Words are from the traditional song “Wild Mountain Thyme.”
The basis of this trip was simple: climb rocks and drink scotch. The weather, being highly Scottish, even in the so-called drier month of May, lent itself more to the latter than the former. But hey, we still managed nine days of climbing out of twenty; that’s got to be worth a five-thousand-mile flight, right? It rained most of those days too. But no matter, when in Scotland, you must do as the Scots do, which means you’re going to climb some wet rock. The trade-off is a singular experience in a land that feels older than time. Access? The legal “right to roam” means that you can kind of go wherever you want, as long as you’re nice about it. Crowds? We saw just one other team in action. Variety? We sampled six kinds of sandstone and one of gneiss, each a unique taste of what this isle has to offer to those who can brave its climate.
This essay is published in Volume 24 of The Climbing Zine, now available
Photos by the author.
With shimmering emerald cliffs set above cobalt and turquoise waters, coastal Scotland is a windswept landscape of kittiwakes and cormorants, of gannets and guillemots. The sea thrashes at the stones, beckoning them to join their brethren in the deep. Seals and whales abound, with white sand beaches that could pass for Caribbean. The air is damp, the temps are cool, but the people are warm, as are the savory meat pies. Steak and ale! Chicken and leek! Curried lamb! Pork and cider! Our team numbered three: Sabra Purdy, Seth Zaharias, and me. We live, work, and play together, they as the owners and me as a senior guide for Cliffhanger Guides in Joshua Tree. Combined, we have over fifty years of climbing experience, but just as important, over fifty years of appreciation for fine whisky.
O’ the summer time is coming, and the trees are sweetly blooming…
Our first sea stack (think desert tower but above the ocean), the Old Man of Stoer, highlights the oft complicated nature of oceanside climbing. A sixty-meter very severe 4c (or 5.8, over here) that requires four ropes: one to fix and descend the slick, grassy slope from the mainland, another for a Tyrolean traverse, and two to climb and rappel (or abseil, over there). As team swimmer, it was my duty to brave the forty-five-degree water and help rig the Tyro. This allowed us to ferry people and gear across, and also served as an oh-shit option for when the tides returned. Don’t want to get left high and dry, or low and wet, as it were. The route corkscrews its way up on surprisingly good rock to a lofty summit perched above the waves. Oh the feeling of being up there, a visitor in a most strange place.
The Scots call swimming in the ocean wild swimming. Paired with a wee dram of local whisky, it’s an invigorating way to start the day. I trained by taking cold showers leading up to the trip, and it paid off. Granted, I could only brave the sea for a matter of minutes, with the combined air and water temperature not exceeding a hundred Fahrenheit. But I came to swim just for the fun of it, to experience the frigid intensity of the untamed North Atlantic, and, once, to snag a mylar balloon that had become trapped in an eddy. Leave No Trace!
Lewisian gneiss is somewhere around three billion years old. That’s two-thirds the age of the Earth. Its ancientness is hardly comprehensible. It’s been a rock since before animals, before plants, before living things had more than one cell. It crops up in various places, but a supreme example is Second Geo, not far from the tiny hamlet of Sheigra. A geo is a small inlet, a miniature fjord if you will. Home to dozens of fine lines, some of these routes clock in at forty meters; all are steep, impeccable, and highly featured. This is seaside cragging at its finest. Even the anchors are easy gear placements, unlike most sea crags around these parts. At the impressive sandstone-conglomerate cliffs near Sarclet, we anchored off of a few pieces of rebar someone hammered into the grass. Pull down, not out.
And the wild mountain thyme, grows around the blooming heather…
Our preferred place to meet locals was of course the pub. No matter the size of the town, there’s a pub not far off. Fine whisky is one of life’s greatest pleasures, a richness of flavors shared with old friends and new ones alike. I felt an immediate closeness to the Scots, real no-nonsense types, yet surprisingly outgoing. You won’t find any pickup trucks rolling coal, just friendly faces and lots of wool. We were invited into homes, into the everyday lives of the hardy people that live in this real-life Mordor. In Caithness, the Macleod family—Fiona, Morris, Morven, Neave, and Lewis—welcomed us with open arms and open glasses. They played for us their traditional folk tunes, showed us archaeological ruins, and even soaked with us in their hot tub, which is a major score in a country like this one. You won’t be dry if you go to Scotland, there’s no amount of Gore-Tex that can withstand this place, so you might as well be warm.
The highlight of the trip, a two-ferry affair from the mainland, brought us to a remote smattering of northern islands, the Orkneys. Picture a 450-foot desert tower, complete with loose rock and sand. Lots of sand. Sparse fixed protection consists of ancient pitons and railroad pegs, with spare two-by-fours here and there. Now imagine it being at the very edge of the North Atlantic, open to the full fury of the sea. Throw in some moss, puking birds, and a whole lot of mank to abseil off of, and you have the Old Man of Hoy, the tallest sea stack in all the United Kingdom. First climbed in 1966 by Tom Patey, Rusty Baillie, and Sir Chris Bonnington, and made famous a year later by a live BBC broadcast involving the great Joe Brown, the Old Man of Hoy wasn’t long ago a stack at all. As recently as 1750, it was still attached to the mainland. Bombarded by raging seas and gale-force winds, the erosion is happening rather quickly on this one. Not to worry though, for its replacement is out there somewhere, patiently waiting for the hands of time to tear it away from the coast and down to nothingness.
And we’ll all go together, to the wild mountain thyme…
At age thirty-five, this was my first trip away from the land of my birth. As much as I’ve explored the States, I’m a newbie with international travel. But it all felt like a homecoming, a land full of kindness and humbleness. A communion with the wild seas, with ancient stone, and with friends old and new. William Wallace, the real-life folk hero, not the Mel Gibson character in Braveheart, said that “Every man dies. Not every man truly lives.” Ok, maybe Mel Gibson said that too. But in Scotland, we for sure lived. Beyond the climbing, the epic scenery, the ancient cultures, and the highly hospitable natives, we imbibed over sixty whiskies aged eight through twenty-one. (Our favorites? Glenlivet 21 Archive and Oban Distillers Edition. And do the Oban tour; it’s class.) I alone ate over a dozen meat pies. In fact, I might be the only person who’s gone to Scotland and raved about the food, perfect for plain old meat-and-potatoes people like me.
And beyond all of that, there was the incommunicable quality of the experience, something that, try as I might, I cannot express in words or images but that I will carry with me for the rest of my days. A sense of utter wildness that comes with being at the very ends of the Earth, where terra firma drops off into the abyssal blue. Reminiscing on it brings a tear to my eye and a joy to my soul. I hope that at least one of you reading this will take the plunge, figuratively and literally, into the cold, cold waters surrounding this most astounding of places. There, you will find what you were looking for and so much more, just as we did.
Will you go, lassie, go?
Greg Petliski is just some climber guy now that he lives in a trailer and not a van or a cave. But you can still go to hobogreg.com and see some cool photos. And despite the title of this piece, you should drink fine whisky neat, or at most with a few droplets of water. Sniff before you sip, and let it rest on your tongue for a moment before you swallow. Sláinte!
