Final Day on the West Highland Way : Kinlochleven to Fort William

“Between every two pine trees there is a door leading to a new way of life.”

John Muir, Son of the Wilderness

 

Final Day on the West Highland Way

 
Today was to be our last day hiking the West Highland Way, taking us from Kinlochleven to Fort William. In the guidebook, this stage was described as a generally easy walk covering 24 kilometres. The catch, however, was that the route out of Kinlochleven began with a hard climb from the valley where we had spent the night. More simply put, there was still one more big ascent to complete before our trek was done.

 
Amid the hustle and bustle of others getting up early to finish the West Highland Way, we made breakfast and sat at one of the campground’s picnic tables. Our hope, once again, was that by taking our time, we would allow the majority of hikers to get a large head start. After several days of struggling to find our own pace, we thought this might give us a quieter morning on the trail.
 
What we had not counted on were two things. First, even hikers who left thirty or forty minutes ahead of us did not necessarily get very far before stopping, slowing, or reorganizing. Second, while many people were up early, most were not heading directly onto the trail. They were waiting to get breakfast in town. As a result, although we waited almost an hour after the majority of people had left the campground, we ironically walked through Kinlochleven just as many of them were finishing their meals and preparing to set off again. 

 
Perhaps more stunning to us was that the day began with countless hikers throwing away gear they no longer needed, no longer wanted, or had decided could be improved upon. The dumpster at the campground was soon full of discarded tents, folding chairs, sleeping bags, and other camping equipment. As we walked through town, other public rubbish bins were similarly overflowing. It was, to us, one of the most striking displays of wastefulness we had ever seen on a trail.
 
I remember thinking that if someone had been hoping to set out on a hiking or camping trip but did not have the money to supply themselves, they could have rummaged through the garbage in Kinlochleven and assembled a decent full kit in very little time. After so many years of carrying, repairing, reusing, and making do with our own gear, the casualness of that waste was hard to absorb.
 

Return to the West Highland Way

 
We followed the trail through Kinlochleven on sidewalks and, for a short spell, along the side of the roadway before passing over a local bridge, where we picked up the gravel path again. From there, the route cut into a green space and almost immediately began to climb a lush hillside full of ferns and trees. It was not a hard climb, but it was constant, and it continued long enough to remind us that the West Highland Way was not quite finished with us yet.

 
As we climbed out of the foggy valley, we soon found ourselves wedged between a slow group in front of us and a faster-paced group behind. The shaded hillside was pleasant, and in some ways it was good to get the day’s main climb out of the way early. But having people march on our heels, push past, and then stop again a short distance ahead made it difficult to settle into the steady rhythm that climbs often require.

 
The path took us past a beautiful, treed waterfall that flowed over the trail and down the edge of the hillside. It was a lovely spot, but it required some careful navigation to avoid beginning the day with soaked boots. Given the extent of the climb, we were soon grateful for the fog and cloud cover, which kept the heat of the sun off us as we worked our way upward.

 
Eventually, the route moved beyond the tree line into a more exposed rocky area, where we began to get views back over Kinlochleven. The town lay below in the valley, partly obscured by mist, with the surrounding hills rising around it.
 

Drover Roads and Forestry Tracks

 
At the top of the hill, the trail left Kinlochleven behind, and the West Highland Way became a wide gravel path weaving into a hill-lined valley. Around us, large boulders and glacial erratics sat scattered through the fields, giving the landscape an ancient, weathered feeling. This pass had the character of an old line of passage, whether a drover’s way, a military road, or a forestry track, and it felt as though people had been moving through this corridor for a very long time.

The difficulty, once again, was not the route itself so much as the number of people moving along it. Around us, groups of ten to twenty hikers shuffled along in lockstep, with two, three, and sometimes four people walking shoulder to shoulder across the trail. Several groups spread even wider, five or six across, making it difficult to pass or maintain any kind of steady pace. One family in particular moved slowly along the rocky track while repeatedly stopping to adjust day packs and manage an elderly dachshund they were dragging along the route, while shouting at people not to pass because it scared their dog. Needless to say, the entire situation made for slow trekking, and at times it felt almost impossible to move naturally through the landscape.

 
We occasionally passed abandoned stone buildings, and at one point, we hoped to stop on the steps of one for a short break. Almost immediately, however, people swarmed the same place to take selfies, and so we walked a little farther on and sat in the field instead. Even there, it seemed that the moment we chose a quiet place to take a break, others decided it was the right place to stop as well. After several days of this, it had become one of the subtle frustrations of the West Highland Way: not just the presence of other people, but the difficulty of finding even a small pocket of space for ourselves.
 
Shortly after our break, heavy rain began to fall, and strong winds picked up, howling down the valley. We put on our rain jackets less to block the drizzle than to stop the cold wind from cutting through us. This became especially necessary because our pace had slowed to little more than a shuffle behind large groups, which meant we were soon both wet and cold. Moving slowly in poor weather is very different from moving steadily. When you cannot generate enough warmth through walking, the damp really begins to settle in.

As the morning continued, the weather yo-yoed between deluging rain, strong wind, and blazing sun. One hiker summed it up perfectly when he said, “Three seasons all in one day. If you’re looking for winter, you can head up onto Ben Nevis too.” There was humour in his comments, but also truth. The constant rain, damp clothing, sodden shoes, dark skies, and sudden cold winds had become both frustrating and tiring. Especially as someone not from the UK, I found it hard to adjust to beginning day after day by putting on shoes that were already wet and clothing that was damp at best, or cold and soaked at worst.
 
With that said, the day was not without gentler moments. At one point, the route rounded the hillside and began to pass alongside forested areas, where the wind died down a great deal. After the exposed valley, the small stands of trees offered relief.
 

Cell phones and Blue Dots

 
At one point, we found ourselves trekking behind a group of people walking with their arms extended in front of them, each following the little dot on their phone screen. In the process, they seemed to be ignoring the path beneath their feet, the West Highland Way signs beside them, and the natural world around them. It was a strange thing to witness on a national trail: people surrounded by mountains, valleys, weather, birdsong, and history, yet guided almost entirely by the glow of a device held at chest height.

 
A little farther on, we came across a trio arguing about which set of GPS tracks they should follow in order to continue the West Highland Way correctly. Above their heads was a trail marker. In front of them was the self-evident path. Yet the debate continued, each person focused on the information in their hand rather than the landscape and signage immediately around them. Digital obsession had not only followed people onto the trail; in some cases, it seems to determine the entire experience of walking. Some people might as well have been watching a YouTube vlog of the West Highland Way rather than actually moving through it.
 
I thought of the way the Map Men describe the little blue dot on Google Maps. Once referenced, the blue dot essentially tells you, “No need to look up. You are precisely here.” There is something both useful and sad in that. Useful, because navigation tools can help people find their way and stay safe. Sad, because we have watched people on urban pathways, national trails, and pilgrimage routes run past stunning landscapes and amazing cathedrals while staring at that dot, trusting the screen more than their own senses.

 

The problem is not simply technology itself. We use digital maps too, and there are many times when they are helpful. The problem comes when the blue dot becomes the journey. It can lead to a decreased appreciation for the world around you, a decreased appreciation for the route itself, and a greater focus on the destination rather than the experience of getting there. It can also lead to a decreased understanding of your actual whereabouts, because being told where you are is not the same as learning how you arrived there, what surrounds you, or how the land fits together.

 
I believe that there is something inherently valuable in being forced to think about your surroundings and to consider where you are in relation to the wider world. A paper map, a landscape, a signpost, a ridgeline, or a river asks something of you. Each requires orientation. They ask you to look up, compare, question, and notice where you are and where you fit into the wider world.  In contrast, the little blue dot places each individual at the centre of their own world, always precisely “here,” always moving through a landscape that has been reduced to a screen.

 
Perhaps that is what struck me most. People were no longer being guided by maps; they were being led by them. In the process, something important risks being lost. A trail is not only a line to be followed. It is a place to inhabit, and it prompts you to look up and appreciate the journey. 
 

Trail Re-Routes and Junctures

 
Small stands of conifers dotted the landscape, and at one point the trail took an odd reroute around a small fenced animal enclosure, sending us through what amounted to a muddy trough. It was not especially difficult, but it was hardly ideal either. 

 
Further on, we came to a junction where one option followed a public roadway while the other kept to the path. We were surprised when several people began walking down the road, declaring that it was shorter and easier. It reminded us of the Caminos, where there is often a push to “get in” rather than experience the stage as it unfolds. There is always a reason to take a shortcut if the goal is simply arrival: less mud, less distance, less effort. Yet for us, part of committing to a trail has always meant following the route as much as conditions reasonably allow, even when the official path is not the quickest or easiest option.

 
With seven miles still to go, we pushed on as the trail began to ascend and descend across undulating terrain. Ahead of us was a group of three German gentlemen, one of whom I could only think of as Winnie the Pooh in misery. As the drizzle began again, he walked slower and slower, and then somehow slower still, until at one point he was barely moving at all. The trail was too narrow to pass easily, and we, along with almost a dozen others, found ourselves repeatedly waiting behind the trio who barely shuffled on.

 
The process became oddly elaborate. Jackets were pulled out while bags were spilled across the trail. Headsets and earbuds were adjusted. Rain jacket hoods were pulled up. Then the group would begin shuffling slowly through the valley again. Any attempt to pass them in stretches, where it might be possible, seemed to trigger a brief burst of energy, just enough for them to stay ahead of everyone, after which the pace slowed and slowed and slowed …eventually back down to a crawl. As they went on, more and more people, ourselves included, were stuck in a long, damp procession behind them.

 
After a while, the pace became so slow that we were no longer even outwalking the midges. In addition, being higher up, wet, and exposed to the drizzle, we began to get cold again. It was one of those moments when the problem was not distance, terrain, or weather alone, but the way all of them combined with the pace of other people. Something had to change, because if we continued moving that slowly, the final day of the West Highland Way was going to become far harder and much longer than it needed to be.
 

Memorial Forest that wasn’t There

 
Not long after - though by then it felt much longer - we came to a sign for a memorial forest. Almost everyone stopped to read it. We did too, and what we found was one of the stranger and admittedly more unsettling moments on the trail.
 
The memorial forest was gone.
 
The plaque was still there, standing in place and explaining what this stretch of land had been meant to commemorate, but the trees themselves had been clear-cut. What remained was not a forest at all, but a field of stumps, broken ground, and the raw aftermath of logging. It was a deeply odd sight: a memorial to lives lost, once marked by living trees, now reduced to a sign overlooking not just an absence but complete destruction.

There was something painfully symbolic in that. The trees had presumably been intended to stand as living witnesses, growing onward in memory of those who had been cut down in war. Yet now they too had been cut down. The memorial remained in theory, but its physical expression had been stripped away, leaving only the plaque and the uneasy contrast between what had been promised and what was actually there.
 
The image stayed with me because it felt so stark. A memorial forest should suggest continuity, growth, rootedness, and the long work of remembrance – a living memorial. Instead, this one opened into emptiness. The stumps seemed almost more eloquent than the sign itself, speaking not only to forestry practices and land use, but also to the fragility of the ways we choose to remember.
 

Navigating the Hordes

 
While everyone else stood reading the plaque and debating the situation, we decided to walk on, and for a brief while, we moved very quickly. Unfortunately, on the West Highland Way, leaving one slow group behind often only meant catching up to the next one.

The trail narrowed again, and before long, we found ourselves behind a group of older ladies with day packs shuffling single file down the route, hiking poles moving in every direction. When one of them decided to sit down and take off her rain gear, she lay almost directly across the trail. This then seemed to signal to the rest of the group that this narrow, impassable point on the West Highland Way was the perfect place to stop for a break.

 
Within moments, bags were dropped, rain gear was adjusted, and the route was effectively blocked. It did not take long before there were more than two dozen people behind them and us wanting to continue, but those of us hoping to move on had little choice except to step carefully over backpacks and around bodies on the narrow path. As we did so, the group watched without offering to move their gear or acknowledge the awkwardness of the situation. At times, someone would suddenly jump up or shift a bag at exactly the wrong moment, making the already congested route even more difficult to navigate.
 
Sometimes, I genuinely do not know where people’s heads are.

We have hiked in Canada on the Bruce Trail, the East Coast Trail, and the first 14,000 km on the Trans Canada Trail, and I do not remember ever seeing people lie across a trail or block a route this way. We have walked across Portugal and Spain on various pilgrimage routes, including the Camino Francés, Camino Portugués, and Camino Primitivo, and while those routes can certainly be busy, we had not seen this same tendency to stop in the middle of a narrow path and expect everyone else to work around it.
 
Even on the Via Podiensis in France, where breaks, picnics, and mid-day rests are practically an art form that people somehow managed to do with elegance. The French settle under trees, beside fields, or off the side of the route, arranging bread, cheese, fruit, and rest in a way that feels elegant. They stopped beautifully, but they did not make themselves an obstacle.

 
Here in the UK, and especially on the West Highland Way, we were repeatedly surprised by how often people pushed ahead, blocked the trail, and ignored those they were holding up in the process. Perhaps it was simply the particular days we were there, the weather, the crowds, or the pressure of a popular route. But by the final day, it had become hard not to see it as part of the wider regional trail culture we were experiencing – and definitely not understanding

 
Fittingly, given the weather and the way the day felt, Ben Nevis remained mostly hidden in fog. There were only brief and fleeting views of it through the cloud, as though even the mountain at the end of the route was reluctant to fully reveal itself.
 

Roadway Approach

 
The trail continued to follow the rolling foothills around the base of Ben Nevis, taking us down toward waterfalls and rivers before climbing back up to a more established roadway. For a time, we followed the wide gravel track over the pass, moving through a landscape that still offered glimpses of beauty between the weather and the crowds. We passed signs for Dun Deardail - an ancient, Iron Age "vitrified" hillside fort - another reminder that the West Highland Way moved through regions filled with history.

 
Soon, the road began to switchback steeply downhill as it wove toward Fort William. As so often happens on long-distance routes, the final approach was not particularly inspiring.  The West Highland Way gradually gave way to one or two miles of road and sidewalk trekking into Fort William in a slog past a campground, alongside traffic, and ultimately a long line of whitewashed guest houses.

 
Eventually, we came to the original end of the West Highland Way, which had a sign with its blue and green thistle marker beside the road. It should have felt like an exciting arrival, but the “new end” was still about 1.5 kilometres in the heart of Fort William.

 
And so, from there, we continued trekking into the tourist stretch of Fort William, passing war memorials, churches, outfitter stores, and busy bars. After so many days on a crowded trail, I thought we had grown used to people, but the main street was overwhelming in a different way. Even the busy West Highland Way was nothing compared to the sheer number of tourists moving through Fort William.

By then, we were close to the official end, but the approach did not feel triumphant. It felt noisy, practical, and commercial, as though the trail was releasing us not into quiet reflection or toward celebration, but back into the full press of the modern world. The mountains, waterfalls, old drover’s roads, and valleys were behind us now, and the final steps of the West Highland Way led us through a jungle of pavement and storefronts.
 
I suppose few trails or pilgrimages end as we ever imagine or hope.
 

Concluding the West Highland Way

 
Eventually, we reached the newer ending of the West Highland Way, marked by the statue of a seated walker rubbing his tired feet. Established as the official endpoint in 2010, it stands (or rather sits) in the centre of Fort William rather than at the older roadside marker, giving walkers a more recognizable place to finish, take photographs, and acknowledge the completion of the route.

 
Standing there with another trail completed, I have to say that it felt odd. Perhaps it was because we had been hiking consistently across the UK since we arrived. Perhaps it was because the next morning we would leave once again from almost this very point to begin the Great Glen Way. Or perhaps it was simply because arriving in Fort William did not feel like the end of a trail in the way I had expected. There was no great sense of triumph, no clean culmination, no moment when everything we had walked seemed to gather itself into a single conclusion.

 
Instead, it felt as though we had arrived at a junction: between land and water, between one trail and the next, between completion and continuation. Even though we had reached the official end, there was no urge to linger. So many people were making a beeline for the final marker and statue that we took our photographs and moved aside before being pushed aside.
 

Evening in Fort William

 
Backtracking through town, tourist attitudes seemed to prevail even after the walking was done. We went into a nearby bar hoping to have a pint and quietly celebrate the completion of the West Highland Way, only to be pushed aside by another sharp-tongued woman who commented on how much we smelled. After a final day of rain, mud, damp clothes, and twenty-four kilometres of walking, I am sure we did not smell like fresh laundry, but it still felt like an unkind welcome back into town life.

 
Later, we went to a local SPAR to pick up crisps and snacks, and by then I was admittedly tired of being shoved past, snapped at, and treated rudely. When a staff member muttered an insult in my direction, I responded in kind. It was not my finest moment, and it certainly did not improve anything, but after several days of being shoved, yelled at, slowed down and blocked - both on and off the trail - I had reached the end of my patience. The reaction that followed was strange: surprise, reddening eyes, tears and a manager glowering at me as though I had been needlessly rude, rather than simply responding with the same words, in the same tone and same manner that had been directed at me.
 
Perhaps we were misunderstanding the culture of the region. Perhaps the past few days had left us too tired to absorb one more sharp interaction gracefully. More likely, both things were true. Long-distance walking has a way of wearing down the buffers people carry with them, and by the time we reached Fort William, ours were thin. We had completed the trail and were ready to be done with the situation.

 
We checked into the Travelodge, simply glad to have reached our goal for the day. There was no great celebration, no dramatic sense of accomplishment, and no desire to wander far. We were grateful for a room, a door that closed, a warm shower and the chance to sit quietly.  Around our accommodations, we hung up our gear to dry it out entirely and cleaned up what we could in preparation for tomorrow.
 
Perhaps the best summary came from an English hiker we later met at the wonderfully welcoming local Wetherspoons, who raised his glass and declared, “I’m dry, drunk, and done the West Highland Way. All is well with the world.”
 
Perhaps that was the most honest synopsis of the day.
 
See you on the Trail!