the great gear I have with me when I’m in Alaska, a place where I can stand outside at 40 below and feel warm. My shoulders started to quake and I slinked back to my tent to shiver a few degrees of warmth back into the meager insulation of my summer bag.
I did not brave the frigid outside again until morning, rationalizing that the auroral zone tips to the west and the solar flare probably wasn’t strong enough to be seen in Scotland anyway. I was again the last to rise. Danni and Amber were huddled in the meager wind protection of a tundra mound. They were despondent because they had used up the last of their fuel and had no hot coffee. Danni tried to make cold instant brew; the crystals didn’t dissolve and her drink was not potable. I gave a short sermon about the advantages of weaning oneself from caffeine dependence but didn’t mention how much I’d coveted their hot mugs of coffee the entire trip.
The temperature had warmed to 43 degrees by the time we began our gradual descent toward Glenmore. I continued to shiver in most of my layers, even up the strenuous grades of several punchy climbs, and even after Danni rolled up in her short-sleeved jersey and questioned why I was still wearing a puffy.
“My body hasn’t been so good at regulating temperature today,” I replied. “These cold nights have been rough.”
We all agreed, as women in our 40s, it was becoming more taxing to ride bikes all day and sleep out in the elements. I can’t even remember the last time I did five continuous nights of tent camping. Even on longer trips, I usually crack and rent a hotel room before a week passes. Sleeping on the ground is tough for old bones, but it was so worth it — even if I couldn’t stop shivering in my puffy under full sunshine.
The route continued through Glenmore Forest, another spectacular slice of the Cairngorms with centuries-old pines and turquoise tarns. A maze of singletrack wove around Loch Morlich, and from there we continued up a gentle rise to Ryvoan Bothy.
This seemed to be a more traditional bothy — a small stone building with a single room. We briefly explored the musty interior and enjoyed a leisurely lunch in the grass. I imagined what our afternoon would be like if we’d had the weather we’d expected on this trip: Shivering in that dark space in drenched Gore-tex and trying in vain to start a fire in the stove with wet twigs and candy wrappers. The clear nights might be cold, but they were an excellent tradeoff for bluebird days.
After a lovely and almost effortless 25 miles — just enough work to finally shed my puffy — we passed through Nethy Bridge. Here the major tourist attraction is Castle Roy, a 12th-century fortress that has only recently been excavated from the glacial mound on which it was built. According to the site’s informative plaques, it’s one of the oldest unchanged castles in Scotland. One plaque showed illustrations of what it might have looked like inside these walls during the castle’s golden age — a cluster of cramped, multistory platforms housing dozens of people in a relatively tiny space. That’s one thing fairy tales never adequately convey — how claustrophobic most castle living must have been. One plaque went into detail about how the latrines worked. It was a somewhat horrifying mental image, but it did provide some insight into how the bubonic plague spread so quickly when Europe’s population density was still relatively low.
Today, Castle Roy is home to just a few animals, including a Heilan’Coo named Murdo. Murdo was angling for head scratches and although I was admittedly scared of this hulking horned bovine, he found a friend in Amber.
The route continued north on a pleasant tour of the Scottish countryside. The harrowing terrain, bogs, landslides, and cold of the Cairngorms were already a distant memory.
We veered onto the Dava Way, which seemed to be a rail trail — gentle grades and not many road crossings. The rolling foothills gave way to moors that reminded me of the northern Great Plains. I became excited about this sign until I remembered that the altitude is depicted in feet, not meters. It’s funny, but that’s something I never got used to in Scotland — seeing road signs that listed miles instead of kilometers and yards instead of meters. Up until this trip I just assumed the United States was the only country that still clung to the imperial system. It’s strange to see European road signs using the same outdated measurements. It would make me downright angry on the roads because cars would fly past what I believed to be 30 kph speed limit signs doing at least 50 mph. And if something was nine miles away, I believed it to be nine kilometers long enough to become frustrated.
I did love the Dava Way, though. So much so that I slipped into a groove and continued pedaling far past our turnoff. I rode 2.5 miles out of the way. Amber, who as usual was far in front, ended up riding nearly 5 miles in the wrong direction. By the time we both corrected our error, Danni had been shivering outside a tourism office in Logie for more than an hour.
The sun was yet again sinking low on the horizon, and we had pedaled ourselves into a decidedly more populated area of the Highlands. A road sign advertised adventure camping nearby, so we decided to pedal up to the site.
It turned out to be a glamping campground with yurt-like luxury accommodations. But we were able to score a few tent sites for cheap (and we were the only tent campers in the park.) So, for our last night on the road, we could enjoy a covered cooking area, a sink, a propane stove (I had hot herbal tea! Thanks Amber!), and even hot showers. (I did not wash my clothes this time. Fool me once.) The Relugas Wood was a lovely spot with tall birch trees sprouting their first buds of spring. Roughing it is great, but creature comforts are nice, too.
"We all agreed, as women in our 40s, it was becoming more taxing to ride bikes all day and sleep out in the elements. I can’t even remember the last time I did five continuous nights of tent camping. Even on longer trips, I usually crack and rent a hotel room before a week passes. Sleeping on the ground is tough for old bones, but it was so worth it" Sorry, but I burst out laughing when I read this. 40 seems so young to me! I still enjoy sleeping on the ground at the ancient age of 64!!
Through all of your adventures your tolerance to cold always amazes me. I would have caved by now and gotten a room. :) I'm now 50 and I sleep in tents far less than I used to. I love reading your adventures!