Hell breds Heaven

ON TOP - what an orgasmic combination of words. It’s music to our ears, it’s a pleasant awakening to all our senses. We just love to be on top! The highest points of elevation, the highest geographical coordinates, the peak of the peak. Humans love that shit. My self successfully being a human, this shit that I love drove me straight into the arms of dark abyss. There, I died and came back to life.. about 50 times.

Backpacking, hitchhiking had always only been legends from a distant land. A land I never dared to venture. That is until I stumbled into the country of Scotland. A few days were all I needed to fall in love with not only the infinite choices of craft single malts but the majestic Scottish Highlands enveloping the land.

Amongst the numerous treasures hidden within the Highlands of Scotland, Bothies were and still are my most cherished. The structure (Bothy) -nothing short of a shack- provides a roof and if you’re lucky a fireplace to dry your probably wet boots after a loaded day of adventure in the Scottish hills. Scattered all throughout the vast terrain, some are in plain sight and some tucked away in monstrous hills. Each one is special in it’s own way, each one with it’s unique magic to captivate. It’s a heavenly dirt-floored sanctuary to the weary hikers, locals and travellers alike.

The Lookout Bothy had a special magnetism luring me to its abode as fireflies to light. It sat in all it’s humble magnificence atop the haphazard cliffs, divinely protected from the clashing waves below. It sat on the northernmost tip of the Isle of Skye towering over the Atlantic Gulf, the top of the top.

It was not a particularly difficult trail to navigate, just some good sense and thorough research would’ve sufficed. Research- skipped. Good sense- zero. My meager knowledge of outdoor survival also lent little assistance to the preparation of the ambitious trip. The possibility of a wrongful turn of events had not occured to me at the time, or it didn’t matter. I was all fire.

Off I went. No plans set in place, no timeline, no schedule, just my trusty backpack and I submitting to the flow of the wind. One direction-the Lookout Bothy.

Even to this day, I still haven’t a clue what possessed me to take on this challenge with the level of preparedness next to none. Possessed is as close to an explanation of my motive when I set out- Possessed I was.

Four days had passed. 96 hours had gone by scrabbling my way to the tip of the Island and there I stood facing the trail that would lead me to the dreamy Bothy.

I was immediately consumed in the rich void of the vast land. As far as the eyes could see, untamed patches of wildflowers boasted of its dominance. Each step was a step of joy, fueled by the thought of a cup of warm soup within the four walls overlooking the Atlantic Sea. The whole trip was estimated to take no more than a couple of hours so the orange glow of the sunset seeping in the sky held no more significance than it’s sheer beauty.

I glided above the trail, careless to the splitting ways or the passing time-the amount of time that should have been enough to have reached the Bothy and have had my warm cup of soup. An angry growl from the pit of my stomach penetrated the still silence breaking the enchantment. I began to search the horizon for a sign that I was nearing the Bothy. My gaze inspected the surroundings slowly at first then increasingly frantic. The sky that blossomed with a burst of orange was now becoming shades darker with an impossible quickness. The vastness of the land that once caressed me in it’s grandeur had now abandoned me, cast me away from it’s protection. I was lost.

I felt the threat of a chokehold against my heaving chest. The very straps stabilizing the weight of the pack before was now an unbearable pressure that promised a death sentence. The soothing swoosh of the wildflowers were now a cry of nature reprimanding my foreign intrusion to its private lot.

What did I know about the trail? What have I researched before setting off? Damn my nature of spontaneity. I had nothing, nothing but the glorious images of the enthroned safe-haven on top the towering crags. With no other lead, the top was my best bet. I looked around in hopes of getting a visual of the highest point of elevation, only to be disappointed. I had somehow managed to wedge myself right in the valley of two monumental hills, each prominent in it’s size and steepness.

My teeth, my fists, my shoulders, my ass cheeks, whatever body part not yet paralyzed from terror, were iron-clenched as I drowned in fear of the oblivion set right before my eyes.

Focus, Gwen. This will not be your last day you tred on Earth. I told myself every possible stories of consolation my mind could create to alleviate my desperate anxiety.

After a hasty glance at my options, I headed toward the monster of a rock to my left. Thirty minutes of complete bog trailing led me to a barbed wire. Dispirited but having no other choice, I scrambled over leaving a few gaping holes on my trousers to commemorate the moment. Then came the grueling ascension. As I rose over to the plateau of the hill, I was made ecstatic with a faint voice carried over the distance. With hardly any light, my headlights came to my rescue. Secured on my head and illuminating the short distance ahead, a shadow shaped like a tent came into view. My heart sank right down to my muddy boots drowned in exasperation. A tent?? How the hell do I ask a couple of strangers to tuck me in for the night in a tent already too cosy for two??

Exhaustion. Desperation. Down right scared shitless. Were the winds always this loud?

I looked over to my right. Damn my intuition. The shadows of the Lookout Bothy loomed on the hill to my right. The valley where I once stood was triumphantly spread before my eyes in mockery of my faulty steps. I staggered back down the rocky hill cursing the innocent happy cosy tent-ers. I trudged through the sticky bogs yet again. Sped up the opposite hill, scraping my flesh along the way. Survival was the new agenda.

My mind had awakened its dormant sixth, seventh, eigth senses of my being, all of them heightened to hyper-sensitivity. Every cell of my body tingled in sharp alarm at even the tiniest sounds, the teensiest movement outside of my own.

Was that a howl?

Two minutes? Two hours? I couldn’t tell you. Right hand then left, I pulled myself up the ledge. Two feet planted atop my second summit of the night. There it stood. The Lookout Bothy, hidden in the shadows of the moonlit sky. Completely unaware of my strenuous and seemingly life-threatening trek but inviting to shield me from the daunting exposures of nocturnal nature with its four walls and a roof.

Warm lights emanated from the tiny windows giving away the obvious occupancy of the shack and the company I would revel in. The opening of the wooden door was one gesture too many after the intense voyage.

Ryan from Tazmania welcomed me with open arms and my tense body melted in the presence of another human-being.

It was a mere one hour, two at most. One hour of oblivion. One hour to experience the two far extremes in the spectrum of human emotions- one of great defeat and fear with enough finality to raise existential questions of life then one of the sweetest victory and independent achievement.

Would my sweet victory be as sweet if not for the bitter hell just moments before? Would my independent achievement be as celebrated if not for the hopeless defeat just moments before?

The trail that led to the Lookout Bothy was not an advanced course designed for only the most rigorous hikers/climbers. It was relatively easy, chosen for it’s relaxing nature by many local dog-walkers during the day. I had embarked upon the same trail or so I thought. It turned out I had walked to the same destination, just forced on a different path toward.

Do I regret the lack of preparation that had taken me to hell not intended as part of the trail?

No.

No is my answer.

How else could I have experienced the better part of hell then heaven on the same dramatic night?