Words: Alex Yoder 2017-10-30 16:54:54
How do I know this? It started when I bought a Volkswagen camper van that happened to be parked in Europe. It was too good to pass up. Turbo diesel, 4x4, big enough to live in with a friend or two, but small enough to park anywhere. It was love at first click. My optimism for having the dream machine shipped across the Atlantic was led astray down a few roads we don’t have time to discuss at the moment. So leaving it across the pond had me poised for a whole slew of new adventures. It took almost a decade of dreaming for me to go snowboarding in Japan, just shy of that to finally get heli runs in Alaska. I never dreamed of riding in Scotland, perhaps the least romantic snowboarding destination in the world. But with a mobile home across the pond, why not?
The journey to Scotland began in Amsterdam, where I picked up my creative compatriots Wade Dunstan and David Cleeland along with Marie France-Roy. From there, we took a massive overnight ferry to Newcastle, UK. The three of them could have just as easily flown to Edinburgh. I could have ferried the van over solo, but selfishly I commanded their company. They thanked me by having a waitress bring me a frosty Smirnoff Ice to enjoy in one throat-searing chug just as the ship left the harbor. Old Poseidon must have been angry that night because it takes a lot to get a 200-foot boat rocking. I didn’t make it through dinner. Instead, I let the water god rock me to sleep. When I woke up, we were minutes from England’s Port of Tyne, just an hour south of the Scottish border.
I had devised a loose plan for the first two days of the trip: Go to Aviemore, one of the few proper ski towns in the Scottish Highlands, try to get info about snow conditions, maybe ride the resort, and take it from there. By the time we met Lauren MacCallum, we’d spent a couple of days riding low-tide groomers and day two was in its waning hours. Lauren is a Canada-born, Scotland-raised and Scotland proud 20-something snowboarder (among her other talents). She approached our group in a pub called the Old Bridge Inn. She recognized Marie and unabashedly declared her to be one of her heroes. Marie blushed. Then, without a sliver of hesitation, she asked, “What the fuck are you doing in Scotland?”
It was a fair question, one that became nearly as common as the gusts of wind throughout the trip. I explained that we were interested in Scotland’s right to roam law and our only plans were to meet people, learn and snowboard. Lauren was so genuine, intelligent and passionate that it felt like I got to know her well after 10 minutes of conversation. She quickly outlined for us the nuts and bolts of Scotland’s history and the right to roam.
It was apparent immediately that Lauren’s intrepid spirit could help us look deeply into the eyes of the real Scotland. So, as good hippies do, we invited her to hop in the van. It was Sunday afternoon. Lauren works a nine-to-five in Glasgow. She called her boss, told him some American snowboarders/filmmakers needed her help and she’d be out of the office for the week. He obliged her request for time off and we hit the road at a top speed of 55 miles per hour.
Like everywhere else in the world, you can’t expect to understand Scotland or those who inhabit it until you’ve sunk your toes into its foreign soil and clinked glasses of its local ale. When the glasses touch in Scotland it is customary to say “slàinte” (SLAHN-cheh), which literally translates to “health.” This sentiment walks a tightrope strung with irony as we all know consumption of alcohol has contrary effects on our pumps and pipes, but that’s beside the point. To me, it signifies the stubborn resistance of a subjugated population. Since its union with England in 1707 following millennia of complicated dispute, rights and freedom as the Scots knew it, from the Highlands and Lowlands to the Scottish Isles, were taken over by a foreign power. All the Scots had was their health.
The Scottish layperson had no say in the matter when the British Royal Army arrived to enforce the queen’s decision to sell off land to the highest bidder. During the Highland Clearances of the 18th and 19th centuries, the traditional Gaelic occupants of the area known as The Highlands were torn away from their plots of land, which wereplucked petal by petal like a daisy in a schoolyard. These land seizures parceled out Scotland to the wealthy until more than 90 percent of the land was privately owned. This, combined with migration to lowland urban areas during the Industrial Revolution, all but eradicated traditional Gaelic culture.
The Highlands, which encompass the northwestern half of Scotland beyond the Highland Boundary Fault, top out at 4,406-foot Ben Nevis, the tallest peak in the British Isles. It’s a vast landscape of ancient rock with sheer cliffs, deep valleys and great fjords along the Atlantic Ocean and North Sea. It’s also one of the most sparsely populated areas in Europe. Much of the Highlands is currently comprised of private properties commonly referred to as “estates.” Think massive Victorian-era architecture, tweed coats, tobacco pipes, shotguns and beautifully groomed spaniels. These estates serve as vacation homes and short-stay retreats for full-pocketed folks from around the world. Almost all hunting and fishing in Scotland takes place at these estates. The option to buy a permit to kill an animal to feed your family doesn’t exist. Throw a lure in a creek and you could face a fine.
We didn’t expect to run into splitboarders in the Highlands. But we did. Craig Burry is, for all we know, the only splitboarding mountain guide there. Somehow David had gotten in touch with Craig on Facebook through a friend of a friend. Like Lauren, we met Craig at the Old Bridge Inn in Aviemore. Craig was about my age, maybe in his mid-to-late 20s. He was calm, knowledgeable and optimistic about leading us to some decent snow.
Craig confirmed what we’d heard from other locals: they were experiencing the lowest snowfall in 30 years. Even though the opposite was true back home in western North America, we shrugged it off. We were happy to make do with what was available. Perhaps the silver lining was the notoriously bad winter weather in Scotland didn’t really live up to the hype. Most days, we could see our surroundings. The landscape reminded me of the barren hills of the American west before interstate highways, with snowcapped, treeless peaks like you’d find in New Zealand. It was as captivating as the smell of the first summer rain. I couldn’t count the rainbows. I tried. Too many.
Snowboarding was one of the things we were doing in Scotland, and that was the short answer. We found some fun terrain when we roamed through unlocked gates in an area called the Back Corries off the backside of Nevis Range Mountain Resort, which is just down the range from Ben Nevis, or “Big Ben” as the locals call it. There, a collection of steep, rocky chutes drops off a long ridgeline, comparable to terrain you might find stateside in the Rocky Mountains. While the snow wasn’t deep powder, it was enjoyably smooth, likely thanks to the wind. I try to always remember that powder is a state of mind anyway.
Freedom was the prevailing emotion of the trip. Where there were roads, we could drive. Where there were relatively flat parking spots, we could live. And where there was snow, we could ride. Our only worry was running out of propane. We even found one of the area’s plentiful huts for an overnight stay in the Highlands. They’re called “bothies,” and they’re shelters for travelers seeking refuge from an unexpected squall. The huts are basic shelters with a wood stove and maybe a bed platform or two to keep you off the stone floor. They’re free and first-come, first-served, and if you’re wanting a warm night, you’d best pack in some wood. The long answer to what we were doing was we were there for the sake of experience, to see a place in the world that was new to us through the eyes of the people shaped by this land, and maybe inspire others to learn more about it. The other underlying interest was to see how this whole right to roam thing works. In the United States, our current government is making what a lot of us consider to be terrible decisions in the tussle over public lands. The current Secretary of the Interior was tasked with reviewing a number of our national monuments and, per his review, the president has decided to shrink some of these areas. I can’t help but assume these shrinkages have to do with behind-the-scenes financial interests. But if the United States continues to sell off public lands and we reach the point at which it’s all privately owned, much like Scotland, how will we handle it?
The Scottish people may not have been dealt a great hand, historically speaking. Their story lacks romance. The climate isn’t ideal for crops and the winters can be harsh, but when I sunk my knife into the haggis, much more flavor than I expected spilled onto the plate. There’s a deep reverence for freedom here. The people we met put up no walls. They were genuine and gracious. It’s almost as if stark injustice has consequently wired a sense of comradery and generosity into the population. Most of the land is being shared. There are nearly no trespassing laws. They’ve developed a compromise for the sake of being able to exist as the animals we are. We all have the right to breathe. Shouldn’t we all have the right to roam?
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