Words: Sarah Perry
Photographs: No Limits Photography
I still had a knot of uncertainty in my stomach; this wasn’t like anything else I had attempted before.
Unless you’ve somehow recced the whole Cape Wrath route before – which, given it is very long, inhospitable, and difficult to get to and from, is quite an unreasonable request - it’s hard to understand the nature of the trail. The route is beyond beautiful: weaving through endless valleys, climbing over stunning mountain passes, with a sprinkle of bog-hopping, river-crossing and heather-bashing along the way. You won’t find a book boasting family-friendly walks along the Cape Wrath Trail: it’s wild, rugged and remote. What a treat it was to wander along this region for hours each day for more than a week, exploring the beauty of the Highlands on foot.
Was I prepared for Cape Wrath? In a sense, yes. I’d scrutinised the kit list and quizzed my multi-day experienced friends for tips. I still had a knot of uncertainty in my stomach; this wasn’t like anything else I had attempted before. I was apprehensive about my first multi-day event, but also about how my body would respond to asking it to run 20-40 miles every day for eight days.
The first half of day seven, in particular, was magnificent: a long but stunning climb up from the camp at Inchnadamph with a glimpse of the UK’s highest waterfall. I marvelled at the views, looked up and just enjoyed meandering along while grinning to myself. It felt so remote, like so few people had visited this valley and we were among the first, and that we were almost literally in the middle of nowhere. In all honesty, there were far too many beautiful parts of the route to share, every day had something about it that I’ll remember forever: the bagpipes as we ferried away from Fort William on day 1, the wilderness of day 2, The Falls of Glomach on day 3, the mountains on day 4, the first glimpse of camp on day 5 (what a setting). But that morning will always be imprinted in my mind when I think of the Cape Wrath Ultra.
The second half of day seven was particularly brutal, and I silently cursed a friend who had told me “it’s the best day.” Although its beauty was unmatched, it was a beast.
Hidden in plain sight, among all this splendour, were the Highland bogs. Nothing I or anyone else can write would prepare you for these creations; like witnessing the Northern Lights or the birth of a child, you really have to see them for yourself – or, rather, get stuck into them yourself. Repeatedly. On day 2, once we had climbed out of Glenfinnan, we seemed to be on an endless, boggy descent; stopping occasionally to pull our sunken ankles back out of some murky depth. At first I found it amusing, but it soon became energy-sapping and meant that the miles didn’t tick away as quickly as I’d hoped.
The rest of the terrain wasn’t what you might call ‘runnable’ either, to be fair to the bogs. If you weren’t running through heather, the tracks were rocky and you had to watch your step pretty closely. Day 2 featured an interesting off-trail section and on day 5 I made my way carefully through a large boulder field; anxious not to twist an ankle and end my adventure. The terrain meant that it was difficult to keep your feet in good condition, and I was surprised to find that my usual problem-free feet were blistered by the end of day 3. I patched them up and prayed that they wouldn’t become an issue - luckily they saw me through five more days.
I think I felt every possible emotion over my eight-day adventure: from anticipation beforehand, to wondering if day 8 would ever come, to then not wanting to leave Scotland. The second half of day seven was particularly brutal, and I silently cursed a friend who had told me “it’s the best day.” Although its beauty was unmatched, it was a beast and the weather battered us, the wind threw us and the rain forced its way beneath our waterproofs. The glazed-over eyes said everything that evening. On other days it was fine, though; we were really lucky with the weather on the whole and so, when I returned to camp that day, I thought of the previous year’s competitors who had not been so lucky in this respect.
I shared a tent with six lovely ladies, but I don’t think any of us really slept well. Between toilet trips, tossing and turning and the portaloo doors slamming shut every 10 minutes it was impossible to.
What I quickly realised was that there’s something special about the shared experiences: excitement over waffles at breakfast and grumbles over chips at the end of the day. It’s a team effort and we all willed each other on and rallied to support one another. Regardless of how difficult your day was, it was impossible to not be grinning by the time you returned to camp: finish line cheerleaders, tea tent heroes and fellow competitors would welcome you in. It seemed the organisers had thought of everything to make your experience each day memorable. The team was phenomenal and spirits were high all of the time - they couldn’t do enough to try to ensure that we completed the challenge. In a strange way, that camp began to feel homely.
On the first night, I quickly discovered that my sleeping bag was not heavy enough. The nights get surprisingly cold and even with a synthetic jacket and base layers, I wasn’t really sufficiently comfortable. The worst night was the third: the heather had torn at my legs all day, they burnt and ached. I shared a tent with six lovely ladies, but I don’t think any of us really slept well. Between toilet trips, tossing and turning and the portaloo doors slamming shut every 10 minutes it was impossible to. I was in a mixed state of being exhausted from the day, freezing cold outside of my sleeping bag and uncomfortable within it. Everyone looked more and more tired as the week drew on, mornings became harder (and quieter) plus the routine of packing up every day became more arduous. Sometimes the midges came out to hurry along our morning routine too, swarming and biting as we rushed around.
Yet, throughout the week the seven of us shared more than just our sleeping quarters: laughter, disappointment, encouragement, and there were often tears - from one tent mate in particular, who absolutely battled every day to get to the end. I really felt for her, this wasn’t how she had imagined Scotland to be and there wasn’t much we could do to help her, besides sharing what we knew about the next day to come.
Searching your limits, and finding they were greater than you ever really gave yourself credit for.
Day 8 was a concoction of excitement in being able to finally go home soon, and a little bit of sadness knowing that the journey was over. The miles flew by quicker than I’d hoped and, before I knew it, I was on the beach at Sandwood Bay. A few more miles over moorland and there it was: the lighthouse, sat on the most northerly point in the UK. This was the destination that we’d dreamt of reaching, not just in the seven days prior but in all the months (and miles) of preparation.
Everyone suffered in some way. And it’s not a glamorous affair: your drop bag reeks, all of your clothes are filthy and if you’re niggle-free by the last day you’ll certainly be in the minority. However, the rewards are great. The journey didn’t live up to my expectations, it exceeded them greatly. Cape Wrath Ultra is the perfect mix of stunning scenery, challenging terrain, camaraderie, and food. Lots and lots of food. It was truly breathtaking at times – literally and metaphorically. If you were to do it I think you’d find, as I did, that you stand a little bit taller afterwards; knowing that you’ve managed to endure this incredibly difficult challenge. Of course, you’ll always remember the hardships and if anything, that’s what makes your experience more colourful and memorable.
230 miles, perhaps 200 million midges, what felt like 300 million bogs and probably about 400 million plates of chips later, 88 of us had completed the Cape Wrath Trail. Glued together eternally by the unique experience of ‘the class of 2023’. What a phenomenal journey. Would I recommend it? Absolutely. Without hesitation.