The Highland Trail 550 is a 550+ mile self-supported bikepacking race in the Scottish Highlands. With over 16,000 metres of climbing it takes in some of the most remote and rugged terrain the UK has to offer.
This is my Highland Trail. Buckle in for a tale of wonder and chaos, breathtaking scenery, sub-zero temperatures, isolation and camaraderie. An adventure of a lifetime.
Day 1
Gathering at the Real Food Cafe in Tyndrum, brimming with nerves and imposter syndrome. This escalated quickly. A year ago I was considering the distant prospect of a leisurely tour of the route; now here I am lining up at the start of the Highland Trail 550 — my first ever ultra bikepacking race. The weeks leading up to the race had been busy and stressful, trying to prepare my body, bike and mind for such a huge undertaking. The day started with breakfast at the RFC and the annual photograph of all riders outside. Sarah, owner of the RFC, gave an uplifting speech promising us all the wonders of fish and chips or breakfast on our return. I felt myself getting emotional as Lee Craigie spoke of Alan achieving the 50/50 male/female split for the first time, and of how the trail would teach us “humility” (oh, didn’t it just?).
Full of nerves and a sky-high heart rate that didn’t settle for most of the day, at 8:30 am we were off — blue skies and sunshine above. The tracks were drier and rivers much lower than when Lucy and I had attempted our recce a month earlier. The River Lyon was rideable and the miles were flying by. Lots of chats with different riders along the way; I deliberately held back so as not to be sucked into too fast a pace and blow up on the first day. Bumped into a bikepacking stag do just before the Glen Lyon tearooms, who seemed to be having a great time — the last riders I would see for a while.
The bog approaching Ben Alder Bothy, whilst drier than a month prior, was tedious. But it was refreshing to be able to ride the Ben Alder climb and descent, and not trudge through knee-high snow drifts. First mechanical of the race: I managed to bend my mech on one of the many water bars, causing my chain to drop off and jam behind my top jockey wheel. Spent a good 20 minutes unjamming and bending the mech back into semi-rideable condition. This issue would plague me for the next 500 miles. Onwards to Melgarve Bothy and the Corrieyairack Pass. The Whisky Angels were a welcome sight just before Melgarve; a quick chat, change into some warm layers, and onwards to the highest point of the route. The weather was calm and settled, and as I reached the top of the Corrieyairack I was rewarded with the most spectacular sunset. The stars were out and the sky was glowing as I sped down the descent to Fort Augustus. I may have missed out on a Fort Augustus resupply, which was not too disappointing as I didn’t think I would make it, but the magical night more than made up for it. I carried on along the Great Glen Way to just shy of Invermoriston and set up camp. Over 3,000 metres of climbing and almost 100 miles ridden.
Day 2
A poor night’s sleep in the tent. I had set an alarm for four hours, but the cold weather had brought on a nasty asthma cough that wouldn’t let up as soon as I lay flat. I woke before my alarm and decided to pack up and move. A sociable morning bumping into Alan, Katy, Brit and other riders climbing up from Invermoriston. Through the wind farms that made you feel so very, very small. Over the new section to Kiltarlity, where I stopped for a coffee at the Garden Centre and debated my resupply options. Unsure if I would make it to Contin before the shop shut, I decided to detour off route to the Co-op in Beauly. Great decision — 6 km there and back, full of real food and coffee. I rejoined the route to Contin. It was here the weather took a turn for the worse for the first time. I battled wind and rain over the “Path of a Thousand Puddles”, a boggy mess that definitely lived up to its name. With all the miserable winter training rides, I felt in my comfort zone in the wild conditions. The wind whipped eerily under Orrin Dam, creating an unsettling howl. I moved quickly, realising I had 30 minutes till the fish and chip shop closed in Contin, and I might just make it. A 30-minute sprint later, I arrived at 20:01 to be rewarded with fish and chips — my first hot food in over 48 hours. Highlight of the day for sure. I sat soaking wet, with my shoes and socks off, shivering under Contin Stores’ porch with my prized fish and chips.
My cough was getting worse with the cold, and I spluttered my way over to Garve as the temperatures seemed to drop by the minute. I passed a lodge and saw three bikes propped up outside — some riders clearly taking refuge from the cold. I carried on and decided to camp up early and low, staying as warm as possible. Again, my cough allowed little sleep, and I woke at 3:30 am, well before my alarm.
Day 3
I climbed out of my tent to discover a frozen tent, bike and ground. Packing up, I had to break great chunks of ice off my tent and pack it away semi-frozen. This was starting to feel like a winter HT550. I made my way up the climb to Alladale, passing several other riders camped up along the way. A cheery “good morning” came from Alan’s tent, and he would soon catch up with me for what was becoming a daily morning chat, before leaving me in his dust! The trail was stunning; snow-topped mountains appeared as dawn arrived, glowing pink in the morning haze. A cold, cold night and cold morning — I don’t think my body fully warmed up for hours. This section was fragmented with my numerous mechanical stops. At one point I had to remove a whole jockey wheel to unjam my chain. I was beginning to get worried about my bent mech but managed to bodge a slight repair each time and carry on. I met a few more riders and rode with them to meet the Whisky Angels for the second time at Oykel Bridge. A sociable breakfast and catch-up at the hotel in Rosehall; I lingered a while longer to charge my power banks for the first time and assess the damage to my mech. With hot food, coffee and charged electronics I set off for the Northern Loop.
The sun was out but it was still bitterly cold climbing up Invercassley. Like the previous miles northward, I was pushing against a noticeable headwind the whole way. As the path pitched up some tighter switchbacks and a small sheltered sunny spot appeared, I was very proud of my “ultra” self when I took my first (not last) trailside nap. A quick 15-minute rest in a sheltered ditch, then up and over to a much more remote and rugged landscape. A fast, fast road descent down to Loch Shin and off towards Bealach na Feithe (Pass of the Deer). A rocky, moon-like landscape, so different to the lusher green of what had come before. Again, the weather set in as I climbed and pushed up the path with rain and hail in my face and wind pushing me backwards. So wild — not a deer in sight. Even they must have been cowering away from the miserable conditions. Pleased to reach the top, I was hoping for a quick descent to Achfary. Unfortunately, no. Bog, wind and rain hindered my progress and left me sodden and cold by the time I reached the barn before Achfary, where Alan and several other riders were taking shelter for the night. The first — but by no means last — poor decision of the ride: I decided to push on through into the night rather than camp up at the barn. I was unsure if I could pitch my tent in the shelter, and the lure of four walls in the public toilets at Kylesku was calling. Achfary marked the change from the “Out” GPX file to the “Back” route and felt like a celebration. However, when I loaded the remaining GPX onto my Garmin I saw the steep climb which stood between me and a sleep in Kylesku.
Sheltered in a telephone box in Achfary, I desperately put on what few dry layers I had left, conscious to always leave my sleep clothes untouched. I carried on into the wild weather to the steep, loose push over to Kylesku. It was here I met a major challenge. A locked gate; beside it an awkward, tall kissing gate. No problem — I popped my bike onto its rear wheel to navigate through. Nope. Impossible. Whichever way I tried, the bike would not fit. I tried removing all my bags; still no success. At this point, in the dark, rain and howling wind, I felt clueless. Surely I couldn’t scratch from this race because I couldn’t get over a gate?! Eventually I decided to take all my bags and backpack through before attaching my hike-a-bike straps, putting my bike on my back and climbing over the fence next to the gate. Ridiculous. (I learnt the following day that the easier option was to remove the gate entirely from its hinges and simply push the bike through.)
I continued into an increasingly more powerful wind, inching my way up the never-ending ascent. I’m sure the loose gravel descent would have been great fun in calm conditions with wonderful views in the daylight, but blinded by the rain and battling wind with strong gusts, it was one of my least favourite parts of the ride. Partway down I came across a small hut; it looked warm and comfortable inside, perfect for a sleep and respite from the weather. Sadly it was locked. A fleeting thought crossed my mind to break a window and shelter inside, but I carried on, keen to reach Kylesku. Speeding down the track, a sudden gust of wind lifted my front wheel and sent me hard and fast into a ditch at the side of the track. My light smashed off my helmet and my music turned off, leaving me in darkness and silence. “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” I shouted to no one in the darkness. Assessing the damage: a broken light mount, broken light, broken helmet visor and throbbing left arm and leg. I was okay. I carried on, shaken and still being buffeted by the wind, to Kylesku. Taking my phone out to find the toilets slightly off route, I saw an error message about water in the device and the phone swiftly turned off. After another brief shelter in a phone box and a peer at my Garmin map, I found the toilets. Alas, the shelter I had been dreaming about was not to be — two riders were already camped up in the toilet block and a tent was pitched outside. 3:30 am. I stood, shaken and disappointed, before hastily pitching my tent and crawling in. I felt sorry for the riders in the toilet block and the tent next to me as I coughed my guts up all night and got little to no sleep. A rough night three. I recovered, but my phone did not.
Day 4
A new day. By 6:30 am the other riders were gone and I moved slowly, assessing the damage from the night before. My legs and arms were black and blue but thankfully just badly bruised — nothing that would stop me carrying on. Finally in the sheltered toilet block, I slowly packed up my sleep kit and got changed back into my sodden kit (grim). As I came back out, a cheery voice called my name from outside the Kylesku Hotel. It was Alan, waiting for the hotel to open for breakfast. Our morning chats continued. He asked me how I got through the gate, before explaining he had taken it off its hinges. Apparently the gate was not there in previous years. Damn gate. I needed to warm up, so I set off on the 15 km steep and hilly road ride to Drumbeg Stores. Five minutes later, Alan caught up, having ditched his breakfast plans for Drumbeg. The arduous road section quickly dried off my wet layers and warmed me up. There was some warmth in the morning sun between short rain showers. I felt such a high as I rolled into Drumbeg Stores for a slice of resupply heaven. I had read about this place in many a Highland Trail blog. Hot coffee, BLT, lemon drizzle cake and yoghurt. Some lovely cuddles with the very fluffy cat, a frame bag full of Coke and snacks, and my phone in a bag of rice. I was a happy rider heading to Lochinver.
Day four must have been my favourite day. The sun was out on the north-west coast and the aquamarine water and white sand beaches blew my mind. I promised myself as I rode to take the kids back here for a beach camping holiday. I enjoyed the wee bit of singletrack to Lochinver and then on to the infamous Ledmore Traverse. I LOVED this section. The riding and pushing was tough going — through bog after bog — but every time I looked up and saw the majestic Suilven above me, I was full of gratitude and happiness. I fell in love with the mountain, having spent many hours underneath her. With no music or podcasts to entertain my mind, I chatted away to myself, and at times my bike. A few hours in, I met two wonderful dot-watchers who had ridden out to meet riders. They were so positive and friendly, the first people I had spoken to in some time. The last section seemed to go on forever — a lot more rideable, but significant wind and my experience the previous night made me apprehensive, and I definitely walked more than I should have. I finally reached Ledmore Junction at dusk and the rain reappeared. 20 km of road to complete the Northern Loop. I was feeling very tired. An emergency can of Coke at 10:30 pm and three or four stops to put my chain back on, and I was back at Oykel Bridge. Happy, exhausted, black and blue, and without a working phone. I made my way to Schoolhouse Bothy for the night, where Alan and some other riders were staying. Happy to be sheltered and indoors, even if I did nothing but cough for several hours.
Day 5
My morning chat with Alan before he sped off while I packed up and ate a peanut butter and jam pancake for breakfast (great bikepacking fuel). A dreich morning and wet ground conditions with many water features all the way to Ullapool. On the way I got excited by the idea of buying a new phone at Tesco in Ullapool — I was missing contact with family and friends. Whilst spectacular, it was very isolating to be out there alone for so long. Again, the sun came out as I descended through the gorse singletrack to Ullapool. Tesco for resupply. I laughed at how “ultra” I had become, filling my bottles with Lucozade Sport, and was delighted to find a small selection of phones in the shop. Food, coffee, sunshine and some messages from home and I was buzzing and ready to take on the crux of the route: Fisherfield Forest, “the great wilderness”.
I took my handlebar bag off my bike and strapped it to my backpack for the steep hike up the Coffin Road. I met several happy and weary hikers and enjoyed impressive views from the top. The descent was boggy in places but great fun. My phone kept pinging with riders — including Alan (the end of our morning chats till Tyndrum) — scratching up ahead, and I couldn’t help wondering what was in store for me. I enjoyed the ride up and over to Shenavall Bothy. The deer were everywhere, and while this is one of the most remote places in the UK, there were an astonishing number of tents pitched and hikers enjoying the evening sun. After a quick visit to the bothy, I decided I wanted to get across the river crossing before too much more rain fell this evening. I arrived at 20:50. This river crossing had occupied my mind for months, but it wasn’t too intimidating today. Thigh-deep and ice-cold, but calm and still. I was in good spirits reaching the other side. The next climb was slow, and as darkness fell the rain returned. As it grew darker and wetter, I became colder and colder but kept moving, knowing there was a good camp spot by the causeway that separates Dubh Loch and Fionn Loch. One day I will need to return and see the iconic Fisherfield views by daylight. I reached the causeway and saw another tent and bike camped up on the shore, and set about pitching my tent. The wind picked up and rain started hammering down, and I was in trouble. My air pole tent would not stay inflated. I tried and tried and then tried again with no success at mending the puncture. The wind was too loud to have any hope of locating a tiny hole in the air beam. Getting colder and colder, I knew there was a derelict bothy nearby where I could shelter and sleep, or mend my tent. The problem, though, was that the exact location of the bothy was marked on my waterlogged phone. I carried on, not knowing I had already passed it. Every giant rock looked like the welcoming shelter of a building. After a few miles, I knew I must have passed it, and the only thing I could do was carry on to the next village, Poolewe. Dangerously wet and cold, I knew my only hope was to keep my body moving. A cold, scary night alone in the wilderness, desperately trying to keep my exhausted body warm and moving. I reached Poolewe at around 5 am, frozen and pretty shaken. Unsurprisingly, everything was shut, even the public toilets. I cowered outside and changed into my sleep clothes — the only dry things I had left — and considered what to do next. A message pinged on my phone from another rider ahead of me recommending the campsite in Gairloch for hot showers and laundry. I sent a message back to the group with a sorry-looking photo and a tale of my woes. Messages of encouragement and support from the other HT550 women flooded in, and I knew I could still make it.
Day 6
I pedalled on to Gairloch, trying not to close my eyes on the road down to the town. A quick stop at the Co-op for hot chocolate and a croissant, and I headed to the campsite. I put my soaking wet clothes in the dryer, then had a hot, hot shower for what must have been over an hour. A wee visit and hug from fellow rider Rosemary boosted my spirits, and getting some heat back into my body felt amazing. I then found some shelter on the campsite and mended my broken tent. I pitched my tent in the sunshine and slept for three or four hours. The daytime sleep in positive temperatures with the warming sun on my tent did wonders for my cough, and I woke up groggy but determined. Back to the Co-op to resupply and change my brake pads. Hot coffee and a pot noodle. I had wasted most of the day and it must have been 4 or 5 pm before I set off towards Kinlochewe. The evening saw changeable weather, from sunny spells to hail and snow showers. I pulled into Kinlochewe, not intending to stop, but I saw the Kinlochewe Hotel and decided to go in. They had stopped serving food but took pity on me, and I was given a hot bowl of leek and tattie soup, and sticky toffee pudding and ice cream. Sat next to a warm heater, eating hot food with my socks and shoes drying out, I could have stayed there forever. But I had a plan: 15 km ride away was the Teahouse Bothy in Torridon, a tiny fishing hut bothy. I rode on to the bothy, which was empty and welcoming. I lit some tealights, tended to my swollen sore feet and had a wonderful sleep.
Day 7
When I woke, I took advantage of the shelter to give my bog-battered bike some love. Fresh rear brake pads, another shot at reshaping my mech, and some chain oil, and I was ready to enjoy the best singletrack in Scotland: the Achnashellach descent. Hail and snow at the top of the climb, but it soon gave way to sun and snow-topped peaks. I was loving life down the slabby descent and felt elated by the bottom. Back in known territory, and over the hardest parts of the route. On through Strathcarron and into the boggy, wet Glen Ling (not a highlight). I arrived in Dornie for lunch with the hundreds of coach-touring tourists at Eilean Donan Castle. Mac ’n’ cheese and loaded fries, and most importantly hot coffee. It’s amazing what real food does to lift your spirits.
On towards Glen Affric and the sun was out — I maybe even felt one or two midges! Glen Affric was stunning, the views were insane, the hike-a-bike tough but easier than I had imagined. I reached Camban Bothy around 8 pm and went inside to have some cold coffee and chocolate. I chatted to two hikers inside for 10–15 minutes, and when I got out I realised I had word-vomited at them both. I hadn’t had much human contact for a while — not much at all in the six days I had been out on the trail. It was still light and dry so I decided not to stay in the bothy but to continue down the valley. The descent was fun and mainly fast. The sun was setting behind me and the mountains were turning golden; simply beautiful. I passed the YHA and lodges down the bottom. Another poor decision: I should have camped up for the night here, but I felt so close to Fort Augustus (I was not close) and was full of energy after my sleep in Torridon. I continued into the night.
The night was dry, but the temperature plummeted quickly. It must have been close to -10°C. Putting all my clothes, including sleep kit, on, I carried on under a clear starry night. My dropper post froze, my hands and feet were icicles, my water bottles were blocks of ice and my electronics quickly drained and wouldn’t charge. There seemed to be climb after climb after climb to reach Fort Augustus. At 6 am I hit the town, just like my last visit at the start of the trip: everyone and everything asleep. I had accidentally done an all-nighter from Torridon, and had also closed another loop. Finishing was within reach now.
Day 8
With everything closed in Fort Augustus, I continued along the Great Glen Way — 50 km of relative flat to Fort William. The ground was frozen along the canal path and the air was ice-cold. Typically, a nice headwind to pedal into. The effects of 24 hours of riding were taking their toll and I found this section very difficult. My body hurt; my bruised knee from the Kylesku crash was swelling and really hurting now. Progress was very, very slow. An hour or so in I stopped for another trailside nap in a sunny spot, setting an alarm for 15 minutes. I was annoyed to be woken by a walker 10 minutes later, asking if I’d fallen off my bike. “No,” I snapped, “I’m just having a rest.” Full feral bikepacking status had definitely been reached. A well-timed message from a friend boosted my spirits, and I stopped for coffee and food next to the canal just before Fort William. A restock of sweets, chocolate and Coke at a fuel station, and I was off up the West Highland Way to Kinlochleven. I passed many weary-looking West Highland Way walkers, who were always bemused to see a bike rider. Ben sent me a message on the climb telling me to check out the beautiful post on dotwatcher.com. I cried my eyes out reading the moving post on the HT550 mums. The words meant so much and even helped explain to myself why I was doing this and why it was so important to me.
“A friend of mine was once told ‘any mother who enters the HT550 is selfish’. Women do often carry a whole myriad of demands, responsibilities and expectations; they also carry the weight of messages telling them they can’t, or shouldn’t, so let’s look at the alternative perspective.
On the other side we have parents and children watching; children who see determination, passion and extraordinary capability. They see their mums doing something very, very difficult and meaningful. They will see their mothers pushing back against doubt, belittlement and the projections of other people’s fears and limitations. They will also see the value of women doing something for themselves.”
— Crispin Hoult, with additional words by Hannah Lambert, DotWatcher.cc HT550 2026 race commentary
Emotional and proud, I climbed out of Fort William. I loved the riding from Fort William to Kinlochleven — fun, fast descents, some techy bedrock, and each mile closer and closer to the elusive finish. I reached Kinlochleven about 18:00 and seriously underestimated how far there was to go. A quick takeaway sushi from the Co-op and I plodded on up the steep access road to the Devil’s Staircase. The top of the Devil’s Staircase and back in familiar territory: Glen Coe looking both moody and welcoming in the cloud and rain. I played it very safe down the Devil’s Staircase, fearful of injury or mechanical stealing my chances of finishing at this late stage. My phone lit up with messages from friends and family dot-watching at home. Nearly there. Dig deep. One last push.
Not managing any recces of this section really hindered me here. I seriously underestimated how long it would take my tired, broken body and mind. By the time I reached Glen Coe Mountain Resort, my bike and body were giving in. My chain would not stay on, and a huge clunk turned my derailleur into a bottle opener. Luckily I could still shift and keep pedalling, but as darkness fell and I entered my second night of no sleep, my mind was giving up. Of course, rain had set in again, driving into my nightlight and making it near impossible to see where I was going. My eyes were closing on every descent. A few phone calls back home to Ben. I had a ten-minute nap under a tree in the rain. My mind becoming more confused and delirious by the mile. Progress was slow, and I was learning the hard way that things are much slower when you haven’t slept. I had to get off and walk so many sections because I wouldn’t fall asleep when walking. Any downhill, my eyes would close. After what felt like weeks, I finally began to recognise the same gravel tracks we had descended from Tyndrum on Day 1. Not caring about the finish, all I wanted was to be inside, sheltered and asleep. I blasted Disney’s Moana full blast on my phone (my five-year-old daughter’s favourite tunes) and forced my brain to stay awake for those last kilometres. Back up through the Day 1 tunnel and short techy climb, and finally descended down to Tyndrum — alone, in the dark and rain — to a very anticlimactic finish at 3 am on the abandoned streets.
I was done. Battered, broken, soaked and exhausted. I stumbled into a hotel, showered and collapsed into bed, 45 hours since my last sleep at Teahouse Bothy.
950 km and 19,000 metres of ascent.
7 days, 18 hours, 45 minutes.
A week later, my experience has taken a while to process. A week almost entirely alone, moving through awe-inspiring landscapes, rugged terrain, and remote and isolated corners of the country. It was a rollercoaster — epic highs and some cold, dark lows. While the trail was tough, I never felt out of my depth on the terrain. The weather and constant challenge of staying warm in sub-zero temperatures were my biggest challenges.
I was blown away by the support from friends and family near and far. Messages of support never failed to boost my mood and spur me on. The sense of community and camaraderie within the HT550 riding community was incredible, from the start to the finish line. I’ll forever be grateful for this experience. It tested me physically and mentally, but I am so proud to be amongst the 51% of finishers in the extremely challenging 2026 edition.
Recovery has been tougher than I expected. Straight back to full-time parenting three small children who have decided to go on sleep strike hasn’t been easy. Swollen hands and feet, bruised and battered body, numb hands, swollen knees, nosebleeds, night sweats, sore mouth and an unexpected loss of appetite. In my delirious dreams at night I am constantly battling to reach Tyndrum. Hopefully soon the aches and pains will fade away and I’ll be left with the memories — both good and bad — and an immense sense of achievement.
Huge thank you to Alan Goldsmith for your passion and determination, both in organising such an iconic event and your striving for gender parity on the start line. I was honoured to be part of a 50/50 start line and to be one of the 32 women setting off to ride the Highland Trail in 2026.
Here’s to the next adventure.
Thank you to Rachel and Steve at I-cycles for getting my bike into shape and for all the words of encouragement and support.
Thank you to Emma at Performance Physio Innerleithen for helping me rehab my hip and slotting me in for so many last-minute appointments, and for not telling me to stop riding my bike. My hip held up and was in fact the least of my worries.
Thank you to Uri Carlson for the top nutrition tips and many words of encouragement, from one bike riding mum to another.
Thanks to Highland Trail finishers and friends Emma Bateup, Lynne Davies and Louise Haggarty for all the advice, endless patience with my questions and words of support. You ladies inspired me to give it a go.
Thank you to my friends and family at home cheering me on; it was amazing to see how many of you got totally hooked on dotwatching. A special thanks to Lucy, Hannah and Steve for the constant support and brilliant voice memos that had me laughing out loud when times got tough.
And most of all, thank you to my wonderful little family at home. To Ben for holding down the fort at home with three small children. For believing in me and allowing me the chance to squeeze in training, panicking, obsessing and dreaming about all things HT550. To my children, Ellie, Jack and Sean. I missed you all so much and hope I have shown you that your mum can do hard things and so can you.
