We are landing again on the southwestern tip of Iceland, one year and one month later. This time, the sun is already rising, and from the airplane window I can see it cresting the mountain ranges and moss-covered lava plains that lead to the island's interior. As we disembark onto the tarmac, I feel the fresh morning air admixed with a flurry of ice descending out of a completely clear, warm sky. It is good to be back north.
This time, we are destined to never leave the airport terminal. We buy two cups of skyr and a pair of ham sandwiches, and munch as we wait for our short flight into Glasgow. Most of the planning for this trip has taken place over the past year, but my minor obsession with the Scottish highlands and islands dates back to high school, when KT Tunstall was making waves in the continental music scene and before the Skye Bridge was toll-free. I remember this because the Isle of Skye was the first place I looked for when Google Maps was launched, and I can recall staring dumbfounded at its topography, plotting driving routes from the south, and thinking, "Yeah, that'll never happen..."
Almost a decade later, I am three weeks from receiving my medical degree, and we are pulling out of a Glasgow airport parking lot in a shiny diesel-engine Mercedes Benz, which the Hertz representative swears is a free upgrade. Quite atypically, we take out an insurance policy. "Drive on the left," he says helpfully. (We will become quite used to this phrase over the next ten days. Translated from the native Scotch: "Have a lovely trip, y'bloody Yanks!")
I am fine driving on the left after New Zealand, but I still manage to give Jane a few blood pressure spikes as we leave the airport, where each country's most convoluted roundabouts and traffic flow patterns are always conveniently located. We drive north out of Glasgow, stopping first for groceries at the Morrison's in Dumbarton. Loaded down with juice boxes, chocolate milk, a bag of clementines, tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches, and several bags of sausage rolls and mini-pies, we continue on toward Loch Lomond National Park; it is just past noon. We soon turn from the highway onto a two-lane country road. Jane is fast asleep as we wind through the mountainous eastern half of the park, through the raised meadows and old fir forest glens of the Trossachs. Just beyond The Duke's Pass and on the north shore of Loch Achray, we arrive at the trailhead for our single walk of the day - a 3-mile climb up to the summit of Ben A'an ("Pointed Peak" in Gaelic). Jane sleeps an extra ten minutes while I try to figure out how to use the pay machine in the parking lot.
We set off on the diversion route toward Ben A'an (the regular route has been closed for the past year due to repairs and forestry activities). Here, there are no trail blazes and, most of the time, no obviously maintained path. Jane quickly finds herself mired in mud; we will both come out of this trip with a healthy upgrade to our pathfinding skills and our ability to navigate boggy terrain. Boots sucking and squishing in the peat, we proceed through the upland forest. The trail soon climbs along rocky dirt slopes with the aid of hand-ropes tied between tree trunks. Just over a mile in, we turn onto the original track up the mountainside. Below the main body of the mountain, we reach a clearing with beautiful views of Ben Venue to our southwest and the woodlands to our south. We stop to hydrate and watch a group of walkers play with their dogs, before starting the final climb up a tall, stone staircase.
Jane climbs ahead as the grade steepens, and I realize that I am not nearly as in shape as I want to be. At some point a fluffy gold terrier bypasses both of us, happily leaping from stone to stone, its belly fur matted with dirt and mud. It takes a liking to Jane and waits for her to catch up before proceeding, turning around every few steps to watch her with ears perked. It is adorable but humiliating; we are being outclassed on the mountain by a ten-pound lap dog. Near the summit, we crest the spine of the mountain to reach a cairn site with sweeping views of Loch Katrine to our west, surrounded by an amphitheater of wooded hills and heathery mountains. It is mid-afternoon, and sun shines down in spotlights across the lake and on patches of barren hillside. Our friend the terrier watches me set up my camera gear before catching sight of its owners and running up the mountainside. We take some photos together before continuing to the summit, where there are a few hikers sitting among the rocky crags.
Back in the car, Jane promptly falls asleep as I drive us north to the village of Crianlarich. On the outskirts of the village, across a fenced-off plot of pastureland at the foot of the mountains, we pull off the highway into a long driveway lined with bright golden daffodils, which leads to a charmingly rustic, two-story house nestled into the hillside. As we park our car and step out, we hear the tinkling of the little creek in the glen beside the house; smoke is drifting out of the chimney, and the sun is setting on the moss-tiled roof. After filling out our breakfast card, we spend the night at the Inverardran House, where we sleep very, very well.
