The Devil’s Staircase : Kingshouse to Kinlochleven

“Slow down and everything you are chasing will come…”

John De Paola

Morning Breakfast

We woke the next morning, thankfully warm and dry, despite the constant rain that had fallen throughout the night. Sometimes having the right gear makes all the difference. Outside, everything was wet, and the exterior of our tent was once again sodden, but inside we had stayed comfortable, which also meant we had a great night’s sleep. After the previous day across Rannoch Moor, that definitely felt like something to be grateful for.

With a tough climb ahead of us, we packed up the wet tent and went into the ski chalet for breakfast. In the end, we paid £18 – or 33 dollars Canadian - each for a small yogurt, a muffin, and a coffee, which was not exactly inspiring. Yet it was still preferable to the full English breakfast being assembled nearby on stale-looking buns, with fatty bacon and tissue-paper-thin slices of tomato, none of which held much appeal before a day’s hike on the West Highland Way.

Today was set to be a shorter stage, but then again, distance can be deceptive on trails, and especially on foot. While on paper, the section looked like a short distance, the topographical profile told a slightly different story. Ahead of us was the Devil’s Staircase, one of the most familiar names on the West Highland Way and the highest point of the route. Put another way - as we had learned many times before, a short day on a map is not always an easy day on the ground.

Back to the West Highland Way

Setting off after breakfast, we walked down the gravel road away from Glencoe Mountain Resort; others were only just beginning to wake up. After crossing the A82, a busy stretch of pavement, we rejoined the West Highland Way and, in short order, arrived at the Kingshouse Hotel. It did not take long to realize that we could easily have camped there the night before, and that both the atmosphere and the dining options would likely have made for a far better experience all around.

The facilities looked wonderfully clean, the campsites were beautifully situated, and the views of the surrounding landscape were incredible. It would no doubt have been more costly, but it also seemed much better in almost every way. The Kingshouse is one of the oldest inns in Scotland, long associated with travellers moving through this Highland corridor, and standing there, it was easy to understand why this location had served as a stopping place for so long. It sat in a landscape that felt exposed and remote yet also accessible, surrounded by stunning mountains and linked by road, trail, and history.

We took a few moments to photograph the beautiful hillscape before continuing along the paved roadway that led behind the hotel. The route paralleled the A82, which itself followed the River Coupall.

Trekking Onwards

En route, we walked past the famous Three Sisters of Glencoe, though they were mostly obscured by low-lying cloud. The morning was chilly, and many walkers stopped to put on sweaters, then stopped again to add windbreakers, then stopped once more to switch into rain jackets. We could sympathize. The weather was unsettled enough that clothing decisions became a small but constant negotiation – balancing between protection from the wind and rain on one hand and the warmth of trekking on the other.

For our part, we hoped the day would choose one direction or the other. Either it would get colder, making sweaters and jackets manageable for the climb, or it would warm up enough that we could comfortably strip layers off before ascending. Instead, the morning settled into the unfortunately familiar in-between state that makes long-distance walking awkward: cold when standing still, warm when climbing, wet when exposed, and always changing. As last night’s bartender might have said, “Welcome to Scotland”.

Clearly, many felt the same way about balancing gear and comfort - the result was a slow pace and process that repeated again and again as people adjusted clothing, checked packs, paused and bunched together along the route. 

As a result, it was here, for the first time in years, that we found ourselves missing the empty pathways and roadway connectors of the Trans Canada Trail in the prairies. They might not always have been scenic, and they certainly were not easy, but at least there had often been space to move and find and keep our own rhythm.   Here, on the WHW, even the simple approach to the day’s climb required patience before the climbing had properly begun.

The Devil’s Staircase

After almost two hours of “hiking,” the horde of walkers (ourselves included) finally reached a patch of trees near the side of the roadway. We had arrived at the base of the Devil’s Staircase, which was first made evident not by the trail itself, but by the stunning number of cars parked along the roadside by tourists who had come to climb or photograph this well-known section of the West Highland Way – even in the rain and fog – or perhaps because of it. There was no denying that the region was beautiful.

Across the road from the turnoff stood a beautiful stone house alone in a grassy meadow, surrounded by the mountains of the region. Not long after, we came to two wooden information stands detailing what lay ahead: the Devil’s Staircase. Here, with only seven or eight kilometres of walking remaining for the day, we decided to take a break and allow groups of people to get well ahead of us. We were in no rush, and more than anything, we wanted a little personal space so we could enjoy our own hike through this naturally wonderful region.

With the open landscapes of the moors behind us, the path rose steadily up the hillside. After enjoying a snack, we began the ascent up to and then onto the Devil’s Staircase. Local signage identified it by its Gaelic name, Stob Mhic Mhartuin, and connected this route to the old military road built in the eighteenth century to link Fort William with the south. The Devil’s Staircase itself is not a staircase in any literal sense, but a series of engineered zigzags climbing to the highest point on the West Highland Way, around 550 metres, or 1,850 feet.

At first, the route meandered gradually across the lower foothills. From there, we could see the path switchbacking up the steep incline ahead of us, as well as the solid line of hikers stretching from the bottom of the climb toward the top. It was another striking reminder that even the more dramatic and remote-looking sections of the West Highland Way were still being shared by many people at once.

The climb was deceptive. Each switchback was manageable on its own, and because the path had been so well engineered, the effort did not immediately feel overwhelming. But that was part of the trick of it. There was a temptation to push harder, hurry through the climb, and simply get it done. Following that impulse would have been a mistake. The Devil’s Staircase was not especially dramatic in the way its name suggested, but it was constant, and constant effort has its own way of wearing on the body.

The path wove upward steadily, with people taking frequent breaks along the way. We could sympathize, and just as often did the same. About halfway up, we passed a young couple painting the ever-changing views around us, which felt like a good reminder to pause and actually take in the landscape while trekking any trail. 

Despite the rain threatening around us, it was too warm to put our rain jackets back on, which we had stripped them off before beginning the ascent. As we neared the top and passed several rock piles and cairns, the rain finally began again. With the climbing for the day largely done, we stopped to pull on our rain gear and look back over the route we had just climbed.

In the end, the climb up the Devil’s Staircase was not as tough as it had looked from the bottom. It was not technical, and it was not the dramatic ordeal its name might suggest. But it was steady, exposed, and constant - the kind of climb that rewards patience more than speed. As with so much on the West Highland Way, the challenge was less about spectacle than about pacing yourself.

Onward through the Valley

Once we reached the top, the trail seemed to meander off toward the horizon. From that higher ground, we could see the path weaving across the land and around the hillsides ahead of us, tracing a pale gravel line through the surrounding green of the broader Highland landscape.

The path wound through the valley toward Kinlochleven, still just over four miles away. Underfoot, the trail was a narrow gravel track, only a couple of feet wide in places, but after the climb, it felt straightforward and manageable. It wove through lush green fields, past rushing water, open slopes, and hillsides that seemed to roll and fold into one another beneath the shifting clouds above.

The mountains here were stunning. Low cloud still clung to some of the higher ridges, while breaks in the sky allowed sunlight to move across the slopes in patches. At times, the distant hills seemed almost blue-grey under the dark clouds, while the grasses and heather around us glowed with that saturated green that only comes after days of rain. The trail itself curved gently through the scene, always visible ahead for a little while before disappearing around another rise or curve in the hillside.

This was one of the more enjoyable stretches of the day. The walking was easy enough that we could look up, take photographs, and appreciate the scale of the landscape around us. After the slow approach to the Devil’s Staircase and the crowded climb, it felt good simply to move forward through open country.

Even so, the weather never entirely shifted into a warm or sunny day. Dark clouds continued to move and shift above the hills, and the mountains ahead appeared and disappeared as mist and shadow moved across them. But here, such unsettled skies only added depth to the view rather than diminishing it. The valley felt alive with movement: wind across the grasses, water running through the lower ground, and clouds dragging over the ridges. All of which was beautiful.

Descent to Kinglochleven

Eventually, we arrived at a set of massive water pipes, and from the top of the descent, we could see the town of Kinlochleven far below. From here, the West Highland Way stayed on a quiet, wide gravel road as it wove sharply downhill toward the valley floor. After the openness of the route beyond the Devil’s Staircase, the view ahead made the rest of the day feel deceptively close. We could see where we needed to go, but seeing a destination from above is not the same as being there.

As we have long known, going downhill can sometimes be more challenging than climbing up. Uphill effort is obvious: your lungs work, your legs burn, and you know what you have to do. Downhill walking is different. It is often where uneven topography extracts its true cost, especially when you are carrying a heavy backpack. Even on a wide and stable gravel roadway, the drop was sustained, and we both worried about slipping or stumbling as the path wove steadily toward the valley.

Each step made the weight of our packs feel heavier. The descent was hard on our knees and hips, and once again, the effort required was less about sheer difficulty than sustained focus. We had to watch our footing, take our time, and keep our attention on the immediate task of getting down safely.

Because of this, we were startled when a young woman out running suddenly pushed between us, screaming as she raced through. Sean slipped and fell to the ground, and she simply laughed and jogged on without stopping or acknowledging what had happened. It was another strange trail moment, and one that left us shaken more than anything else.

One can only imagine what the reaction might have been if Sean or another man had run downhill and crashed through a group of young women before continuing on without apology. Perhaps nothing would have been said. Perhaps here it was expected. It can be difficult to get used to the attitudes, assumptions, and trail cultures of other places, and we were coming to see this more and more on the West Highland Way. Clearly, as Canadians, we hold different norms than even those from one of the nations from which our country was born.

As it had been throughout the hike, the situation was confusingly odd to us. Still, there was little to do but continue downward. The valley waited below, and the trail led on toward Kinlochleven.

Kinglochleven, Scotland

The trail meandered a great deal on the way down, and despite seeing our destination fairly early, it still took time to get there. As the day’s strong winds and rain gave way to patchy sun, we were finally able to shed our rain gear and walk the last couple of kilometres into town with a little more comfort.

Kinlochleven came into view slowly, its industrial history and remains contrasting sharply with the mountains and natural beauty surrounding it. Crossing over the River Leven, we were greeted by a Victorian industrial entrance to the community, a reminder that this was not a village that had grown organically from fields, farms, and local crossroads, but a place imposed on the region and shaped by aluminum smelting.

Nearby to this massive structure was the Blackwater Hostel and Campsite, where we purchased a space to pitch our tent. Before long, we were checked in, set up, and enjoying refreshing showers. After the descent into town, such small comforts felt wonderful.

Later, we walked into Kinlochleven, passing the Aluminum Story museum, which preserved the heritage and the industrial history that had shaped the community. We enjoyed a couple of pints at the local pub, where the bartender wondered whether Guinness tasted the same in Canada as it did in Scotland. Afterward, we stopped at the Co-op to buy food for dinner.

Evening Reflections

In the end, it had been a short but rewarding day, one that brought us to our final night on the West Highland Way. Our knees and hips were sore, but overall we felt in good shape. The climb up the Devil’s Staircase had required steadiness and patience, but it was the descent that truly worked its way into our bodies and which we felt tonight.

Once again, we were reminded that short days on the trail are not necessarily easy days. Distance tells part of the story, but never the whole of it.

See you on the Trail!