"Wanderlust"

 

Many, many moons ago, when the legs were fresh, the maps were crisp, and the heart was eager, I was overcome by wanderlust, a German word, while in the U.S. Army stationed in West Germany. 

I needed a vacation. Like a real vacation, not just a beer down the street with my buddies, or at a German dance club trying to meet women.

It was July 1988, the U.S. Army was in possession of my life and most of my time.  When not on maneuvers or on a field training exercise, my weekends were mine, yet I was always on call to serve the U.S. Army on the frontiers of freedom.  An alert to roll out to forward defensive positions was always a possibility. Monthly, during these Cold War days, we would have unscheduled alerts, meaning that we could be fast asleep, or off post somewhere, or half drunk, and one would have to gather their rucksacks, have weapons issued, and get to the armored vehicles that would get us to border positions to fend off a possible Soviet and East German attack. They were Commie bastards, indeed.
   While training hard and effectively on a competitive rifle team and being in outstanding physical shape, this U.S. Army Sergeant was in dire need of a vacation. 
   The rifle team competition against other U.S. Army Europe Infantry units went surprisingly well, as our 2 squads, of which I was on squad 2, placed one and three out of 12 competing teams.
My leave time was to begin on July 15th, the day our victorious rifle teams were invited to meet our 3rd Armored Division commander, a two-star Major General.  One regret that I had throughout my eight year Army career was not meeting the esteemed General.
   My vacation beckoned. I was ready to fly from Frankfurt, West Germany, to Glasgow, Scotland, in the United Kingdom for "Holiday."
   So, with airline tickets, a British rail pass, a leg wallet, a boot knife, and unharnessed enthusiasm, I set my sights on Scotland.  Brace yourselves, dear Scots, here I come.
   Having good maps, I set my course northward on the Scottish rails, firstly, Glasgow to Inverness.  The train ride through the Scottish interior was splendid, the scenery breathtaking. As a seasoned traveler and planner, as the U.S. Army helped to refine these skills, I did NOT secure lodging for every night.  Heck, I didn't know exactly where I was going, I was winging it in every sense of the word.  My failure to secure night lodgings would soon wreak havoc on my peace of mind, yet, my zest for adventure was to cloud clearer thought processes.

   Disembarking the train in Inverness, I humped my 50 Lb. rucksack around the town while sightseeing.  After a couple of hours, I realized that I needed to use a bathroom, sit, rest my feet, and eat. It was now around 8 PM and I needed to consider a place to sleep, after vittles and a pint of beer or two.
   I walked into a bar, the Argyll Pub, only seeking a seat and a bite to eat. What I walked into was a bar fight.  A real as hell bar fight.  Two Scottish guys slugging it out, landing savage blows.  I was a U.S. Army airborne-qualified Sergeant yet I was not prepared to rain blows upon an anonymous foe.
   I scampered to the right rear corner of the bar, an empty table ready to accept my hungry weariness.  I left my ruck in the corner and ordered a pint of local ale.
   After about 10 minutes, the ruckus subsided as both parties, obviously friends, began to drink again.  What set them off? Unkind words about a sports team or a sister, perhaps.  Thems fightin' words.
   One of the brawlers, a nice enough fellow named Kenneth, apologized for the rude greeting and bought me a pint. We joked and he said a lesser man would have turned around and left. I said I was too fatigued to join in.  I just wanted a seat and a beer.
The Scots asked me many questions and they answered most of mine.
Friendships were made and soon forgotten.
   After a nice meat and potato dish, washed down with three or four or five pints, this soldier was ready for some shut-eye.
   I left the bar and walked up the town's high hill to the base of the wall of the Inverness Castle.  The seabirds were loud as there were nests nearby. I laid out my sleep pad and sleeping bag at the base of the castle wall, took a leak a safe distance away, and settled in for a short summer night's nap.
Interestingly, it was 11:00 PM and the sun hadn't set yet. I was way above the 41 degrees north latitude of New York City. Inverness lay at 57.4 degrees north latitude, considerably more northerly than NYC, which is parallel to Madrid, Spain.

   After some rough, mostly uncomfortable sleep, regardless of the alcohol factor, the squawking birds rested for only a while.  By 3 AM the sun was rising on the new day; it frazzled the heck out of me.  It was my first experience, as an adult, in the higher latitudes.
   This Scotland trek would take me north to the Orkney Islands, on an eight hour ferry ride to the Shetland Islands, and to the northernmost town in the British Isles, Haroldswick, on the isle of Unst.  60.7 degrees north latitude, a mere five degrees from the Arctic Circle. While hiking alone through a nature preserve, I was dive-bombed by large seabirds called Skuas. Wingspan of 6-7 feet, 30 lbs of bird on the wing. Yikes!
   On my way back to the Orkneys, to the town of Stromness, I once again failed to secure lodging. My zeal for adventure never higher, any hope of a warm bed for this soldier was usurped by the Orkney Raven Ale festival.  A beer and ale and food festival is always a wonderful event yet it was grossly tempered by having no place to rest my weary head.
As I waddled into a packed bar, I was able to find a corner table spot with other festival revelers.  I made some short-time friends, had some righteous vittles and a few pints.  Lo and behold, last call was at 11:00 PM.  Thank God I had bathroom access before being sent into this rainy Orkney dusk.
   As the merry and drunk revelers went home to their previously secured hotel rooms, I was standing under an awning, ruck at my feet, watching the rain fall harder and harder.  Fiddlesticks!!!
   I was doomed to a miserable night of cold and wet. What, am I in the freakin' army?  This is vacation.  Why am I sleeping outside?
What an idiot.

   Then God gave me strength, and an idea. I spied overturned rowboats sitting on a dock.  I walked over, getting rain wet all the time, to investigate.
Crawling under the largest rowboat, and dragging my ruck and bedroll in with me, I realized that this spot was effing cold. The cold Scottish air was underneath me, yet I was dry.  I slid into my sleeping bag and could not get warm. I shivered and shook until I finally fell asleep.  After about 4 hours of sleep, the early morning sun awoke me.  The beer caught up with me as my toasty sleep was abruptly halted by the urgency to pee. I begrudgingly exited the warm sleeping bag, put on my pants and hiking boots, and wobbled to the far end of the empty and isolated dock to contribute to nature. It was nice to get back into the sleep bag, knowing I could stay in for a bit longer.  About 8 AM I was awakened by people walking by on the dock, none the wiser to my stealthy presence under the rowboat.
   This trek brought me to points south, to Loch Ness, as I searched for Nessie by putting my cranium into the chilly lake.  Venturing further by use of foot and thumb, I made it to Fort William and Glen Nevis, at the base of Great Britain's tallest peak, Ben Nevis. I slept in a house that night, thank God, and climbed the mountain the next day.
The next day, after passing out at the house after the mountain and about 5 pints, I slept for 10 hours.
   My trek continued to the Isle of Skye and the Dunvegan Castle, and to the Eileen Donan Castle.  To be sure, more stories can be told.  My wanderlust brought me 200 miles on train, 100 miles hitchhiking, 4 ferry boats, a rubber dinghy, and as a passenger on a replica Viking longboat.  I was able to run a 10-miler one day, taking a break from hiking. A nice, restful break.  I met a couple from Glasgow, whom I met again on my last day, and a couple from Nuremburg, West Germany, who I visited a few months later.  20 days in the Scottish Islands and Highlands, by myself, I am sure to bore the living hell out of anyone who dares to listen? 

Did I ever tell you about the tale of the Banshee?
That's a story for another day.

Richard Melnick,
Queens Scripturient student since 2018.