Public Lands Threatened

Sunset in the Potrillo Mountains, part of the Organ Mountains-Desert Peaks National Monument in New Mexico.

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In late February, Ellen and I hiked into Aravaipa Canyon in the heart of Arizona’s Aravaipa Wilderness (BLM). A clear stream, unusual in the desert, flowed beneath cottonwood trees, leafed out to gather early-season Arizona sunshine. We disturbed a coati in one of them—it crept slowly to the ground and disappeared surprisingly quickly and a little comically into riparian vegetation. After a fun day of walking and exploring, we set up our tent under volcanic cliffs beside the stream and enjoyed miso soup, freeze-dried dinners, shortbread cookies, and a warm quiet evening under bright stars.

Volcanic cliffs above a side canyon in the Aravaipa Wilderness photographed during a February backpacking trip.

In mid-February, we car-camped with friends on the rim of the Kilbourne Hole, a volcanic maar crater in a remote part of the Organ Mountains-Desert Peaks National Monument. We’d spent the day finding petroglyphs and evidence of Pleistocene mammals near a volcanic cone. Our campsite commanded a view across the crater to the Riley Peaks, three high points in the Potrillo Mountains, one of several desert ranges in the Monument. The site had clearly been enjoyed by ORV users, and we spoke with two friendly guys from El Paso in a side-by-side when they stopped to enjoy the view. They were originally from Quebec, and it was surprising to hear French so close to the Mexican border.

Ellen with our friends Steve and Beth Buskirk on the rim of the Kilbourne Hole in the Organ Peaks-Desert Mountains National Monument. February 2025.

Earlier in February, we camped with our Laramie friend, Ed Sherline, in the Uva Mountains near the end of his bikepacking trip around the Desert Peaks. He'd covered sixty miles a day for five days circumnavigating much of the Monument and was feeling (and looking) a little grizzled when we met him on his last night. It was cold at night, but sunrise behind the Organs merited an early wake-up to enjoy layers of mountains and haze in the morning light. 

The Organ Mountains at sunrise taken from a camp in the Uva Mountains.

Those are just three of many experiences I had on public lands in February. My life and the lives of many of my friends have been enriched by these lands for well over a half century. Going back further, my father's family loved the West, and tales of their trips from Dearborn, Michigan to the Tetons in the 1940s drew me to them starting in the late-1970s, changing the course of my life. How many American family histories have been influenced by our federal lands? How many of our lives have been changed?

My father, Ed, and his mother, Nelle, on a trip west from Michigan in the 1940s to visit Grand Teton National Park, at that time less than twenty years old. The photo was probably taken by my grandfather, Ken.

In the U.S. today, few issues are nonpartisan, but protection of public lands unites people from across the political spectrum. The freedom to vacation in National Parks, explore National Monuments, hunt and fish in National Forests, birdwatch in Wildlife Refuges, or wander through remote BLM lands is fundamental to our way of life, yet we win public land battles, never the war. Who are the legislators braying loudly for the sale or transfer of federal (our) lands even while their constituents (we) object?

Ultimately, they are driven by special interests that benefit from reduced regulations so that they can more easily exploit our lands for their profit, meaning that it’s worth their while to contribute campaign funds and pay lobbyists. Oil and gas, mining, timber, and large corporate agricultural interests profit while the rest of us stand to lose our heritage, our primary means of recreation, and our avenue for enjoying the open spaces about which Westerners, including many of those trying to take them away, wax poetic with stories of free-roaming cowboys and Big Sky Country. 

In 2024, Utah filed a lawsuit at the U.S. Supreme Court that would have required the federal government to sell or “dispose of” more than 18 million acres of our public lands in Utah despite Utah’s agreement upon being granted statehood to “forever disclaim all right and title” to federal public lands. Twelve states supported this attempt even in the face of broad opposition by the public, but many did not. Martin Heinrich, a U.S. Senator from New Mexico, where I live now, stood against this, declaring, "We must stand united against this un-American land grab to ensure that our public lands remain accessible and protected for future generations. Our public lands are not for sale. Full stop." Thankfully, early this year, the Supreme Court declined to hear the case, a battle won while the war continues.

Ellen and our friend, Bay, admiring pictographs in the Bears' Ears National Monument established by Obama, shrunk by Trump, re-grown by Biden, and now vulnerable again. Of course, before Europeans, all lands in N. America were public. Cultural resources like these pictographs deserve to remain protected.

The Wyoming legislature was one of the supporters of Utah’s suit. I lived in Wyoming for nearly 45 years and spent countless weeks in its spectacular public lands along with many of my fellow Wyomingites of all political stripes. Recently, Wyoming legislators tried to pass a resolution transferring much of the federal land in Wyoming to the State. Fortunately, this resolution was defeated even in one of the reddest states in the U.S. underlining bipartisan support for protection of public land. Other efforts in Wyoming this year attempted to limit the right of private landowners to transfer land or land rights to the federal government. Many supporters of these measures in the Wyoming House are members of the Freedom Caucus. WTF?

Sunrise in the Honeycomb Buttes--BLM land in Wyoming's Red Desert. 2013.

Public lands continue to be threatened. NPS, BLM, USFS, and U.S. FWS employees are being fired, National Monument boundaries are in jeopardy, and special interests advocate for sale or transfer of our land. Many across our political spectrum are fighting these threats, but many others are complicit, and the war is never won. We can help by writing letters, attending rallies, donating funds, volunteering, and voting. Don’t let the few take away or degrade lands that belong to us all.

Gated and posted private ranchland adjacent to the Gila National Forest in New Mexico. Private landowners have the right to keep people off of their land, but we don't want our public lands to become private and locked away from us.

Visiting Paquime in Chihuahua, Mexico

The ruin of Paquime near Nuevo Casas Grandes in Chihuahua, Mexico.

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In December 2001, not long before we became parents, Ellen and I drove from Laramie, Wyoming to El Potrero Chico, just north of Monterrey, Mexico to rock climb, and then we continued across northern Mexico to the city of Chihuahua before reentering the U.S. south of Marfa, Texas. At that time, travel in the Mexican borderlands felt safe, and we enjoyed exploring small towns and the big city of Chihuahua. I still remember a misty and chilly sunrise in Parral (a town along the way) with views to the southwest into intriguing mountains that are now a no-go due to cartel activity. 

Today, the U.S. State Department advises Americans to “reconsider” travel to Chihuahua due to crime and kidnapping, including the danger of violent gang activity, but there are relatively safe corridors and destinations, so last March (2024) a group of us organized a trip with Luis Benavadiz, a guide from The Pink Store in Puerto Palomas, a Mexican border town south of Silver City, to Nuevo Casas Grandes, near the famous ruins of Paquime. We’d wanted to see Paquime for years because of its importance in Southwestern archaeology, and although we probably could have driven ourselves, Luis made the trip less stressful and showed us places along the way that we would have missed on our own. And we breezed past Federale checkpoints that might have been less friendly to a bunch of gringos. 

Paquime was an important political center that peaked after Chaco Canyon and other northern settlements were abandoned in the 12^th century A.D. At the height of its importance, it may have been home to as many as 10,000 people, but by 1450 it was mostly abandoned. Paquime had a substantial number of enclosures for raising Scarlet macaws which were ritualistically important throughout Ancestral Puebloan societies far to the north. The Edge of the Cedars Museum in Blanding, Utah, for example, has a beautiful macaw feather sash in its collections that was found in the Abajo Mountains of SE Utah. Paquime may have had political influence over a large area, though there is debate about its extent. 
 
Luiz stuck to a choreographed 2-day plan on our trip, effortlessly herding us around. On the first day, we visited Mata Ortiz, south of Nuevo Casas Grandes to see (and hopefully buy) the pottery that they are famous for thanks to a nearby clay deposit. I was more interested in the town than the pots, so I slipped out of potters’ houses to photograph buildings, but enough of our group bought pottery to make the visit worthwhile for the potters and, I imagine, Luiz. We also visited the once opulent but now run-down Hacienda de San Diego, a sprawling ranch off the beaten track once owned by Luis Terrazas, the richest man in Chihuahua. In its heyday, it housed many workers, but most of the buildings are now in disrepair. 
 
The second day was mostly spent at the sprawling Paquime ruin, our main objective, but we also visited a neatly trimmed Mormon settlement with tidy houses and fenced lawns. Mormons escaping the ban on polygamy in the 1890s established colonies in Chihuahua, and Luiz said that many of the residents are now successful businesspeople who commute regularly between Salt Lake City and Nuevo Casas Grandes. By late on the second day, we returned to Puerto Palomas, walked across the border, and retrieved our cars from the dusty parking lot beside a Dollar General to return to Silver City.

There are many other temptations in Chihuahua, including the massive Copper Canyon, home of the Tarahumara people, known for their running prowess, and intriguing smaller but less visited ruins, not to mention the endless obscure mountain ranges hiding who-knows-what. Although unimportant compared to the impact of cartels on the lives of many Mexicans, it's heartbreaking to live so close to Mexico and not feel safe enough to explore there. But prudence suggests waiting and hoping that borderland tourism gets safer while we’re still spry enough to wander.

Peach trees (Mormon?) in an orchard along the highway. There are substantial Mormon settlements in Chihuahua originally established by fundamentalists escaping the U.S. ban on polygamy in the 1890s. Mitt Romney has family ties here.

An old store in Mata Ortiz, south of Nuevo Casas Grandes. This town is famous for its exquisite pottery, but I was more interested in walking the streets to look at buildings.

Another building in Mata Ortiz.

A screen door in Mata Ortiz.

Bottle caps above a doorway in Mata Ortiz. Why?

Another Mata Ortiz house.

Abandoned workers' quarters at the Hacienda de San Diego.

A vaquero's rope hangs outside an enclosed corral.

One of the workers' quarters.

An old tree beside workers' quarters at the Hacienda.

Graffiti in an Hacienda doorway.

Paquime after excavation and restoration. The site covers a large area near the Casas Grandes river. Many Ancestral Puebloans may have migrated here after the collapse of the Chaco polity.

Luiz Benavadiz, our guide for the trip, at Paquime. He was funny, friendly, and knowledgeable. Luiz runs trips out of The Pink Store in Puerto Palomas.

Scarlet macaw breeding pens (but see comment below on macaws) at Paquime. Evidence suggests that these macaws did not lead happy lives. Macaw feathers are found over a vast area of Mesoamerica and the U.S. Southwest suggesting ritual importance.

Guadalupe Mountains, Texas and New Mexico

Our Lady of Guadalupe on a wall in Oaxaca, Mexico (2007).

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In 1531, a Mexican peasant named Juan Diego and his uncle, Juan Bernardino, reported seeing several apparitions of the Virgin Mary, a.k.a. the Virgin of Guadalupe and Our Lady of Guadalupe, near Mexico City. Subsequently, depictions of the purported traveling virgin became iconic, and innumerable places throughout Mexico and the Southwestern U.S carry her name. On a recent outing, we visited the Guadalupe Mountains of SE New Mexico and West Texas, a National Park and home to Carlsbad Caverns and it’s Brazilian free-tailed bat population, which had already migrated south for the winter when we were there, leaving only its guano behind. Summer visitors can watch thousands of bats emerge from the cave at dusk and spiral into the night sky.

Mid- to late-November is autumn in West Texas, but fall color doesn't come to mind in the desert, so we were surprised to learn that trailheads would likely be packed with leaf-peepers. After the five-hour drive from Silver City, we walked to Smith Spring, a short hike into the foothills from a historic ranch. A ranger told us that autumn foliage at the spring was spectacular despite peaking a week or so earlier, but we were skeptical as we walked across the Chihuahuan desert towards a dry-looking canyon. But inside the canyon, clear pools of water seeping from a sandstone layer beneath limestone cliffs created a wet micro-environment supporting a lush grove of yellow Gambel’s oak, red and yellow bigtooth maple, bright green ferns and grasses, and a few pale yuccas and cacti to remind us that the desert wasn’t far away. It was surprisingly spectacular. 

 

We spent the rest of the week exploring the Guadalupes and Carlsbad Caverns. We hiked up Guadalupe Peak, the highest point in Texas (8,751’), and looked down on a limestone buttress called El Capitan. Larry Scritchfield and I bootlegged a mountain bike ride beneath El Capitan on a rest day during a Hueco Tanks climbing trip sometime in the 1980s or 90s (I can’t remember exactly when) before the Park was so popular (and so well patrolled) and before I had a bike with shocks. Ellen and I hiked into McKittrick Canyon, another autumn color destination where a petroleum geologist named Wallace Pratt built an inviting stone cottage in the 1930s that he later donated to the Park. We climbed the three easiest rock routes in Last Chance Canyon, a limestone gorge north of the Guadalupe Mountains know for harder climbs in steep alcoves. And we hiked 750’ down into the earth through Carlsbad’s natural entrance on the switch-backing asphalt tourist trail. It led us and a bunch of other people, some making videos of every feature with their phones (I pity their friends and families), through a labyrinth of passages and rooms and eventually to the underground restrooms and snack bar (closed) near the elevator that most visitors use to exit the cave. We chose to hike out the way we’d come in and were lucky to have the cavern to ourselves after the last tourist entries at 2:30 p.m. passed us on their way down.

 

We’re told that spring is also lovely in the Guadalupes, with wildflowers and white madrone blossoms set off by the mahogany-brown bark. We'll return, and if we’re lucky, Our Lady of Guadalupe might appear in our latte foam at the Blue House Cafe in Carlsbad if we stop there to for a pastry and a pick-me-up on our way home. 

Smith Spring in Guadalupe National Park. 

Yellow bigtooth maple at Smith Spring.

Fall colors at Smith Spring.

Limestone fins in viewed from the trail up Guadalupe Peak.

El Capitan from the Guadalupe Peak Trail with West Texas stretched out to the south. 

Ellen near the summit on the Guadalupe Peak Trail.

A lone bigtooth maple in McKittrick Canyon.

Looking down into the maw of Carlsbad Caverns from the natural entrance. The trail descends 750 vertical feet into the cavern but doesn't reach the lowest levels.

The Virgin of Guadalupe peers out from a window in Oaxaca, Mexico (2007).

Edinburgh, Scotland

 

Edinburgh as seen looking east from the castle towards Arthur's Seat.

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Arthur’s Seat is a volcanic mound rising above the east end of the Royal Mile, the busy heart of Edinburgh tourism. On our second full day in town, we walked upwards through thick fog to the top and imagined the view if one could see more than a few feet into the grayness. On the descent, a substantial Scottish man slogging upwards with his family announced to his wife in a thick (to us) accent, “I could be drinkin’ in the pub, but instead I’m up here with you in the mist.” 

 

I’m not a patient city tourist. It’s not that I don’t like what cities offer, but after a few urban walks, however interesting, or museum visits, however engaging, I find myself looking forward to quiet breaks from the crowds and my attention narrowing to the next restaurant choice. But cities have their charms, and we easily filled a couple of days in Edinburgh before heading out to the Isle of Skye and the Highlands. 

 

To be fair, Edinburgh is a great city—it’s chocked full of historical buildings, the restaurant scene is lively and diverse, people are friendly and polite despite all the tourists, transportation is easy, and there is no end of things to do, including festivals, museums, tours, hikes, and drinking. We jumped in with both feet—walking up and down the Royal Mile, visiting the castle, hiking up Arthur’s Seat, eating good Indian food—before driving out of Leith on the “wrong” side of the road in our Eurocar rental. There's much more to embrace in Edinburgh than its tourist hub for those with more city energy than I have, but we were excited head north. 

Once on Skye, we were happy to be walking “in the mist,” safe in the knowledge that even in the windswept wildness of the Hebrides, a warm pub was never far away.

A bagpipe busker on the Royal Mile. When you walk out of Waverly station, tired from 24 hours of travel, the pipers, out to earn a pound or two, make it clear that you aren't in Southern New Mexico anymore.

Stained glass in Tron Kirk, a former parish church that has been converted into a craft market.

On our arrival in Edinburgh, we sat in a small square behind Tron Kirk waiting for check-in time at our Airbnb so that we could go to sleep. I thought this guy looked sketchy, but soon young women and their mothers were chatting amiably with him about his dog, eroding my American distrust of strangers.

A street parallel to the Royal Mile.

An old sign from the days before tourism at the entrance to a "close" (side alley used to access residences) off of the Royal Mile.

A detail in the ornate ceiling of St. Giles Cathedral. St. Giles is the patron saint of lepers and was also popular in medieval Scotland. 

A cathedral in the mist.

A "wynd" (winding side street) off of the Royal Mile.

Headstones at the Cannongate Kirkyard date to 1600s. We stopped here to explore on our way to Arthur's Seat, and I was surprised to stumble upon the grave of Adam Smith, the famous economist.

In another close, a poster reproduced descriptive passages from a reference book published in the 1700s by James Tytler called "Ranger's Impartial List of the Ladies of Pleasure in Edinburgh".

Ellen in the mist on our way down from Arthur's Seat.

A ruin above Holyrood on Arthur's Seat.

Hiking the West Highland Way, Scotland

The West Highland Way.

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Near the end of our sixth day on the West Highland Way, we passed an ancient graveyard and the ruins of St. Fillan’s Priory, now reduced to low moss-covered stone walls in a grove of trees by the trail. We didn’t linger, foot-sore and eager to get to Kingshouse, a couple of miles farther on, where we could probably buy a latte and something to eat, but we learned from interpretive signs that St. Fillan was an 8^th Century Irish missionary who had settled in this part of Scotland. He was believed to have had healing powers and as an extra bonus, a left arm that glowed in the dark, which came in handy during Scottish winters as he huddled by a guttering fire copying religious works. I can imagine other uses for a glowing arm but also downsides: for one, it might attract midges, the obnoxious biting flies that famously swarm the Highlands during the summer months, driving hikers crazy. 

Mental illness in the 8th Century was mysterious and difficult to treat, but near the priory, a Holy Pool in the River Fillan offered hope to the afflicted or at least to their long-suffering caregivers. According to interpretive signs, the ill were led to the pool where they were released to wade in and recover stones, which were then placed carefully around a stone circle. Then they marched naked back to the priory to be tied “hand-and-foot” for the night to the altar beneath St. Fillan’s Bell with nary a glowing arm to light the darkness. If in the morning they had managed to escape, they were considered cured. It’s unclear what became of them if they didn't, but I doubt that it included lattes at Kingshouse, where we headed in haste, trying not to dwell on the 8th Century mental health safety net.  

 

We spent eight days in September hiking the West Highland Way from Milngavie, a northern suburb of Glasgow, to Ft. William, a largish town nestled between Loch Linnhe, an arm of the sea, and Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the U.K. The walk begins in the Scottish Lowlands and passes through rolling farmland and patches of forest before crossing a fault defining the edge of the Highlands. From there, a long rocky traverse along the shore of Loch Lomond leads to classic Highlands terrain—vast open moorland and u-shaped valleys beneath steep vegetated peaks called Munros if they rise to over 3,000’, Corbetts if they’re between 2,500’ and 3,000’, and Grahams if they're between 2,000’ and 2,499’. The trail in this northern section mostly follows an old military road, paved in stones in places and reduced to single-track trail in others. It descends at the end into Ft. William where one can board a train back to Glasgow or Edinburgh.

 

At well-spaced intervals along the way are small towns where walkers can stay in comfortable lodging if they plan ahead or campsites if they tough it out with full backpacks. Somewhat untypically for us, we chose the former, reveling in hot showers, comfortable beds, and hearty pub-meals and complaining only a little about the walking, barely laden with tiny daypacks stuffed with unused rain gear (we enjoyed unheard-of perfect weather) and snacks. Each night, our luggage was waiting for us thanks to a luggage transfer company that stays busy through the hiking season shuttling suitcases from place to place for hikers from all over the world. 

 

Trail cohorts leave Milngavie at the same time each day, often following similar itineraries, so hiking the WHW is social. We bonded with a couple from New Zealand and another from Canterbury (southern England) and joined them in the evenings for dinner and on the trail to chat when we could keep up, helping the miles go faster. We met hikers from the U.S., Canada, Israel, Thailand, France, Romania, and Germany, most when they passed us as we plodded along, wondering how people walk so fast. And of course, some people run the WHW and a few ride it on bicycles. Others have enough energy to bag Munros along the way, a sport of its own. If you bag all 232 Munros, you are dubbed a Munroist in Scotland, an honor that I will never attain. 

There are myriad websites and blogs providing fine-grained detail about the WHW, so I won’t go down that road, but I’ll add a few logistical notes after the photos below. We enjoyed the hike quite a lot, especially the northern half in the Highlands proper where more of the walking is away from busy roads and the scenery is gently spectacular. Knowing what I know after walking the WHW, I might choose to piece together something a little wilder if I were to return, but it’s a beautiful introduction to Scotland, and even with the crowds and the proximity to roads, walking it sure beats being tied naked to an altar beneath a bell without a glowing arm.

Ellen walking out of Milngavie, a suburb of Glasgow. The first few miles are in urban parks before the trail leaves that behind and enters rural farmland.

Typical terrain during the first day or two of the walk through rolling countryside divided by old stone walls. Once forested, most of this land has been cleared for farming and grazing. The tree in this image is a European mountain ash, thick with red-orange berries.

European mountain ash berries.

For Ellen, a near-vegetarian, all haggis is aggressive.

Speaking of haggis, here's an example of Mexican-Scottish fusion cuisine (Sco-Mex? Mex-i-Sco? Haggidillas?).

Ellen at the Clachan Pub in Drymen. Supposedly, this is the oldest licensed pub (1734) in Scotland, though I imagine there are many unlicensed pubs that go back further. The shelf all along the ceiling is lined with bottles of scotch from different distilleries. 

 

Scottish countryside near Drymen on the 2nd day of the walk.

Ellen descending Conic Hill toward Loch Lomond. Workers were busy using large boulders to build the trail, which made it tedious to navigate. I asked one of them how they managed to get the boulders up there, and he said, "this is where I have to make up a story about helicopters--nobody believes in magic anymore."

Forest near Balmaha was reminiscent of the Pacific Northwest.

Loch Lomond is a huge lake that we hiked along for two days before breaking out into more classic Highlands terrain.

"Honesty Boxes," few as fancy as this refrigerated one, are scattered along the trail for hikers. You're on your honor to leave money for any snacks and drinks you can't resist.

The view north into the Highlands from Loch Lomond.

The classic bar at the Drover's Inn at the end of our 2nd day. It opened in 1705 and supposedly, the famous Rob Roy (Scotland's Robin Hood) stopped in, though those stories seem a little like "George Washington slept here."

A stream along the trail. The landscape is gentle but streams cut into bedrock and are full of waterfalls, slots, and rapids.

Another stream incised into rolling hills.

A fencepost along the trail.

Beinn Dorain, a Munro, on day 5.

The Bridge of Orchy over the River Orchy at the end of the 5th day of our walk. The bridge was built in 1746 but has no trouble supporting a modern road. We sat beneath it soaking our tired feet until we could check into our comfy hotel beside the river.

The River Orchy in morning fog as we started out on day 6.

The slabs of Stob Dearg, another Munro, rising out of the fog on our 6th day. Climber note: There are technical slab climbs on this and other nearby peaks with "adequate protection" which, given Scottish climbing tradition, should make your palms sweat.

Ellen on day 7 with the trail stretching out before her.

The view down the Loch Leven valley with "The Pap" in the distance, called that "for obvious reasons" according to a local taxi driver we talked with.

Ellen approaching a stone ruin on the last day (8th) of the walk.

The infamous Ben Nevis near the end of the hike. At over 4,000', this is the tallest peak in the U.K. The side you can't see in this photo is craggy and has been the scene of Scottish mountaineering epics for centuries.

Ellen at the end of the walk in Ft. William. The WHW is supposed to be about 96 miles long, but Ellen traced it at over 110 on her GPS, and our feet were ready for a few days off.

Logistics

There is a wealth of detailed information online about hiking the WHW since it is probably the most popular long-distance trail in Scotland. I'll add just a few notes here.

Walking Companies: There are many companies that you can hire to make accommodation and luggage transport arrangements, and for us, this was a worthwhile and not very expensive way to set up the trip. We used Contours, and they did an excellent job--all of our accommodations were upscale, and transfers all went smoothly. Book as early as possible! We booked late (early June for a mid-September hike), so on several nights we had to take taxis (arranged by Contours) from where we finished walking to available accommodation. It would be much nicer to sleep where you finish walking each day. Do your research before choosing a walking company--Contours was great, and there are other good companies, but we heard from other travelers and taxi drivers that some companies are "rubbish."

The Walk: The walk is generally easy, without too much climbing and descending at least compared to what we're used to in the U.S. West where we do most of our backpacking. We did the walk in 8 days, which is fairly common (people do it in much shorter or a little longer times). This was reasonable, but we had some 17-mile days in the first half of the walk which felt long. Most of the latter half required only 9-12 mile days which is more relaxed. You could create an itinerary that breaks up those long early days. If you want a wilder walk with less people, there are many options, but they may require a little more planning to arrange.

Food: Our accommodations provided breakfasts, and they were hearty. We carried snacks for lunches, but you can buy packed lunches if you want something more substantial, and many of the towns along the way have places to buy food. We ate dinners out at universally good restaurants and pubs. Food is expensive in Scotland by our standards, but we went for it. There were always at least some vegetarian options at restaurants, including vegetarian haggis (made from vegetable livers and hearts wrapped in a vegetable stomach?).

Transport: Transportation to the beginning of the walk in Milngavie and from the end in Fort William is easily accomplished and inexpensive by train. See the Scotrail website.