We walked as a merry little band for half the distance between Inverarnan and Tyndrum. I love the names of the villages here. Tyndrum. Can't you just hear it? A small tin drum to march by?
Although our six bodies were more rested than they were on that recent tearful night, aches and pains and fatigue at the end of the day are now a constant companion. I am humbled watching each writer rise to her own personal challenge. The one I was most worried about is the one whose determination inspires me most. I have been a witness to her long and painful physical struggle for many years. The fact that she put her fears aside to walk this road is a reminder of the resilience we each possess deep inside. I am so grateful for this reminder as it comes at the perfect time in my own life.
She inspires me with every step that she takes.
The path today was easier, with some hills to make the point that we are in the Highlands of Scotland, but generally sweet, undulating hills. With the exception of the tiny rivers of water that crossed the path every few feet. Did I mention that Hurricane Lorenzo landed on our first day of walking and has been delivering more rain than is generally seen at this time of year? Scotland, at least the Highlands, is all fluid running down rock.
So our Way today included 7 miles of puddle jumping and stream forging. And mud. And mud. By the time we arrived at the mid-way out at Craiglarich, every writer was sloshing along in heavy wet shoes. Still, big nod for anti-blistering, heavy-wicking Wright socks! They kept those of us wearing them mostly dry and warm.
At the sign to Craiglarich, the ladies happily turned right and marched off another half mile to have their lunch, enjoy tea and scones, and eventually head back to our next stop in Tyndrum by taxi.
I turned left. I am walking this road in hopes of doing regular writers workshop here and in other crazy beautiful places. I walked on, determined to foot every mile. Yes, part of it is my ego. My stubborness. But more pragmatically, I'd like to be able to speak from knowledge about a regular Jane's experience on this trail (rather than rely on professional hikers/guidebook writers).
To be honest I welcomed walking alone. I have discovered on this trip that I am a worrier, a mother duck eager for her ducklings to take flight on their wings but constantly on lookout for the dog, the hawk, the crag in which they might get trapped, the path they can't quite waddle up for their tiny legs. I have herding tendencies to be sure. I do this even though these are all grown women, three of them my seniors, one of them among my most trusted wise woman advisors. Adventurous women quite ready and able to take care of themselves.
I chalk up my worry and corralling to trying to be a workshop leader -- a different kind of leader than the old corporate wonk I once was and hated being; a leader who facilitates the opening of creative doors and new ways of writing. At the same time, the caregiver in me can't help but want these journeying writers to feel loved and cared for on this path. I imagine in my sometimes hangry, cranky moments I am failing in this goal.
So walking forward by myself was a gift, a worry-free moment. And yet, I missed my walking-writing friends all for those miles. Honestly I did.
Fittingly, the word and prompt for today was WATER. As on many of the walks thus far, it kept us in its grip today, falling from the sky, gushing underfoot, rolling down the hillsides, hissing in the mist.
As I walked I thought of how we moved from water to land in our evolutionary process; how we are made of water; how we need water to survive; how we are born from water. Water is life.
Some writings from our watery way:
Running Water
October highlands
uncovered by ice
carved into uncrossed valleys
land plunging smoothly
into deep lochs
water running today
runnel and rift
streaming into clefts, rivulets, cascades
over granite boulders, precipice
streaming in cataracts
down eroded chutes moving gravel
flooding into the river Falloch
taking out bridges and paths
flowing under one deserted doorway
roaring down Falloch Falls
soaking under every tussock
and spongy mound of moss
until the whole land
as we walk on it
begins to swim,
the path a stream bed
under our wet shoes.
Sharon Murfin, West Highland Way 2019
Dream or Not
I do not dream
I stopped in childhood
For reasons I had then
To fall into oblivion instead
And not remember monsters
Not even nightmares
I sleep
Or I don’t
I get up and move on
Rested or tired
And yet last night
I’m sure I was sleeping
I felt the whisper of feathers
Dancing on my thigh
On my neck
On my lips
On my heart
Beating so softly
Like breath
And the cool cascade
Of water
Rushing down
The river of my spine
Like life
Then did I wake up?
Or was it a dream, finally?
I only know this
I opened my eyes
And cried to watch
That majestic hawk
Lift my body
Covering me tail to toe
Wing span to arm span
Flying with me to the heavens
Cheryl Murfin, West Highland Way, 2019
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