Tourism Trials : Drymen to Rowardennan

“The pleasure we derive from journeys is perhaps dependent more on the mindset with which we travel than on the destination we travel to.”

Alain de Botton

Morning on the West Highland Way

Last night, it never got fully dark, and the dawn chorus began around 3:30 AM. At least one of the hikers in the tents around us packed up and left around 4:00 AM, giving us the impression that perhaps if we waited a few hours, we might have the trail to ourselves.

However, when we finally opened our own tent up around 7:00 AM, we discovered that we were, in fact, among the first to be awake. Most of the tents around us were still pitched and sealed up tight, and the campground remained surprisingly quiet.

Trying not to disturb anyone, we carried our food, water bottles, and stove into the common space in the barn and made ourselves breakfast there. By 7:30 AM, a few other hikers were beginning to emerge slowly from their tents, but with little need to rush, we took our time washing up, taking down the tent, and repacking our backpacks.

By 8:00 AM, as we prepared to leave the Drymen camping area, almost everyone seemed to be awake. The common area was suddenly full of people spinning about, trying to repack gear into damp store boxes and bags to be shipped forward for the day. After only one stage on the West Highland Way, we were still adjusting to the sheer number of people moving along this particular trail.

It was not unpleasant …exactly, but it was a little overwhelming. The day had barely begun, and already the scale of the West Highland Way felt very different from the quieter, more self-contained walking we had become used to.

Setting off to Rowardennan

Picking up our backpacks, we returned to the West Highland Way, and our stage began with a steady ramble along a quiet roadway.

When we set off down the paved lane around 8:00 AM, we were greeted with a very cool, partly sunny morning. Once again, we marvelled at the height and lushness of the sweet-smelling Queen Anne’s lace that bordered the lane. Pink foxglove, yellow buttercups, and purplish bluebells were mixed in, together creating a colourful verge that bees and pollinators were making good use of.

Across the lush green grasses of the pastures and the quarry below us, we caught glimpses of the grey waters of Loch Lomond. As fluffy grey clouds scudded by overhead, patches of sunshine played across the steep slopes of the hills rising beyond. Using my binoculars, I could just make out a group of people standing on the top of Conic Hill. This should have been a hint of what the day would bring, but we carried on in blissful ignorance amid the managed landscapes of the region.

As we passed several large, gated stone homes with lovely gardens, we kept a sharp eye open for any hedgehogs that might be active in the hedgerows on either side of the road. Disappointingly, we saw none, though we were serenaded by a vigorous and cheery chorus of birdsong and spotted a very plump rabbit in the nearby fields.

On Trail

Soon, WHW signs led us off the road, and so we crossed a small and cheerful-sounding stream on a low bridge and made our way across a sheep field. Quite a few people had chosen to wild camp near the stream and were seemingly still sleeping cozily in their tents. If we had known yesterday how prevalent wild camping spots would be along this stretch, we likely would have pushed on past the Drymen camping ground, nice as it was.

Continuing on, we soon came upon a long line of trekkers. Following the thistle trail logo, our route wove across fields, through small treed stretches, and along the edge of paved roadways. En route, the trail slipped between fence lines and hedgerows before eventually taking us along the edge of a farmer’s field.

As we made our way across the pasture, the farmer drove slowly past on his ATV with his dog sitting on the back. This caused great excitement among the sheep, who all began vocalizing like crazy. They clustered around the ATV, baaing like mad and forming a tight-knit group. Clearly the sheep were attached to their shepherd – or at least the hope that he might be bringing food.

Not long after this, we crossed the signed Rob Roy Way, another popular trail in the region. The number of named routes intersecting here added to the sense that we were moving through a landscape shaped by centuries of farming, history, wayfinding, and rambling.

Soon the trail began to climb upward on a logging road amid the Garabhan Forest Area, which for us brought to mind the T’Railway Trail in Newfoundland. Tall Sitka spruce forests lined the route, and lush ferns mixed with brambles bordered the pathway. Up and up we climbed, spotting a Bullfinch and a Goldfinch along the side of the trail.

Views of Loch Lomond

Leaving the forest, we were rewarded with our first views of the wonderful Loch Lomond, one of Scotland’s largest lochs. Here, the trail began to change underfoot. The easy surfaces of yesterday and this morning gave way to rougher, rockier, muddier sections, with churned-up patches that required more attention. We had to watch our footing more carefully as the climb toward Conic Hill began amid tall grasses, patches of heather, and grazing sheep.

Before entering the no-camping area, we came across a very nice wild campsite tucked under extremely tall conifers. Birds moved through the canopy above us, and for a moment, it felt like a quiet pocket along an otherwise increasingly busy route.

Eventually, we came to a split in the trail, where we had the option to go up toward Conic Hill or descend toward the highway to make our way to Balmaha. We chose the upper route, even though it was quite windy and we could see dark clouds hanging low beyond the summit. Mist crept over the top of the hill and curled down toward us, giving the climb ahead a more dramatic feeling than the morning had suggested.

Just after the split, we stopped on the edge of the trail to dry our tent in the sunshine. It was one of those practical moments that becomes part of long-distance walking - unpacking wet gear whenever the weather briefly allows, hoping to make the night ahead a little more comfortable. As the tent dried, a horde of hikers behind us began to catch up, and we were quickly reminded us that on the West Highland Way, solitude rarely lasted long.

Climbing Conic Hill

After crossing a creek, we began the ascent of Conic Hill, which rises to 361 metres, or 1,184 feet. The path became a narrow, rocky and gravel track of loose stone and uneven footing.

The climb itself was not particularly difficult or technical. It was simply long and steady, the kind of ascent that quickly reminds you that you are crossing into the Highlands. We made our way upward amid a steady stream of hikers in day packs, caught once again in a long line of trekkers moving at different paces along the same narrow route.

As we climbed, three young men behind us seemed determined to turn the ascent into a performance, grunting and shouting loudly the entire way uphill. It was more distracting than motivating and reminded me of nature documentaries where young creatures try to impress one another in some absurd way.

In short order, the trail reached its highest point – though not the summit of Conic Hill. Here, our route wrapped around the hill below the peak.

As the trail rounded the hillside, we were met with a startling sight. Literally hundreds of people were walking and shuffling up Conic Hill from the other side. The line extended all the way down toward the forest below, filling much of the six-to-eight-foot-wide stone steps that had clearly been installed to minimize the impact of so many people moving through one place.

There were people out walking dogs, people pushing children, and a mass of tourists and day-trippers making their way upward with their heads down, right up the centre of the newly built stone steps. As noted, the West Highland Way itself does not go all the way to the summit of Conic Hill, which in that moment felt like a blessing, not because of the effort required, but because of the long queue of people shuffling up the narrow, muddy side path while another horde pushed their way back down the same route. To us, it was an unbelievable scene.

Sights like this always remind us of the history of Niagara Falls in Canada, where Victorian-era images of crowds, vendors, and the destruction of the natural setting helped prompt early conversations about protecting significant landscapes. Standing on the side of Conic Hill, watching so many people press toward a viewpoint at once, it was impossible not to think about the complicated relationship between access, tourism, and conservation.

When we reached the junction near the top, there was a small side trail leading up to the summit, filled with a solid line of people climbing up and coming back down the same narrow footpath. There was no way we were pushing into that mess with our packs on. Instead, we took a few moments to enjoy the view from where we were, then turned back to the West Highland Way and began the descent to Balmaha.

Descending Conic Hill

Near the top of the hill, large white bags of rocks had been heli-dropped onto the hillside, presumably for ongoing trail work and erosion control. A short distance farther on, a bulldozer was parked beside the route, and beyond it a seemingly endless set of tall, uneven stone steps stretched down the hillside ahead of us. The path was still rough underfoot in places, but the amount of work being done to harden and protect the route made it clear how many feet passed over this hillside each year.

Heading downhill, with the Sunday crowds of a bank holiday weekend visiting, was slow going and astonishing after our quieter ascent of Conic Hill.

Few people seemed to be looking up; many were using hiking poles that jutted outward into the path, and two hikers in front of us tripped by them – both taking hard falls. In one case, the ascending walker didn’t even notice what they had done. In the other, a lady whipped around and loudly declared the person who had fallen to be a “complete idiot and a git” before shuffling on.

As such, with our large backpacks on, we made our way carefully through the throngs, amazed by the diversity of people climbing Conic Hill. There were walkers in proper outdoor gear, people in workout clothes, people dressed up for a day out, and others making their way uphill in flip-flops.

In the end, it took us almost an hour to navigate the crowds from where the West Highland Way neared the summit of Conic Hill down to the forest, parking lot, and National Park information centre in Balmaha below. It was less a descent than a slow weaving through a stream of people taking selfies, posing for photographs, sitting (and lying) across the steps, stopping abruptly, or focusing so completely on their own experience that they seemed unaware of the narrow shared space around them.

Conic Hill was beautiful, but on that morning, beauty had to be negotiated through bodies, selfies, hiking poles, queues, and stone steps.

At the bottom, the trail entered a stand of enormously tall conifers that reminded us of home in British Columbia and Vancouver Island. After the exposed hillside and the crush of people, the trees felt grounded. On the forest road, we also spotted a slow worm on the trail, still cold and slow to move. It was not in a particularly safe place, given the amount of foot traffic passing through, and we paused long enough to take note of it before continuing into Balmaha.

Loch Lomond National Park Centre

The Loch Lomond National Park Centre, at the base of Conic Hill, was really interesting to briefly explore after the slow, crowded descent from Conic Hill. Inside, we found displays about local wildlife and conservation, including citizen science projects focused on birds, bats, and other species in the region. The staff were friendly and knowledgeable, and it was clear that they cared deeply about the landscape around them.

When we chatted with them, they told us that many residents of the loch-side communities leave the area on weekends to escape the sheer number of tourists. Given the state of the trail, the jammed parking lot, and the swarms of both hikers and day visitors moving through Balmaha, we could see why.

As we have seen in the past, the impact of too many trekkers was something a number of popular trails and pilgrimage routes were struggling to manage. Garbage and human waste were two obvious examples, but there were subtler impacts too: slowly widening paths, eroded slopes, crowded viewpoints, and the need for stone steps, pavers, signage, rangers, and no-camping zones to protect landscapes from the number of people who had come to enjoy them.

We have spent years encouraging people to explore nature, to get outside, and to discover the value of walking through landscapes rather than past them. Yet standing there, after descending Conic Hill amid hundreds of people, we found ourselves considering a question we had perhaps not taken seriously enough before: what happens if everyone comes out?

It also made us wonder how easily people connect with nature without some level of solitude. If you are moving in a crowd, negotiating pace, space, noise, queues, and other people’s decisions, then your attention is inevitably drawn toward those concerns. Nature is still there, but your ability and the opportunity to notice it change.

Balmaha, Scotland

Crossing out of the parking lot, which was jam-packed with cars, we found a seat outside St. Mocha Coffee Shop. We were glad for the break, though we did not realize it would take almost an hour to line up, order, and receive our snacks.

Eventually, we sat on the outdoor patio with two coffees and two raspberry Bakewells, watching crowds of people stream past. It was a welcome pause, but not exactly a quiet one. Balmaha felt less like a small trail village than a busy crossroads where hikers, tourists, day-trippers, cars, buses, and local life all converged at once.

Glad for the rest but wanting to get away from the crowds, we eventually continued on. Following the road, we found ourselves in a local park near the water, where we came across a statue dedicated to Tom Weir. Boats moved on the nearby waterway, and for a short while, the scene opened beyond the press of people and parking lots.

Still, the crowds had shaped the entire middle of the day. Conic Hill had been beautiful, Balmaha had services we were grateful for, and the National Park Centre had offered thoughtful insight into conservation and access. Yet by the time we left town, we were already beginning to understand that the West Highland Way was not only a walk through Scotland’s landscapes. It was also a walk through the consequences of popularity.

Shores of Loch Lomond

By this point, the day had turned overcast and cool, with a brisk wind blowing across the water. From Tom Weir’s Rest and the park, the path took us into a forest before crossing a small spit of land and rejoining the shores of Loch Lomond. This was a body of water we would spend almost another full day walking beside, though at that moment we were still only beginning to understand how much the loch would shape the next stages of the West Highland Way.

We passed signs marking the area as another squirrel protection zone, something we had also encountered on Wainwright’s Coast to Coast. These signs still amazed us. In Canada, we have squirrels, foxes, and even black bears in abundance - one black bear is a regular presence in my family’s backyard – and we regularly camp in areas full of wolves, coyotes, deer, etc. And clearly, those realities shape our sense of what nature is and what needs protecting. Here, where the landscape has faced human pressures for millennia, even squirrel populations require active protection. It made me grateful for what we still have at home, and worried for how easily it could be lost.

As we trekked on, regional park rangers stopped each hiker to make sure everyone understood that we were entering a No Camping Area. They were friendly, and we enjoyed the chat. They also gave us a map of campsites when we admitted that we did not yet know where we would be stopping for the night.

This stretch is one of the few in Scotland where wild camping is not permitted, an attempt to minimize the impact of so many visitors and the garbage problem that has followed. Given the number of people in the region, it was not difficult to understand why such rules existed. We repeatedly saw campfire pits absolutely full of garbage, some of it already bagged up by previous campers and simply left behind to be collected by someone else. As Leave No Trace backpackers, this has always dumbfounded us. Carrying something in and then leaving it behind in a bag does not make it disappear. Yet some clearly expect the garbage fairy to arrive and keep the same nature they enjoyed in nature. Sigh…

For the next couple of hours, we skirted along the edge of the loch, climbing up and down and up and down again on a lovely but increasingly demanding forested trail. At times we emerged onto pebble beaches that offered beautiful views across the water, but also exposed us to the increasingly biting wind. The shoreline was scenic, but it did not make for effortless walking.

Here the trail narrowed and required that we pay more attention. Loose rocks, roots, and the fact that the path at times barely clung to the shoreline meant that we had to watch each step. Given the efforts of the morning, the ascent and descent on Conic Hill, as well as the length of our chosen stage, it was not long before the afternoon shifted from shared experience to shared task.

There was no denying that this part of the day was defined by terrain and topography. The shoreline of Loch Lomond was beautiful, but it was also uneven, narrow, and tiring. It required focus rather than wandering thoughts or watching for birds. After a morning spent negotiating crowds, we found ourselves now negotiating the trail itself.

Trail Etiquette and Keeping Pace

At one point, we again found ourselves behind a large trail group walking along the shoreline. While we were behind them, they kept a slow but regular pace. However, when they stopped for a break, and we passed, they suddenly picked up speed and practically jogged on our heels. Frustratingly, when we stepped aside and let them pass again, they resumed their slower shuffle almost immediately.

As a result, we spent much of the later afternoon struggling to find a comfortable rhythm. We would push to stay ahead, avoiding breaks for water or birding, until we began to burn out. Then we would step aside, only to be forced into a much slower pace behind the same group. The constant shifting left little room to enjoy the moment.

We had experienced versions of this the day before, and it reminded us of similar frustrations on other busy trails. Walking at different speeds is normal. Some hikers are faster, some are slower, and all one can do is acknowledge the pace of one’s own body and make room for those moving differently.

What made this situation difficult was not simply that people wanted to pass. It was the way groups would march up behind us, so close that they seemed almost pressed against our backpacks. Sensing that we were holding people up, we stepped off the trail on several occasions and said something neutral like, “We are clearly slower than you, please go ahead.”

In response, we were often told bluntly, “ya you are slower,” or “ya you have slowed me down.” Yet giving people the opportunity to go ahead did not usually result in them continuing rapidly down the trail. Instead, they would often move ten or fifteen feet farther on, slow to a shuffle, or stop altogether to check maps, phones, apps, or compasses.

This baffled us. On this stretch, the trail was self-evident. We were hemmed in by trees on one side and rock or shoreline on the other. There were regular trail signs, and looking up and down the path, there were really only two options: the way we had come and the way we were going. It was hard not to wonder how anyone could be lost or have to consult a map on such a corridor of trail.

Shifting Perspectives

Then we had to remind ourselves that we had just completed the first 14,000 km of the Trans Canada Trail, where there had been hundreds of kilometres without signage or clear direction and where we had often needed to make our own way forward. We also had to remember that many people on the West Highland Way were new to hiking, new to long-distance walking, and perhaps new to reading landscapes in any way beyond what an app or Google Maps told them.

It was a moment that frustrated us on one hand and reoriented our perspective on the other. We were tired, crowded, and increasingly impatient, but we were also bringing our own experience to the trail. What seemed obvious to us might not feel obvious to someone just beginning to learn how to move through outdoor spaces.

Even so, the practical reality remained difficult. We would pass people who had taken off their packs and were examining maps or trail apps, only to have them quickly shoulder their rucksacks again the moment we moved beyond them. Within minutes, they would be back on our heels, grumbling about wanting to push on. After fifteen minutes of walking in this uncomfortable way, we would again let them pass, receive another sharp comment, and watch them stop only a short distance ahead and begin the process all over again.

It was baffling, and after a while it became exhausting. The challenge of this part of the West Highland Way was not only the rocks, roots, shoreline, and wind. It was the constant negotiation of space, pace, and patience on a trail where everyone seemed to be moving together, but not always with awareness of one another.

Trekking On

At one point, we passed a sailing school on the shoreline and could see a large group of sailboats out on the water. Here we walked along the edge of a gravel beach before passing a number of campsites, including Milarrochy Bay and Cashel, both of which were full. Several had interesting signs about Scotland’s Great Trails, reminding us again that this was not simply a path through the landscape, but part of a larger walking culture full of history.

Beyond Cashel, the trail followed a narrow footpath that wove between the road and the loch. We passed several wonderful honesty boxes along the way, which were a welcome sight full of terrific-looking snacks. On a route as busy and well-supported as the West Highland Way, these small places felt like part of the trail’s character: practical and trusting. Small trail-side offerings like these always add something generous to a route, especially on days when services are busy, campsites are full, and you are never entirely sure where the next easy stop might be.

Before long, however, the trail returned to tougher navigation. The climbing and descending resumed, and with it came more rocks, roots, and uneven footing. After the morning on Conic Hill and the long afternoon of negotiating both shoreline and people, the repeated ups and downs began to feel increasingly tiring.

Centre for Ecology and the Natural Environment

We eventually came to the Centre for Ecology and the Natural Environment, which immediately reminded us of our own time many years ago in Algonquin Park, working as scientists and field researchers exploring the relationship between habitat quality and nest success. Finding a field station along the West Highland Way was a reminder that landscapes are not only places to pass through or promote. They are also places of study and long-term research.

After the field station, the trail climbed hard again. By this point, we were increasingly tired of both the constant ups and downs of the terrain and the difficulty of finding space amid so many other hikers. The route itself was not dramatic in the way a summit or exposed ridge might be dramatic, but it did wear us down through repetition: climb, descend, watch your footing, step aside, start again, climb, descend, step aside, continue.

The day had begun with birdsong, hedgerows, and a cool morning lane out of Drymen. By this point, it had become something more complicated. Loch Lomond was beautiful, but walking beside it certainly required focus. We kept going, grateful for the views when they opened, but increasingly aware that we had yet to reach the night’s destination.

Rowardennan Lodge

Fatigued and a little worried that we would have to continue rounding spit after spit along the shoreline, we finally found ourselves at Rowardennan, tucked into the trees beside Loch Lomond. Down a small gravel road, Rowardennan Lodge Youth Hostel sat on the side of the loch and looked almost like a small castle. We had read that it might be possible to camp behind the hostel, but with only five pitches available and the number of people walking the West Highland Way, we assumed they would be full. To our surprise and relief, there was still space for us.

After paying, we went to pitch the tent behind the youth hostel, though the midges were pretty fierce by then. After the long afternoon on the trail and along the shoreline, simply knowing that we had somewhere to stop made a tremendous difference. Stopping felt wonderful.

Once the tent was up, we went inside for showers and then settled into upholstered chairs with a couple of local beers and terrific views over the lake. From there, we reviewed our coming stages on both the West Highland Way and the Great Glen Way, trying to make sense of distance, accommodation, and how much energy we still had left for the trails ahead. Preeminent among these thoughts is that we no longer had time for a day off trail for the remaining 2 weeks that we had left. Rest was no longer an option.

For dinner, we had vegan bean burgers in the dining room, which were very good. The common room felt cozy, with a family and children playing games, a group of older women with two lovely dogs playing bridge, and a scattering of younger hikers spread throughout the space. After a day on the trail, this felt like a break in good company.

We spent a pleasant evening there before eventually returning to our tent on the shore of the loch. Outside, the night was very misty and overcast, cold and damp, but not truly dark. From inside the tent, we could hear the wind moving through the trees above us.

Ultimately, we set off to bed early. Tomorrow was going to be a long stage, carrying us along the length of Loch Lomond. In addition, after the efforts of the day, we were more than ready to rest.

Reflections on the day along the West Highland Way

Despite often being described as a beginner-friendly and relatively easy long-distance trail, there was no denying that the shores of Loch Lomond gave way to something more complicated about the West Highland Way. This was not a route that could simply be walked on autopilot while allowing the mind to wander or focus on birdsong and passing thoughts. To do that along the narrow, rocky, root-filled shoreline would be to risk a tumble.

At the same time, the crowds on the trail meant that we had to constantly negotiate our pace. In the process, we began to think about what happens when a trail becomes both beloved and heavily used.

A few things stood out to us at the end of the day. The first was simply the sheer number of people gathered in one place, especially around Conic Hill and Balmaha. The second was the repeated sense, expressed by many walkers even in tourist towns, parking lots, managed forests, and heavily used corridors, that they were entering “proper wilderness.” The third was the seeming need of so many people to be at the front of the queue, even when they did not always seem certain where they were going or what they were doing once they got there.

All of this gave us a lot to think about. For years, we have encouraged people to get outside, walk, explore, and discover the natural world for themselves. Yet a day like this raised the harder question of how to balance access with protection, enthusiasm with responsibility, and popularity with the very qualities that draw people to nature in the first place.

It also made us think about solitude. How much quiet does a person need in order to connect with a landscape? How do you find peace when a trail is crowded? And how do you remain patient and open when the thing you came seeking - space, peacefulness, and time in nature are constantly interrupted by the overwhelming presence of others?

While I have no answer, the fact remained that by the time we reached Rowardennan, we were tired in more ways than one. Clearly, the West Highland Way would continue to challenge us through people as much as terrain.

See you on the Trail!