Like most of us over the last two years, I took a pause on international travel–for obvious reasons. However, this September, with my son Arjun starting his freshman year of college, my team and I coming off another successful No Barriers Summit, my 53rd birthday just around the corner, and the UK opening its border to tourists again, I couldn’t resist the dream of a bike and climbing adventure in Scotland.
Cycling Across the Country
The first week, my friend, Daniel Bedell, and I joined our two local guides, Alex Glasgow and Mark Clark from H+I Adventures, to tandem mountain bike across the country. It was a great way to get familiar with Scotland—starting on the east coast in the seaside town of Stonehaven and peddling 225 miles in 5 exciting days to the Isle of Skye on the west.
Our route took us across the entire Scottish Highlands—through forests and Moorlands, and over countless steep passes above treeline in Cairngorms National Park—home to Balmoral Castle, where the royal family summers, Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in the UK, and long stunning lakes like Loch Ness.
Each day, we’d climb through the lush countryside, stopping to experience ancient fortresses, play in clear swimming holes, and appreciate active farms, before descending into tiny quaint towns to enjoy the best fish and chips I’ve ever tasted.
Along the way, Alex and Mark pointed out landmarks, filled our heads with volumes of history, and explained a lot about the way locals live. They told us many folks live on “crofts,” small plots of agricultural land you’re able to rent or buy from the government for very little money. Both Alex and Mark were “crofters.” In fact, Alex was starting a new venture to grow seaweed. So next time you’re at the sushi restaurant chowing a fresh seaweed salad, you can give a heads-up to Alex.
Alex and Mark also deserve a great deal of kudos because they managed to get me and Daniel out of a tight bind. We had initially packed my custom tandem to ride, but British Airways never delivered it. Without skipping a beat, Alex and Mark salvaged the situation by finding a local tandem. Despite the chain continually falling off, the hub busting, and the gears skipping, these guys just kept efficiently replacing parts so we could ride each day. Daniel was also a stud, as he navigated us over some very challenging terrain. Thanks to this amazing team!
Climbing Scotland’s Sea Stacks
For the second week of the trip, I met my buddy, Timmy O’Neill, to climb three prominent sea stacks on the north coast.
If you aren’t familiar, “sea stacks” are dramatic towers of layered rock, like birthday cake, erupting up from the North Atlantic. They are the delicate remains of deteriorating sandstone—once connected to the mainland—formed by hundreds of years of hydraulic action. Envision powerful wind and waves bashing against the cliff, cracking, eroding, and eventually collapsing the rock until the tower falls over into the sea—hopefully not while ascending them.
Climbers typically reach the base of the stacks by following hiking trails that lead to cliff sides. Then they scramble or rappel down the edges to the water, reaching the base by traversing ribbons of debris and boulders. Some stacks are completely separated from the mainland, so one climber swims across the channel, typically replete with barreling waves, and anchors a rope for the rest of the team who “Tyrolean traverse” across to the towers. The climbing is amazing, but equally interesting are the logistics of reaching the stacks and returning safely.
Old Man of Hoy
Our first stack was the Old Man of Stoer, about 200 feet tall, and positioned at the mouth of a large bay on the northeast shore. However, the gem of the trip was our second, the Old Man of Hoy, a 449-foot behemoth.
Hoy is part of the Orkney archipelago and is one of the tallest stacks in the UK. It formed sometime in the mid-1700s and was said to resemble a human figure because it had a hollowed-out arch at the base, which looked like two legs. For over 200+ years, relentless forces have worn away the fragile, flaking stone—ever changing its shape. Scientists today predict Hoy may only stand for a few more decades. This fact made us that much more grateful to experience this natural wonder.
Timmy, our local guide, Mighty Mick Tighe, his wife, Kathy, their dog, Molly, and I crossed over streams, hills, and fragrant peat moss to get to the edge of the cliff where we scrambled down to the sea. Then we crossed a narrow spit of boulders and harnessed up. The first pitches were straightforward. Then we traversed a slippery sandy slab and started up the cracks and challenging chimneys, always hyper-aware of the giant waves crashing against the cliff just below and spraying me with foam.
I kept contemplating how bad it would be to fall in and get ripped apart and swallowed by the violent current. I’ve done a lot of climbing, as well as kayaking, but combining these two powerful elements was a brand-new experience. At the summit, we breathed in the briny sea air, and just marveled at the rugged environment surrounding us.
Yesnaby Castle
Our next goal was Yesnaby Castle, a tower that turned out to be one of the wildest adventures of my life. Standing on two legs, Yesnaby is only 115 feet tall, but what it lacks in height, it makes up for in wildness. On our first hike to look at the tower, the waters below were nothing short of angry. Swimming across would have been insane.
We returned a few days later, and the only thing that had changed was Timmy’s determination. He stared down at the water patterns for a long time, watching the tower split the freight-train waves hammering into the bay and exploding into the caverns at the back of the cove; the roar was deafening.
Then, surprisingly, I heard the gasps of the tourists watching from the clifftop as Timmy plunged into the raging North Atlantic, swam aggressively across, attempted to scramble up to the base of the stack, got yanked away by a huge swell, somehow battled his way back, caught hold of the rock again, and hucked himself onto the small shelf. Mick and I cowered on a narrow ledge on the other side, with the waves soaking us up to our knees.
Being a mountain guide and former member of the UK’s special forces, Mick just looked at me and in a beautiful brogue bellowed, “You boys like adventure … Well, this is as adventurous as it gets.” Translation: We were pushing the envelope!
Mick and Timmy tensioned the rope from opposite sides, and it was my turn to Tyrolean across. That’s when Mick explained, “Erik, there’s one problem here. Well, it’s not really a problem. More of a situation … You’re probably going to get wet. No matter what, do not stop pulling.”
In better conditions, the rope would hover about 20 feet above the water, but on this day, I dropped in, and with the high tides and natural sag of the rope, my back hit the water. Then, I heard Timmy yell, “here comes a big one,” as a massive swell walloped me and engulfed my entire body. I was totally submerged, frantically hauling, imagining orcas and sharks below and recalling the story Mick told of a climber who got stuck in the middle of the traverse and drowned beneath the frigid waves.
Yarding myself uphill along the slippery wet rope, I somehow reached the other side, flipped my feet around, and—after a couple failed attempts—awkwardly belly-flopped myself onto the sandy platform like a seal. It was 50 degrees and windy. My chalk bag, harness, shoes, and clothes were all soaked.
Timmy told me later he was both terrified, yet simultaneously trying not to chuckle; it’s the dark humor of climbing. He said later he was convinced I’d emerge from the ocean with a halibut in my mouth. Thankfully, he pulled out a jacket from his dry bag and I wrestled it on. “Okay, let’s climb.”
All’s Well That Ends Well
I would never have had the opportunity to take this two-week trip of a lifetime without my Rope Team helping me out. Thanks to Timmy for tackling the swim, Mick for leading us in, building our anchors, and keeping us safe, and Daniel for piloting the tandem through some gnarly terrain. I’m incredibly grateful!