The Scottish mountains are old, older than the furthest reaches of comprehension. They do not expend their energies on the frivolities of spires and sharp peaks as their younger brethren do. Instead they simply rise out of the ocean and sit there obstinate, old and awe-inspiring. They are indifferent to your fleeting existence and this is all too clear as one stands in their shadow.
Our last trip to Scotland did not go to plan and was probably best described by the term ‘compound cluster-fuck’. This year we were keen to reduce the expletives used to describe our trip.
We arrived in much the same way as we had before; at night. In the darkness the mountains were shrouded by cloud illuminated only by our headlights and the ominous glow of the fuel light reminding us of the regrettable decision to not stop off in Glasgow. Despite this when the sun rose in the morning we were greeted by a sight I never believed I would see – Blue sky in Scotland. Looking out across the Loch we weighed up our options and decided with such beautiful weather the Etive would probably be the only river running.
The beater amongst the big deals. Currently taking a year’s hiatus from studying German to work as an LSA and take advantage of weekends and school holidays to throw switch freewheels off any river he can get his filthy RPM on!
Jack is a turncoat from that ‘silly backwards sport’ of which we don’t speak. Since his enlightening he has started paddling with the infamous UoNSK, become a raft guide at HPP and is now the leading expert in ‘inappropriate hammers’. As booker of the ‘bunk house’ Jack is held solely responsible for the Whitby incident.
River Stench 