One of the great delights of living in Scotland is exploration. I’m told that they don’t call it “hiking” here but “hill walking. That makes sense, since where we live right now, we are surrounded by great hills (mountains to a boy from Michigan), and with the Right to Roam, I can climb and wander them at will. Sometimes it’s fun to pore over an Ordinance Survey map and find some landmark, then try to find it in the real world. Other times it is delightful to just pick a place I’ve seen from a distance and try to get there, or to discover what is actually over that great big hill. Last week, my friend G was visiting and regaled me with the tale of Àth Dearg (“Red Ford”) and An t-Sreang Latharnach (“the String of Lorne”) where the Campbells and MacDougalls fought a vicious battle in the late 13th century, and she told me that the mound marking the place where the Campbell chieftain was killed can still be seen today. Last weekend, several of us piled in the van for a short drive and went exploring in that direction.
All this roaming doesn’t come without risks, and mistakes have been made. Early in our time here, we tried to go hiking every Sabbath. Just south of us is Kilmartin Glenn, famous for its ancient monuments, stone carvings, and legacy of sacred space. A sign pointed to a 2-mile hike to a collection of stone carvings. We had packed a picnic lunch, and the trail led past a lovely castle ruin, so I figured we could knock out the short hike in an hour and a bit, come back, eat our lunch and enjoy the castle. We left our lunch in the car and took two water bottles for the quick jaunt.
It took us two hours just to make it to the stones. They were indeed incredible, but if you were to ask our children what they remember, they’ll talk about hunting for barely-ripe blackberries to sustain us on a hot and arduous trail that wound up and down and looped back and around. We staggered back to the car, utterly exhausted, and any mention of a hike since then has been viewed with a certain degree of skepticism. Snacks, water for everyone, and layers of weather-appropriate clothing are now mandatory to even open a discussion.
I have several hikes from my front door that are among my favorites, and I’ll do them again and again. One is to the top of a narrow hill that overlooks Melfort Village with a steep cliff on one side. From the pinnacle, you can see Loch Melfort laid out below you. Another is the trig point at the top of Cruach nam Fearna. This is one of the highest points in our area and has a survey marker for triangulation. From this point, you can see the vast beauty of Scotland spread out all around you, from Mull to Jura and Ben Cruachan and beyond.
But in each of these hikes and the many other hikes I’ve taken up into the heights or deep into the glens, there has been one constant. Sheep poop. No matter how remote or difficult to access the vista, I’ve found sheep poop already there. Even when Marga and I went hiking in the Lake District in England and climbed up into a cloud and the wind was so strong I had to lean at almost 45 degrees just to keep my feet, there on the ground before those feet was sheep poop. Up narrow, rocky outcroppings, through bogs and deep marshes, down steep valleys to cascading burns, I’ve found sheep poop. No matter how hard I’ve struggled or slid in my journey, the sheep have already been there and left the signs to show it. Panting, breathless on the top of a great overlook that took hours to summit, it is a bit humbling to look down and realize that a four-legged creature with more wool than wit has been this way before.
Perhaps I’ve spent more time thinking about sheep poop than is wise. It has been a difficult year, both mentally and physically. Some of the paths life has brought me to walk have not been fun ones, and I even wonder sometimes whether the view at the end will be worth it all or just more disheartening for the hindsight it offers. Often it feels like I am wandering alone, stumbling in the dark with the very elements themselves set against me and no clear destination in view. But when I think of the sheep poop, I have to recognize that I am not the first traveler here. In fact, there is a Lamb who has been to greater heights and deeper valleys long before I started this journey. Maybe this is too crass a comparison. After all I like to imagine that God’s sign is much less vulgar than sheep poop, but the presence of the Divine is by definition every bit as ubiquitous and more.
My mom once told me about an elementary school trip she had taken as a child to the theater–a place she had been told her guardian angels would not dare to enter even if she did. She spent the entire Lassie film in fear that something might happen to her while she was outside the presence of the Divine. But we know this teaching is not Scriptural. David said in Psalm 139:8 that were he to make his bed in Sheol, God would find him. My mom grew to understand this later in life, and she was determined to teach us differently. There is no place the feet of the Holy One have not tread. I find this idea powerful. There is both comfort and strength in the concept that no matter the depths of our depression and despair or the heights of our anxiety and fear, God has been there before us and knows not only the path there, but the path beyond as well.
7 responses to “Hill Walking”
Blessed!❤️❤️❤️🙏🙏🙏
Love it! Hope you are all well!
Actually having a hard time beating a sinus infection, but other than that, we are managing!
Lol, wasn’t expecting the sheep poop metaphor to be applied as you did, Al, but I get it! Amen for sheep poop!
Once again, you have moved me to tears. Thank you friend. 🥹
Really enjoy looking at the pictures you & Marga have posted; BEAUTIFUL! Reading your blog is like traveling without leaving my living room.😊 Blessings!
Great story!