“This does not seem like a good idea.”
I repeated it out loud several times. It seemed inevitable that I was going to be swimming. I wasn’t about to back track and this seemed like it would be the fastest way. Knee deep and only a few steps in my attempt at scoping out the crossing didn’t provide any reassurance. Stepping back onto the shore I reorganised the gear on my bike, putting clothing and food into drybags, swapping out batteries and taking the opportunity to zip-tie my helmet. I took off my warm, but absorbent layers replacing them with my well worn and ripped waterproofs, while they couldn’t keep me dry there was only so wet they could get.
I heaved the fully laden frame, onto my shoulders and started walking. The bags that weighed it down contained everything I needed to survive and more food than I needed. A limited supply of stores on route and Highland opening hours had left me overloading with food at every opportunity terrified of missing a chance to resupply and running out. The pebbly banks of the river dropped off almost immediately as I entered the water - not even a fifth of the way across and it was already reaching for my armpits. With almost the full width of the swollen river remaining I took each step knowing I was inevitably going under, each footstep more likely than the last to find nothing, plunging me under pushed down by the bike I held above me.
I knew I was up front, but I thought there was a racer in front of me - I was told this as I came into the Oykel Bridge Hotel - they said Liam was only an hour ahead of me and I was determined to chase him down.
Fisherfield is the most remote section of the Highland Trail, cliched Scottish scenery looms on all sides, although I had no idea where or even what it was until the night before the race when Alan, the route creator and organiser of the mass start, had mentioned it and the river crossing at the race briefing. I had emailed my friend Huw - who had ridden the route several times - asking about what I referred to as “Strah Nogalas in fisher fields”. I got a reply correcting my spelling and saying I shouldn't worry about it because it would have to be an extremely wet for the crossing to be high.
As I continued across the river the sun was beginning to make its way behind the Munros and Corbetts that dominate Fisherfield, scraping across them, giving texture to every gnarled rock and undulation, leaving a patch of warmth on the opposite bank that I hoped would be enough to get my cold blood flowing again before I pushed on into the night.
There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to end up submerged and I was lucky there was no major current to the water. Had there been I would have been swimming and trying to drag my bike across for sure. To my surprise I found myself halfway across, the water having got no deeper - luckily after the super deep step the bottom just remained a consistent depth. The worry that the edge was near, and thus a step into the unknown, did not lift but it turns out I got lucky lucky and it was not a swim day for me.
In the end 50 of the 72 riders scratched out of the race, but I plowed through the 16,000 meters of climbing in 4 days, 2 hours and 45 minutes. It wasn’t until Fort William and the final stretch to the finish in Tyndrum that I discovered Liam had scratched in Ullapool and I was going to be the first rider to finish.
© 2026 James Robertson