Pack Wrath Trail

Pre-covid, I stumbled upon an old unmarked ‘coffin road’, between Lochs Morar and Nevis. The stone slabs and cobbles appeared out of the mist and provided a welcome respite from the squelching steps that had themed the day. That night I’d sat in the lodge wondering how many more of these old paths were crossing the hills between long-cleared communities.  The idea to search for and link them up began to form and, after much scheming, the plan was hatched: a route up the West Coast of Scotland, from Fort William (or close) to Cape Wrath, journeying over both land and water. A sort of semi-aquatic Cape Wrath Trail – the Pack Wrath Trail, an original UK journey that demonstrates the potential of our inflatable craft.

We opted for a south to north trip, with the prevailing wind. And, after checking tide times, arranging food resupply points and posting food parcels, we were ready to go on April 1st. Given the time of year we pencilled in 14–18 days for the approx. 330km journey, thus allowing for shorter day lengths and weather snags …

As a blocking high pressure system bathes the UK late March, we’re hopeful… So, on April Fool’s Day, as Rich, Millie (my 4-year-old Collie) and I stand on the side of the A830 watching snowflakes fall; the irony is palpable. 

Undeterred we stride north from Arkaig over the hills to Meoble and Loch Morar. On the shore, our initial transition from land to water is slow and relaxed. The sun is out and, without a breath of wind, we’re soon across and at Tarbert. The short walk over to Loch Nevis negates deflating our boats, so we fix them to our packs and trudge, turtle-like, over the trail. By mid-afternoon we are on the water again, the wind now lifting from the west, we’re pushed along through the narrows as porpoise play in the neck. Soon the weather turns, rain is falling, half-sleet, wind cold and biting. We exit the loch and stride along the glen; camp found, we retire, cold, burying into our bags. 

After a night well below zero, we’re blessed with calm conditions across Knoydart; cold shadows, broken by blazing sunshine. Walking well-trod paths and cobbles up Glen Carnach till, just past a ruined croft, the mapped trail runs out. Scanning upwards for the track that traverses across Coire an Lochain to Mam Unndalain. “Surely, the crofters would cross straight over to Barrisdale rather than the long haul round west?”, jokingly, I continue to mutter, what was to become the navigational maxim of the whole trip, “If I were a crofter, where would I go?” and, shortly, squinting, our eyes begin to pick out – broken, following natural ledges where possible with occasional stone bolsters – a trail, long-lost from maps that crosses the hillside.  We move north, picking landmarks by eye, rediscovering and reconnecting with landscape and land-lived. 

Shore side again, we change, drysuits on, and tide flooding east contrary to plans, we must ferry across. In time a bay appears and so a camp. Sitting on soft grass above a shingle shore, we stare up, then we lower our gaze. Blue-gold skies atop Ladhar Bheinn; its snow peak, rose stained and then, below, dark slopes and crags, framing the sea’s mirror-calm, which, in turn, reflects all above.

Dawn rises, calm and bright. We head off, electing to paddle down Loch Hourn and north up the Sleat of Skye. As we round Sandaig our packrafts are rolling in the swell. The weather has turned, strong winds and heavy rain now – force 6–7, pushing grey wave-walls, raising, falling. Sinking into the deepening troughs we disappear out of sight. We egress earlier than planned, cold and wet in Glenelg, and then steal north once more. Shoreside Loch Alsh, where the racing, boiling tide, and winds forbid progress and so we settle for a cold, wild camp.

Across Alsh, in Balmacara, the otters swim in seaweed. A food parcel awaits which sees us onwards to Plockton, where, rushing, the tide rising around our feet, we race the 3km to reach camp at Reraig, before we’re pushed east up Loch Carron. 

The rain remains the following day through to Kishorn and then a few kilometres downstream to Loch Damph.  Damph by name and by nature, grey-clad skies sink, squeezing colour from the slopes. Hid cold behind rain-lashed brollies, we sail and paddle down the loch, Millie hides, shivering below the boat’s deck. Over soaked moor, we trudge, burns overflowing. Our camp by Loch Torridon is flooded, as is all ground abouts, so, reluctantly, we slog the miles east to Torridon campsite and elect to sit the next day out in the café. Allowing the wind and rain to ease and the burns we must cross to empty. A bright dawn shows snow accumulating above 600m as large squalls sail east through the Torridon glens, blotting the brilliant skies and sun as they dump their burden on the peaks and passes.  Glens grow out before us, the land-scale grows, as we shrink beneath imposing sandstone giants. We’re lucky, the first snows only finds us below Sail Mhor. Descending along Allt Coire Mhic Fhearchair to Bridge of Grudie we trudge the road to Maree’s edge looking out to Eiliean Ghruididh. 

A fraught crossing awaits us. Strong winds and matt grey waves heave east up the loch, white brows broken as the wind shoots spray up into the snow filled air. As we leave shore, we ferry, angling up-wind, oblique to our destination; there glimpsed longingly over our right shoulder. “Stay 2m apart, copy my angle!” I call reminding Rich of our plan, coaching, egging him along as we ferry across, flaring out as waves ease. Half-way, held between wave and wind, our stares transfixed on the pitch and heave of the storm etched water.  Every few minutes, dark faces appear, rolling waves steep with deep troughs, “Slow, deep blades! Relaxed waist!” I call, angling up-wind, burying our faces into it, allowing the boats to heave over the walls. A swamped boat here would be bad; this cat and mouse continues for an hour until finally we enter the calm of the far shore. On land, a silent fatigue grips hold as we set for a bleak camp southeast of Furnace.  

A snow squashed tent fly pressing my face breaks sleep, so as the light appears I’m dog tired and slow. Late, heading off in heavy snow, we ascend the lower slopes of Slioch. In near white-out my brain’s fatigued-fuzz makes navigation hard. Finally the dark-cut notch of Bealach Mheinnidh brings relief.  A nervous and hasty descent follows, stumbling, sliding. Sun now hinting between the rolling snow squalls, we spy the causeway and Loch Dubh. Across, beating a pace, sweating up the Easain, we follow the snow sunk coffin trail over the Clach na Frithealaidh, and finally, with relief, I’m lurching down the Frith’, Gleann na Muice opens below. At Larchantivore the sight of the emergency shelter as rotten as ever, bids us ‘go on’ to Sheneval. With the bothy in sight, we slog, sinking through the knee-deep bog. Wading, I carry Millie across the rivers, too fast for her to swim. And, arriving, we fall through the door and into a dark room. Alone, save for a bag of coal left by an un-thanked soul, we sit warm, sated, silent, staring. Below, bathed in flame light, Millie twitches through dreams.

East now with dawn, we stride through Achnelgie as eagles soar over the Strath. Then, climbing, we cross the barren scape of Sail Liath. Soon enough we descend, textures deepening as we pass along the birch flanked trail as slowly the lushness of Dundonnell envelops us, the green come grey edges, all topped by brilliant blue sky. Spirits seem to lift and urge us along as we climb, still north. As the horizon falls into Bealach Loch na h-Airbhe, I feel emotion swell; a new view, a long view – north. Lines of clouds cross my gaze, below them, Summer Isles, Coigach, Inverpolly … Below still civilisation awaits.

In Ullapool, Rob is joining the march north. Eager, he’s inquisitive about the journey so far, and his tent pitched already, he’s busying himself helping us do the same.  Soon we’re in town, a couple of pints and a mountain of chips we bid goodbye to Rich, he’s heading home to Wales via an exploratory paddle around Knapdale.

North at dawn we climb up, fighting through gorse, legs bounding through Strath Mor, past Achlaise Lochans and northwest to Loch Lurgainn. Cutting up between Stac Pollaidh and Cul Beag then north through to Loch an Doire Dhuibh.  It’s mirror calm and, to avoid crossing Loch Sionascaig in the winds forecast for the next day, we push past our planned camp. Paddling along the loch, the island campsites all occupied, with the sun low to the horizon we force on, scrounging camp on deer bit heather at Clais below Cul Mor. 

Waking, winds rattle the tents, cold seeps in as I force off my bag. Gear away, we’re soon striding up the Clais, then throw forward to the Uidh Fhearna, who, gorging on water from Veyatie, spits us through to Ffion Loch. Suilven looms as we transition back to land, clapping wet hands to warm in bitter northeast winds.  Picking our way up stone flatted ribs, brings forth vague recollections of poems by Assynt man Norman MacCaig. We ascend past the Pillar’s scar cut by Pilkington’s Gully, spying evidence of an old path; winding now, down the Alltan Dubh finally fording the Abbainn na Clach Airigh at the lochan’s throat.  Sat on a seat outside Suileag bothy, we sit sun-blind, sipping cool peaty water. Early still, we reject a bothy night for a few more miles; more now for spare to come.  North again. 

Soon, we’re regretting skipping the bothy. The wind, now from the north, buffets and drives into our faces and, over its noise, I hear Rob cursing. We push, head-down over a burn gorge, scanning for campsites. No luck, so we force our legs north a few more k’s, to seek the shelters off the Loch na h-Innse Fraoich.  The dog shivers, as do I, she presses herself against me and wrapped in my coat, she sleeps. Later, smiling, water brewed we eat and laugh at our foolishness to push on. As we stare out at Canisp capped by cloud, we nod; before dusk we’re asleep, dog tired.

The sky brightens as we rise, packs lifted easily, eaten lighter each day.  We climb west of Quinag past the sheilings and over the Belach Leireag.  An appointment with an outgoing tide awaits us at Loch a Chairn Bhain.  Over the barren head of the Sidhean Ard we follow the coffin trail’s edges, bulging from the peat down to Ardbhair and, as the path is lost from the map, we follow our hunches and soon rediscover it winding through to Kerrachar Bay. Standing on a cliff-top vantage, the easterlies blast through Loch Chairn Bhain, surging through the narrows. Forcing against the tide, waves peak, spraying up over the boils and swell. A maelstrom of rock, air and water. Our planned camp across the water a mere kilometre away; my frustration is tangible. “It looks a bit rough,” Rob wryly understates. I’ve paddled in far worse, but I’ve only seen Rob in relative calm conditions, no way to know how we’ll fair together. With tired bodies and brains, now’s not the time to find out. “Aye, we’ll wait,” – decision made – “give it a few hours, let the flood ease and we’ll think again.”  Picking our way along the cliffs we find a cove, slide our way down, sit and nod off in the tick infested grass as Millie explores.  Waking the water seems softer, less fierce, though the wind still gusts, the waves are lessened as the tide moves to slack. Sun catches the boats as we cross, Millie fidgets, moving from one side to the other, watching for seals as we enter the shelter of Loch Shark. Camp pitched in trees, we relax as the sun bathes Sail Ghorm and Sail Garbh, its red-orange glow fading to darkness. 

We’re off early to catch the ebb tide. Along the fog-bathed coast the air is damp and chill, as we portage the boats over a narrow spur. Pushing north still, we reach Badcall. Now ashore we’re soon gorging on chocolate from our food stash – buried by Rob some days earlier. Bags full again, we move heavily along the road to Scourie and trace the trail over to Tarbet and then to Fangamore.  Northerly winds fight us as we pick our way across Loch Laxford, geology confounding things as it funnels the air in opposition. Finally, making landfall at Portlevorchy, we haul our gear up onto sheep shorn grass, too good to pass up, Rob knocks on the door of the croft; welcoming, they bid us camp. 

A late start sees us push hard to Loch Inchard and soon we’re heading out on the ebb to Kinlochbervie passing otters and seals. Now ashore with our last water crossing behind us we pace along the tarmac and track to Sandwood Bay. Tourists here and there are novel compared to the deer and sheep we’ve met until now. As we reach the dunes, I’m sore, a swollen Achilles has plagued me for a few days, but the soft sand makes it throb. Millie, eager to run in the surf is becoming irksome and I reflect, I’m tired, impatient, in pain. Tomorrow we’ll see Cape Wrath and I just want today to end. Recognising the foolishness of these thoughts I accept them all the same. So, leaving Rob to walk barefoot in the sea, I force up through the dunes. Making myself acknowledge the beauty, I cast an eye back to the bay and Am Buchaille, then turning north I cross the bogs to Strathchailleach. There, I shed my pack and sit, wait. Rob soon arrives, we light the peat fire and, watching its light dance across Sandy’s paintings, we edge to sleep. 

A dreich dawn and for the first time no trail to follow; no sign, nor spoor.  Stepping north, rough ground, soon gives back to firm peat, coated in short-cropped heather. Picking our way through the hags, we pass signs and a fence giving warning that we’re entering the Cape Wrath Military Range. No bullets or bombs here today though, so we keep on. As we cross below Cnoc a’ Ghiubhais, a dog fox bolts across the horizon, and pausing, he stands proud, pushing up to taste us on the air and then diving into a cairn, he’s gone. Down now, passing the sheilings, we stride, then up and onto the broken lighthouse road, and rounding the headland our goal is in sight. Cape Wrath. Passing through the lighthouse’s whitewashed walls I stop; finished. 

Sitting in the drizzle and wind, I marvel at the Duslic tidal overfall, the cliffs, and the arches. Wheeling soaring birds call and fall out of sight. I sit and stare. Rob arrives and we congratulate each other, take photos, and have a snack. A sense of underwhelming builds, despite the stark beauty around. I recall my view above Ullapool, the new land to come, the questions, the uncertainty. Before now we were doing something ‘novel’, ‘new’. Now over, we ‘did’ it, it’s ‘done’. The past tense seems less impactful somehow, even in its immediacy. A cliche comes to mind, “the journey, not the destination.” It seems to belong right now. The wind picks up, still from the north, and hoods up we turn south for the first time.

Back along the potholed road, Kervaig bothy awaits, a palace. As the custard sands are whipped by waves, we walk, finding flotsam while Millie chases surf.  In the dying light we’re recounting the days. A pair of eagles break the dusk outside, we stare, standing, silent, still; even after they pass out of sight. As the fire ebbs we discuss our next, last day. We’ll start early along the road to catch a slack tide at the Kyle of Durness. Around us, darkness floods in with the sound of the breaking northern sea.

Epilogue

The Pack Wrath Trail – as christened – is a self-powered journey over land and water. It runs from the line cut by the A830 (Fort William to Arisaig) north to Cape Wrath. It crosses some of the wildest and most rugged terrain in the UK as well as many large, exposed bodies of open and tidal water. The route finally settled upon was approx 320km to Cape Wrath, the route we followed was 335km. It took 14 days to walk and paddle with an additional day due to being ‘weather bound’ in Torridon. Another day was required to walk and paddle out to Durness. To the best of our knowledge, it had never been done before, and since us finishing it has been repeated just once, by a tandem team in July 23’. In March ’23 Millie and I returned to complete a 500km+ version of the journey from Knapdale but bailed after 200km due to a cut on my foot becoming septic – that’s another story! Millie, the dog, wags her tail lots when we mention the “big walks” and when asked about the quality of the trails replies “Ruff!”

Aye,

Jas