How to F’up Your Travel Plans and Cure a Heartbreak with Iceland.

I WASN'T INTENDING TO BE IN ICELAND for longer than six nights,  in fact this stop was more of a "why the hell not?" than a "must go now!" on the lists of lists each traveler has floating around in their minds.

After realizing a stop-over was possible via Icelandair, a few clicks and hefty credit card payment later, I was booked. Toronto > Keflavik - 6 nights, Keflavik > Glasgow - Infinitely. That is where I f’ed up. The infinite, oh how us long-term travelers like to think we can stay in places forever. Or at the very least until we get bored. It wasn't my intention to stay forever but it was my intention to be flexible. I did not know how long I'd need in Scotland or where I'd want to fly home from afterwards. Europe has many options you see. I'm bad at personal deadlines and even worse at decision making. Throw in a bunch of countries you absolutely should go see and then I just procrastinate. Yes, I was aware UK border control is tight, sure I had looked up the entry requirements beforehand and noted that customs, "May ask you to provide a return or onward ticket and proof of sufficient funds during your stay." Am I an idiot for thinking this is was passive warning and wouldn't be asked of me? Yes. Karl Pilkington and I are now best friends. Perhaps that two year work visa I once had clouded my perception of how things really work crossing the UK border. Of course that's one way to justify the fact that I had shot myself in the foot. 

Then, there is honesty. Good ol’ honesty. In Kindergarten they teach you the consequences of telling a lie and yet they skip over the fact honesty has an appropriate time and place. You'd think I would have learned my lesson from that time at the U.S border between Buffalo and Niagara. I let it slip that I was visiting a friend from Canada who had moved to New Orleans. It was 3am and the border guard proceeded to grill me about my friend's current visa situation (well, she had none). That was the night honesty at the border should have died. I could blame it on the Icelandic hangover or the fact that I did not sleep at all in the last 24 hours leading up to my travels. One judgmental stare from the female border guard and I had managed to say all the wrong answers in ten seconds flat. Advice from Karl Pilkington and I - never mention you’re working on a personal writing project or that you are planning to volunteer in a hostel. Especially avoid all of the above if you don’t have a work visa. This was followed by the burning question on whether I had an exit ticket. Right, so about that…

Suddenly, I was ordered to sit my ass down (in a more polite Scottish manner) and handed a slip of paper explaining that I was being detained.

Tired as hell and detained. Forced to unload the entire contents of my backpack and make awkward jokes with the border guard about the random belongings. How does one explain what a dry bag is used for without appearing more criminal? Then, grilled about my friends, finances and status of employment in Canada (Note: in the UK freelancer equals unsteady and will steal our jobs). It was a long wait in a brightly lit, dull white room where the only form of sanity was a poster of a forested landscape somewhere in Scotland and a window looking out into the hallway. The border guards would walk by and occasionally glance at the girl who wanted in. Before table flipping could commence, the female border guard delivered the verdict, I was denied entrance into the UK and given the black mark. A stamp on my passport from Immigrations in Glasgow with two lines crossed straight through it. This mark will come back to haunt me every time I try to enter the UK, the incident showing up in their digital records as well.  

Here’s the cherry on top: they were sending me back to Iceland. At least it's Iceland, I thought. Denying the realization that I had f’ed up massively. In an attempt to provide some closure the border guard revealed that I was the second girl denied entrance that day for similar reasons. You can't volunteer in the UK without a work visa. 

After collecting my finger prints, filling out the paperwork and treating their detainee like a proper house guest, "Can I get you a cup of tea, coffee, water?" "Are you hungry? We have crisps or biscuits. Or something from the cafeteria? Sweet Chilli Chicken, Pasta Bolognese, Lasagna…" Brilliant hospitality in the back office of border control, I must say. Being lovely doesn't ease over the rejection Scotland, no help at all.

Since the next available flight was scheduled at 2pm the following day, I was released to wreak havoc for one night in Glasgow. Passport-less and heartbroken I did what any Scot would do. I summoned my mates to the pub and drowned the night away with drams of whisky and pints of Caledonia 80. After an offer to get hitched to a tall, blonde Glaswegian lass followed by ridiculous dancing at a Brazilian pub, I awoke the next morning to realize the nightmare wasn't merely a bad dream. During my taxi ride to the airport, I found myself wiping away a steady flow of tears. Even as my driver revealed he was an alcoholic and complained about his daughter marrying into a homeless family. "Good on you mate! At least you aren't being kicked out of the bloody country," I thought.  

No time to focus. Down your pints and get out!

I was met by a border guard at the airport. My own personal escort to navigate through customs, just in case I attempted to make a run for it.  As we shifted through security he revealed he was an avid collector of old stamps dating back to the 1800's. Nothing about these encounters eased the heartbreak. But when I sat down in my aisle seat, my gaze fell upon the round burly face and genuine smile of the Icelandic steward who kindly handed me a blanket. Reminding me, at least it's Iceland.  I was trading one brilliant place for the next. 

If things had gone according to plan I'd be on the Isle of Skye in Scotland, cleaning toilets in exchange for a free stay and the chance to focus on rewrites of my novel. As much as I was looking forward to this (rewrites not toilets), I've been there, done that few times before. "There's just no life glued to old takes, deleted scenes of your favourite show," – sang by Admiral Fallow (a great Scottish band, do check them out).

I could keep revisiting the places in the world I enjoy the most, but what if I'm missing out on discovering a place I like more. When I landed in Keflavik there was no doubt I would survive the rejection, the massive mistake on my part. Like any notable heartbreaks the recovery would take time. 

I was restless for a few days, uncertain, full of doubt and had no idea whether to fight for the right to re-enter the UK, let alone if I wanted to anymore. Option B: simply enjoy the place I was sent back to. There was always a reason to keep moving, to avoid dwelling on the mistake. One night my host, who has since labelled me the Senior Couchsurfer, invited a bunch of travellers he'd never met before to his apartment for a home cooked fish dinner. Sitting around the table, listening to the variation of accents from Switzerland, Italy, Morocco, San Francisco and Canada, each of us had arrived in Iceland separately on our own adventures, yet in a snapshot we could have been mistaken for good friends. Meeting warmhearted people in Iceland and exploring the beauty of the land is the cure for any heartbreak. It’s hard to feel out place or unwelcome. The changes in the landscape are so sporadic that it easily becomes a distraction. When in doubt take a deep breath of the clean, fresh air or stand next to the sea to feel the wind whip 22 miles per hour across the bay upon the cheeks of your frozen smile.

    How to Cure a Heartbreak in Iceland

Eat a delicious home cooked meal with your Couchsurfing host and a group of strangers.

Climb Mount Esja on a cold, sunny day in Reykjavik. 

Freeze your hands off while capturing the Northern Lights at 2 AM in the quiet town of Hjalteyri. 

During the middle of snow storm hitchhike to Aldrei fór ég suður, a free rock festival in the West Fjords. Make new friends on the side of the road.

Stumble upon an epic sunset in Húsavík while looking for a place to spend the night in your rental car.

Observe a family of seals in Vatnajökull National Park and unofficially adopt the tubbiest fellow.

Spend your last Saturday night in Reykjavik dancing like a Viking until 7 AM with a lively group of French dudes.

Live dangerously. Feel the power. Get soaked while exploring behind the waterfall, Seljalandsfoss.

This Time Last Year in Guatemala

The most adventurous year (so far)  is coming to an end and I'm nostalgic for the very place I found myself this time last year. It was an epic way to end 2012, a three day hike from Xela to Lago Atitlán with the non-for-profit group Quetzaltrekkers. If you're seeking a memorable adventure in Guatemala or Nicaragua I highly recommend checking them out.



Photo taken of Group B departing Xela by fellow traveller, Elise Leijstra.

After a long first day of trading the high density of Xela for the freedom of rural Guatemalan landscapes, I was captivated by the night sky above me. Our resting point was a town-hall made of concrete walls and a roof with a wood frame shielded by corrugated metal. Since we arrived at nightfall the village of Santa Catarina Ixtahuacan  appeared to be surrounded by only a few small structures, the homes of locals and the closed tienda (a small grocery shop). It was dawn the next day that revealed a town much vaster.  As if I was lost in time and space, I stared up at the calm night sky to admire every star visible to the naked eye. It was an odd realization that the moon was in hiding. At 11:00pm in the Northern Hemisphere, the sky seemed incomplete without its bright, white luminescence.  After cramping the muscles in my neck, I retired to my sleeping bag laid out on a tiled floor accompanied by forty-one other travellers and the dread of 6:00am wake-up call.

By the time 5:55am had rolled around I had given up on falling asleep hours ago. Instead, the consequences of sleep deprivation kicked in and I wrote this weary passage:

The howling wind rumbles through the fragile tin-like ceiling. There's a smell of mildew rising from the vibrating floor. The metal door barely holds, its strong resistance from the wind eager to knock it down. A creak. Metal sways back and forth. No sleepers in this holding. Perhaps just one. His heavy breathing gives him away. Shadows and light illuminate the ground but darkness still hides in the corners. A gust of wind blows through a heavy cloud of dust, intoxicating us all. A warm chill. We are safe beneath these blankets, pressed hard against the earth. Dare we walk today in the sun after this restlessness. The dogs that howl warn us of something. An impending doom or the dawn of another day? Perhaps it's animal instincts we'll never understand. Are we that out of tune? Too busy building concrete walls, playing with machines, carrying heavy wood stacks on our backs, climbing mountains, breaking into a sweat, starving, gorging, sipping, smoking to speed up our heart rates when we could be slowing down.  Somewhere in the village there's a constant alarm from the horn of an unknown vehicle. Noise always consumes us. Even in the middle of nowhere, even when it's time to rest...

I was interrupted by one of the guides announcing it was time to get moving. With about 15km of walking ahead of us and the challenge of tackling what our guides called, Record Hill (a steep incline that takes an average of 15-25 minutes to climb and one that left me feeling like an asthmatic kid who decided to run up the playground slide without an inhaler), rolling over onto the hard floor and playing dead seemed rather appealing. Yet looking back, I'm glad I was forced to rise early and carry on. On the road it seems we rarely ever fail to seize a great opportunity despite our discomforts. Moving forward is always a constant, an unwritten necessity in our pledge to see the world. Here within the comforts of home it's too easy to fall asleep, stay ravelled in our bed sheets, miss out on a great opportunity because we'd rather stay still or avoid the risk all-together. This leads me to reminiscence about these defining moments in travel. The moments I very reluctantly but somehow willingly made the choice to rise and take the steps forward that propelled me into the great unknown.

Whether you're at home or out on the road Happy New Year! Keep on taking one step forward and don't forget to stop every once awhile to look to the sky above or the land below.



Elise admiring Lago Atitlán from the mirador. Photo taken by me.

Assignment One: Braving the Bar Alone

As a mission to explore the highly sought-after profession as a travel writer, I began taking Matador U’s 12-week course online. My first assignment was to use my hometown as a setting in a narrative. The idea is that your familiarity with a place allows you to present local knowledge using specific details as supposed to an outsider who is unable to convey these details simply drawing from observations. Ricky Gervais did an interview for Co.Create which supported a similar lesson in storytelling to write what you know. Describing the familiar, even the details that may seem mundane can breathe life to your story or in the case of travel writing - to the place. 


THE ASSIGNMENT: BRAVING THE BAR ALONE 


I STAND ALONE outside of the Horseshoe Tavern on a warm Tuesday night. I’m a wallflower checking for texts as I covertly eavesdrop into the conversations set among the bar's street side patio. Laid-back, music snobs chat intimately together, chain smoking and unfazed by the busy Queen St. West backdrop.

With no texts received, I delay my entrance. There’s something about braving a Toronto bar alone that rattles my nerves.

I’ve grown up in this big city and my best nights were spent with friends stepping out into the cool night air after hours of dancing elbow to elbow in some sweat-infused night club on Richmond St.  There were our drunken quests for a hot dog, aka Street Meat, before awaiting the Vomit Comet, the night bus that operates along Bloor St., Its rocking and rolling challenging the intoxicated not to vomit. Regular nights at the  Madison Avenue Pub better known as the Maddy, a Victorian house gone college bar with six floors, the patio overlooking a parking lot, or the first floor, where we’d arrive early to claim the front row booth and sing-along to the Piano Man hammering out our repeated Beatles requests. 

St. Patty's Day at the Maddy

These days we often end up in Koreatown, butchering karaoke in a not-so soundproof private room under the influence of soju, or in the Ossington strip also known as hipster hell to listen to live folk at Dakota Tavern.

Rockin' it out at Korean Karaoke.

I hear the muffled sound of pop rock coming from inside the bar as Groenland, an indie band from Montreal begins their set. At the door is a heavily bearded dude in his early twenties slouched forward on a stool, chatting with the cute girl standing next to him. Before I enter I pause, allowing him the opportunity to ask for my I.D or at least say hello. Instead he glances over for a mere second and mumbles “Go ahead”.

The crowd hangs away from the stage in the dimly lit backroom, groups of friends huddled around tables, casually bobbing their heads. I stand alone on the sidelines. I’m approached by a female server and I order a pint of Tankhouse, a dark local brew by Mill St., made blocks away in the Distillery District. It costs $6.75 and like a jackass I forget to tip. Soon I’m absorbed by the five musicians jammed together on the cozy stage, the rest of my surroundings are quickly forgotten. I feel my phone vibrate, “I’m the Asian hanging in the back,” Wayne texts me. He’s a fellow Toronto native who responded when I posted the event on Couchsurfers. I spot him and we exchange a hug, a rare gesture for two Torontonian strangers. Our attempt to make conversation is overpowered by the music and I suggest we head closer to the stage where some livelier newcomers have filled the void. As we join them, I’m relieved to have company. No one in this classic Toronto scene is out braving the bar alone.

____

Hey Readers, I'd love to see your feedback to help me master this course! What's your sense of Toronto after reading this piece? Would you brave a bar here alone? 

The Keeper of the Reef

The Keeper of the Reef first presents a grin. An undesirable greeting that lets his visitors know the task of winning him over won’t be easy. He sits on the blue porch soaking in the fading sun after a long hard day of sailing the sea. He could be people watching or trying to sell his business to the many tourists who pass by. Instead he sits there silently. It’s possible the Keeper is still lost in the underwater world he emerged from. His reputation on this strip of land is unwanted by locals. Famous to the few tourists who find him, as the 73 year old guide who can show them the sea. Take it or leave he says, be here at 9:45am to collect your fins and snorkel. Don’t be late. He doesn't ask for your foot size or sometimes even your name. He tells you to bring a lunch. If you ask what you’ll see below he refuses to say, it’s a surprise. There are those who would be put off by this, he doesn’t give a damn. There are those who decide to go willingly with him, these people are the lucky ones.

He dives in. The bubbles clear and the fish surround him. They swim close to him, like passengers along for the ride. A string ray sweeps its way forward as if understanding how humans admire its powerful array. Its wings spread out like a blanket, breathing in with an opening and closing valve. The Keeper takes his wondering friend and places the string ray on his head. The creature warmly invites him in, smiling beneath pounds of white flab. The Keeper's bronze Belizean skin is richly lit among the Caribbean sea.  His body moves through the water, the weight of his pot belly and sagging nipples do not direr from this seamless motion. He is a man who can break through any wave and has passed the many tests of a sometimes unforgiving sea.

The current drives him on. Through passages of coral, beyond forests of mangroves and over sea turtles gazing the flourishing world. Deeper he dives luring eccentric green eels with a shell. They swim in a swirl together, battling the fish for the taste of what drives their senses mad. In the distance, he spots the dark shadow of a shark escaping from the foreigner's view. He has known these creatures for many years and it took time for these creatures to know him just as well. When he was nine he swam so far away from the shore. The cruel words of his father fading as he made his trail. He found himself in the reach of the reef and since then he has continued to return. It was the fishermen who told him to pay attention and the students’ scientific observations who brought these creatures' names to life. Once upon time he could find himself alone in these waters until tourism came flooding in. Fat cruise ships dropping off herds of North Americans, Europeans and East-Asians led by monsters who smoke cigarettes and dump 'em in the sea, “The fish will put it out.”  He tried to warn the capitalists to take care of the Ocean but the dollar sign outweighed the value of the Earth. The islanders think he’s a strange creature himself, the crazy man who has a theory, “Don’t go into the ocean thinking about which fish will taste good to eat,” he warns, "It's bad karma." The Keeper’s best known friend is a Turtle named Irene. She’s missing a leg and swims rather odd, a fighter he’s known for twenty years. 

He has witnessed the changes in the ocean, watching it slowly die before his very eyes. He does not know the cause or the outside factors but he believes humans have not done a thing. He thinks we cannot stop it and that we can only start taking better care. But first people need to listen. "We are all connected to the Ocean," he claims, "The 13 spots on a turtles shell is the same number of full moons a year." For those who are willing, he can help them discover the way. Those who are willing must first suppress all negative thoughts, detach from their bodies, and then let the sea take control.

The Keeper of the Reef, he would never call himself that. The Keeper of the Reef, a title no other man in the Caye deserves.

Escape for a Day, Stay for Three Nights.

 It’s happened on my travels before. I’ll head to a destination with the intention of staying for only a day or one night and find myself extending the stay. There are certain places that have that appeal, an energy that is impossible to turn away from.  Some places are worth the cancellation fee, the discomfort of wearing the same wardrobe for days, or missing an absolute must-see that was once etched into the itinerary.

  

On day two in Guatemala, I had only spent 20 hours in Antigua. That’s barely enough time to experience the small town in daylight and already I was heading for the hills. The Earth Lodge is infamous among backpackers as a place to lay in a hammock, devour the avocados they grow on the farm or star gaze with the distant view of Antigua sprawled below Volcán de Fuego. For most of the visitors, the exerting part of their stay is in the five minute hike up the steep hill in order to catch the shuttle back to Antigua. For others it can be a safe haven 6,000 feet above sea level to hike the dusty trails that pass through forests and the square tin houses that belong to residents of El Hotal.

Perhaps it was her British charm but when I was presented with the opportunity to spend a night in the dorm lodge by Emma, one of the lovely receptionists, I jumped at the chance. This was despite the fact that I only brought my daypack and had already booked two more nights at El Hostal in Antigua. Luckily, Emma coordinated with El Hostal to have my backpack picked up by the shuttle driver and they were nice enough to cancel my reservation. When does that ever happen? (the answer: almost never).

After Emma explained the map of the trails around the mountain, I set off to immediately take a few wrong turns. As usual, heading in the wrong direction proved to be the best mistake I could have made.

In just a few steps I met the first of many beautiful children that live in El Hotal. 

The few basic words I knew in Spanish made no difference when interacting with these children. The best form of communication was the camera in my hand, a smile and a high-five (who in this world doesn’t love to receive a high-five?). As I passed by houses, children would run up and I’d be greeted with a warm, “Hola!” Some would simply ask for a photo or wait for me to do the asking. Other children would ask for a dero first and when I said no, they still wanted a photo taken of them.

I continued on with my hike, passing by men with heavy stacks of wood loaded on their backs while they swung a machete by their side, and women carrying a baby in their arms while perfectly balancing a load of laundry on their heads. Although the men and women in El Hotal are generally very friendly, it was clear the children provide the energy that make this community a unique place in Guatemala.  

During a second hike in the afternoon, I headed towards the center of the community where the church and school were located. This is also the crossroad where the road dips downhill towards Antigua. Many children and their families seemed to be leaving the area. At the time I assumed this meant school was finished for the day, forgetting that it was summer in Guatemala. There were two boys at the side of the road who were giggling as I passed by, one of them shouted, “photo” and I nodded before taking a quick shot. When I showed them the photo they giggled some more. Later on, thanks my impeccable sense of direction, I found myself passing these boys in the same place once again. This time they were hanging off a fence like a couple of monkeys. I snapped another photo of the scene and they ran towards me to view the results. Before I would let them see the photo I asked them for a high-five, then a low-five, to the side and then up high. Being 5’8” this meant my hand was way up high forcing them to run and jump only to miss the target. This game lasted awhile, eventually one of the boys got the idea to have his friend hoist him onto his back and finally reach my hand. If it wasn't getting dark I could have played with these boys for ages, instead I asked if I could take a photo with them before finding my way back to the Earth Lodge.

At the lodge, I shared my experience with Emma and another receptionist, Rebecca, both who volunteered to teach ESL at the school. It turns out the two boys I had played with weren’t enrolled at the school. In order for a child to be enrolled they must provide their birth certificate which involves a trip to Guatemala City, a costly and timely task some families can't commit to. A few years ago the Guatemalan government bought the school which was actually built by the community. The government has marked its stamp by providing some of the resources, such as building cement walls to separate the classrooms, however leaving a two foot gap between the ceilings. There’s still a need for improvement and as a result children in the community are missing out. Some children are enrolled in school as late as thirteen years old. By this time the experience of starting late and being taught among children younger than them can become far too frustrating for them to gain the necessary motivation. Rebecca and the organization she volunteered for have worked to launch a pre-school program so the children can begin their education earlier on.

  

The next morning, two other girls and I went with Rebecca to help out with the summer camp program she ran. We watched these kids be kids, playing board games while begging to use the computers instead, splattering paint on themselves as they painted rocks outside, cheering on the girls while they defeated the boys in a game of basketball. Sure the view at the Earth Lodge blew my mind, but as it turned out getting to know who lives at the heart of this community was a much better excuse to extend my stay.

To find out more about El Hotal please visit: http://elhatoschool.blogspot.com/

Guess Who's Back?

Reviving my travel blog is an idea that has been stuck in my head for ages. I've dropped it the same way a child would drop a super cool arcade game for the next great distraction.

Blogs are hard work. There's a fine art behind it and when you are on the road dealing with the 'elements' - the constant battle for a solid internet connection, a fellow travelers' invite to grab a beer, or the will to be fully immersed in your current destination, absorbing each experience like a sponge because who knows when you'll return next. Quite frankly there's a lot to learn on these adventures - lessons of hilarity, lessons of inspiration and lessons that have resulted in a repeated number of face palms. Each mile clocked earns more than the bragging rights in my books. It's the personal growth, the simple connections found in the unexpected pockets of the earth. I cannot excuse my neglect on the road but I do know there are certain stories that are worth the effort to share. 

Before I know it, I'll be boarding the plane for my next backpacking adventure to Latin America.  All my nerves of fear and excitement are building up like a tropical superstorm, eager to unleash itself on whatever path may pull it forward. As I told my friends and family that my one-way plane ticket to Guatemala was officially booked, I was unsure whether to dread or embrace their reactions. 

There are those who are completely envious in a good way, they are excited about the adventure and wish they could go themselves. Four months of backpacking in a tropical paradise without a set itinerary is a dream come true. Then, there are those who think I'm crazy. Simply put, Latin America has a horrible reputation. Just take a look at the travel advisories for Guatemala posted by the Government of Canada and you'll probably agree with these people. 

The website states, "There is no nationwide advisory in affect for Guatemala. However, you should exercise a high degree of caution due to the violence, roadblocks, strikes and demolitions that occur periodically throughout the country." 

Exercising caution and a having a solid sense of the places I plan to visit is of course extremely important. But isn't this the attitude every traveler should have no matter where in the world they find themselves? Incidents are bound to happen anywhere at any time. Prepare for the worst case scenario, but don't be afraid to leave your hobbit-hole.

     Taken at the promotional booth for The Hobbit at Word on the Street in Toronto. 

I've picked the brains of a number of backpackers who have visited this part of the world, from solo female travelers just like me to 6'1" males who have traveled with a few mates. In the majority of their experiences the good has outweighed the bad. When bad situations did occur they usually blamed it on their own lack of common sense at the time. At home or on the road, when you’re busy living in the moment it’s easy to forget the basic ‘rules’ of survival. In one instance their best advice was not to beware of harmful locals but to beware of fellow travelers who feel they can escape the consequences of their actions in a foreign country.

The most valued opinion I've received is from Latin Americans currently living in Canada. The first bit of information I’m usually told, “We’re super friendly.” Second bit of advice, “Don’t depend on a good internet connection.” Great, the battle to travel blog begins again.  

Guess who's back?

... Ashley's back. Tell your friends :)

I Almost Chickened Out of Hiking Ben Nevis

I almost chickened out of hiking Ben Nevis... twice. Reaching the top of the highest peak in the UK was a must-do on my backpacking adventure around Scotland. As a first time mountain trekker the thought of heading up Ben Nevis alone was rather intimidating. The plan was to stick to the tourist trail, which I’m sure is mocked by more advanced hikers. Someone assured me that the trail is like walking in a single file line of tourists, all the way to the top. Not exactly my idea of the perfect climb, in fact I vividly remember that time in grade two when I was given detention for forgetting to walk in a single file line. But this was good news if I were to accidentally twist my ankle or fall off the side of the mountain.



I spoke to many people about heading up the Ben. One Scottish local who had made the climb several times, advised me to arrive in Fort William the day before, get a good night sleep and then wake up early to make the hike. He recommended staying at the Youth Hostel located at the very bottom of the Ben. When I called to book the hostel, they were completely full for the weekend. In fact all the hostels in Fort William were full.

I’m a firm believer in the theory that everything happens for a reason. After spending a beautiful week in the Outer Hebrides, I decided to head back to mainland Scotland. My destination was Oban, a lovely town on the west coast. I would spend a night in Oban and decide where to go from there. Little did I know that Ben Nevis was not completely out of the picture.

It was at the hostel in Oban where I met Monika, an Aussie who was living in the UK. We started talking about our plans for the next day, and I mentioned Ben Nevis. Monika was immediately interested when I explained that it is the highest peak in the UK. We decided to get up early and drive to Fort William, eager to face the challenge of conquering the Ben.

After a light breakfast in Oban, we arrived in Fort William around 11:00 am to find the parking lot packed. There was an event taking place, eleven teams would be heading up the Ben to raise money for a charity. Monika and I were tempted to skip Ben Nevis and hang around for the BBQ. Instead, we headed to the information centre for a map and some much needed guidance. The guy behind the counter warned, “It’s Saturday so the Ben is busy. I recommend another trail that’s more relaxing.” He suggested we hike along Glen Nevis, a four hour trail with beautiful scenery of the woods and a waterfall.



We walked out the information centre and debated. Trail that leads to a sanctuary or trail that leads to possible death. I voted possible death.



An average of 1 in 10 days is clear on the summit of Ben Nevis. It just so happens that the sun was shining brightly with few dark clouds in the sky. I knew I would regret chickening out on the challenge... again. So we stocked up on Snickers, candy, some water and a protein bar. The guide recommended we come prepared with a sweater and a waterproof jacket. Hiking boots are of course the other necessity, unless you are Monika. I predicted the pair of runners on her feet would be totalled by the end of the climb. It turns out these runners magically survived the rough terrain.




In my mind, reaching the top of Ben Nevis would be the toughest physical challenge I have ever endured. It definitely was, but what I did not expect was that it would be a challenge almost anyone can accomplish. Nuns dressed in sandals, children under ten, and elders in their eighties. Even dogs were spotted heading up the Ben. An estimated 100,000 people ascend to the summit each year.





As the Ben got steeper, the trail became rockier and the view became more and more breathe taking – not just due to the thin air. Each time I looked back over the stretch of forest, majestic highlands, and the mist rising over the lochs, the sense of beauty wowed me. We even got a great view of a waterfall tumbling down the side of the Ben.






Monika and I stopped for many photo opportunities. We picked a nice spot, midway up to relax and munch on rice pudding and chocolate. Of course, in Scotland you can’t stop for a picnic without being offered a swig of whisky by some locals. The rest was much needed, we had surpassed the section of the trail titled, "The Red-Burn" and encountered, "Five Finger Gully" the rockiest bit of path that zigzags to the top.

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The average amount of time it’s supposed to take to ascend Ben Nevis is five hours. It takes three hours to descend. Monika and I reached the top in four and half hours. We spent half an hour on the plateau, taking photos of the proud moment. We found the most picturesque place facing the north, away from the tourists, to quietly take it all in. Great photo opportunities included standing on the official highest point - a large stone, cairn. Posing in front of an emergency shelter that was built on top of the abandoned ruins of a meteorological observatory. Or boldly standing at the edge of a cliff – after all it’s only a 1,344 metre drop.



Despite the epic view on a clear day, it was hard to stand still for long. The wind nearly knocked us over while posing for pictures. The sub-Arctic climate meant that the weather could turn unexpectedly and snow on us. We began our hike wearing t-shirts and gradually found ourselves adding our sweaters by the time we reached the top.





As we stood on the summit feeling a sense of accomplishment, I couldn't help but ponder this – how on earth is the record for reaching the top 1 hour, 25 minutes and 34 seconds? Secondly, how did a man single handily manage to push a piano to the top? My legs of steel were beginning to feel a lot like jello, a good sign that it was time to descend.




I was in no rush to get to the bottom; in fact I always find it easier to ascend rather than descend. The rocky trail makes slipping easy. Take it from the woman we passed who had fell and twisted her ankle, not too far from the top. Then there was the elderly man behind us. The man slipped and proceeded to roll off the trail, down the Ben. Luckily, he caught himself in the grass and was okay.


When we reached the bottom, night had fallen and my feet were in massive pain. I wobbled back to the parking lot and crawled into the car. Back in Oban, we treated ourselves to some fish and chips, which I devoured in mere seconds. After rightfully bragging about our experience to the other backpackers, we passed out in our bunks. The next day, my legs were killing me, a pain that would be summoned anytime I tackled the hills of Edinburgh for days that followed. Soon I’ll be conquering Mount Everest.