PTSD

Behold the road that leadeth into the North, a winding track into the heart of the wild hills where the stone-towers of Dunedin are left behind. The fellowship turneth their faces toward the shadow of the mountains, passing from the settled streets of the Lowlands into country of older names: Stirling's watchful crag, the green folds near Loch Lomond and the Trossachs, and the long rising roads where sheep regard all travelers with the cold judgment of ancient kings. Through Crianlarich and into the rocky walls of Tyndrum they press, pausing at the Green Welly Stop for quick rations, hot pies, and such humble artifacts as crisps, coffee, and petrol, without which even the bravest company may grow mutinous before noon.

Beyond Tyndrum the land openeth and darkeneth. The road bends toward Bridge of Orchy and the wide loneliness of Rannoch Moor, a great desolation of ancient peat, silver water, and wind-scoured silence, where pools lie black beneath the sky and distant massifs keep watch over the empty places of the world. Here the company should look for the first true signs that the North has claimed them: the road running like a thin grey thread across the moor, clouds dragging their cloaks over the high shoulders of the hills, and the sudden sense that ordinary maps have become mere suggestions. If the heavens pour rain, take it as a blessing from the old powers, though the driver may call it by a less poetic name.

Thence the road plunges toward Glencoe, where Buachaille Etive Mor rises at the gate like a dark sentinel and the glen opens into a colossal chasm of black stone, green slope, and brooding volcanic crag. The vertical walls of the Three Sisters tower above the path like stone giants, their ridges cut by shadow and weather, while waterfalls trace pale lines down the rock after rain. Slowly the iron chariot tracks the winding pass beneath heights that have seen the passing of clans, redcoats, drovers, and countless damp tourists wrapped in inappropriate jackets. The wind speaketh there in tongues of old wars and older griefs, and even the least sentimental traveler may find himself staring upward in silence, unless distracted by the urgent search for a decent sandwich.

Leaving the high pass, the path turns by Ballachulish and the grey waters of Loch Linnhe, then northward toward Fort William, where Ben Nevis lifts its cloud-crowned head above the Great Glen. Past Spean Bridge and the memorial heights, the company draws near to Loch Lochy and the long chain of waters that cleave the Highlands like a blade. At last the road turns west into Glen Shiel, where the mountains gather close, the light grows solemn, and the Five Sisters of Kintail rise like an unbroken wall of shields against the outer world. Beneath their towering watch, where mist clings to heather and the modern world is politely asked to wait outside, the lonely haven of the Cluanie Inn stands ready, its hearth-fires lit against the mountain chill and its beds promising peace to all who have endured the noble trial of sitting in a car for many hours.