By Day 5 on the West Highland Way, I had developed a theory: Scotland doesn’t have “weather.” It has rain pairings.

There’s rain and wind, rain and fog, rain and midges, sideways rain, misty rain, spittin’ rain, stingin’ rain, Biblical rain,,sheep-smelling rain, Rain That Knows What You Did Last Summer, and horizontal slap-you-in-the-face rain.

I think I experienced all of them today—the toughest day of the trip: 22 miles, including a climb called “The Devil’s Staircase.”

Now, nobody in history has ever finished a delightful afternoon stroll on a well-graded gentle path and said, “Gosh, that was relaxing. Let’s name it after Satan’s Glute Workout.”

No. The phrase Devil’s Staircase is not used lightly. It is reserved for vertical death marches.

So by mile 82 of the West Highland Way, after hiking a marathon through sideways rain and  chilling wind over 3,000 feet of elevation gain, we stumbled into Kinlochleven soaked and exhausted. But just when morale was lower than our glucose levels, we spotted it: Tailrace Inn, a pub just beckoning us in. Ten steps off the trail.

We staggered inside, shedding layers like molting lizards, and that’s when we saw a sign—a laminated manifesto taped to the door.

PLEASE DO NOT remove shoes and socks in the bar at any time.
Experience tells us that at this stage of the West Highland Way feet and walking boots can have a special aroma which can be offensive to customers enjoying their meals and beverages.

Now, this is the most civilized way I’ve ever seen someone say, “Dear Hikers: Your feet smell like a goat fell in a loch and died. Please keep them imprisoned.”

It had the kind of stern politeness pulled off by only Scots and Canadian flight attendants. There was even a helpful cartoon of hairy hobbit feet emitting visible stink lines, in case any multilingual nose-impaired walkers had made it this far without a clue.

To be clear, they’re not wrong. 

By Day 5, my feet smelled like a yeast factory had married a wet towel and moved into a boot. One of my socks was—technically—in the early, active stages of fermenting.

Still, there’s something comforting about a sign that understands your suffering and gently says, “Yes, you’re disgusting. Please order a Tennents Lager, but do it with your shoes on.”

And here’s the thing about long-distance thru-hiking that people who haven’t done it might not fully grasp: after a certain number of days, the manners, boundaries, and basic hygiene agreements of the non-trail world just fade away. I found this particularly true when hiking 35 days on the Colorado Trail.

So, in order to help you assess your condition, I’ve developed the following scientific diagnostic tool:

Quiz: Have You Abandoned All Normal Social Norms After Thru-Hiking?

1. When someone asks if you’d like to grab lunch:

a) Suggest a nearby cafe.

b) Offer to drive.

c) Pull out a Ziplock of crushed trail mix and a chunk of cheese wrapped in a sock

2. While watching Cast Away, the scene where Tom Hanks talks to the volleyball makes you:

a) Feel sad — poor guy’s really losing it.

b) Understand the psychological toll of extreme isolation.

c) Whisper, “We would never leave each other, right?” to your camp stove.

3. You hear the sound of duct tape ripping on the trail. You:

a) Assume someone’s fixing a tent.

b) Assume someone’s patching their backpack.

c) Spin around and yell “WHOSE FOOT IS BLEEDING AND DO YOU NEED TO DRAIN IT BECAUSE I HAVE A SPORK FOR THAT!”

4. Someone offers you a napkin. You:

a) Say thank you and use it.

b) Decline — you already washed your hands.

c) Accept it gratefully, fold it into a coffee filter, and later use it as a firestarter and journal paper.

5. When someone casually says the word “poop” in conversation, you:

a) Cringe.

b) Nod and pretend you didn’t hear it.

c) Are oblivious, because you use that word as a verb, a noun, and a unit of distance. 

Scoring: if you answered mostly C, Congratulations! You’ve become officially trail feral™ You no longer recognize social contracts. You are free now. Terrifyingly free.

The following day, Ian and I finished our hike.  By the end of 96 miles my legs were sore and I’d had so many different types of rain slapped across my face I was starting to develop a palate for them.

But I was also… happy.

Because that’s the deal. The trail breaks you down just enough to let something else in: perspective, maybe. Gratitude. Or possibly trench foot. Hard to say. 

But like with most adventures, the best souvenirs aren’t things you can hang on a wall. They’re stories you’ll tell for years, stories that still smell faintly… like wet sheep.

And so, I give the West Highland Way a big endorsement. Or, as I learned from this trip, I can say as clearly as possible and with the utmost clarity: “Br’llit yous. Soul-crshn’’ rain. Propar ARaracter-buildin’ stuff. Ah h’ly r’kmm’n ye g’trih th’WstAyghlnd Wae!”