Exploring the Scottish Highlands by Walking, Biking, and Swimming on a Self-Powered Journey

In August, with bright sunlight, I was navigating around Loch Ness in a Tesla Model Y. Cars zipped by like bright beetles in the sunlight, while to my left, Scotland's legendary lake extended 23 miles from Lochend to Fort Augustus. Even though the sun had barely risen, monster hunters were already out on the lake, which reaches depths rivaling the height of the Golden Gate Bridge, embarking on a two-day mission to finally find Nessie. But my purpose in town was different; I planned to embark on a uniquely adventurous five-day journey through the Scottish Highlands, intentionally traveling low-carbon by bike, foot, and train with the help of Wilderness Scotland. This Tesla ride would be one of the few car trips I'd take—by design. “We aim for your carbon footprint on this journey to be less than your typical one at home,” shared Ben Thorburn, Wilderness Scotland’s marketing director. That might sound optimistic, but consider this: the average American emits 20 tons of carbon annually.

In 2019, Scotland was the first government worldwide to officially declare climate change a “global emergency,” recognizing the close relationship between the environment and the economy and pledging to achieve net-zero emissions. Wilderness Scotland is incredibly dedicated to minimizing carbon footprints—everything from staff commutes to their website has been meticulously examined and assigned a carbon value. By 2030, the company aims to cut its carbon emissions by 90 percent; for the emissions it can't eliminate, it plans to achieve True Net Zero status through investments in projects that effectively remove carbon from the atmosphere.

As part of this initiative, earlier this year, in partnership with carbon footprint consultant eCollective, Wilderness Scotland quietly launched one of the first carbon-labeling projects for travel. All their trips have been assessed—taking into account factors like energy use at hotels and vegan meal options—with carbon footprints calculated for each itinerary. Mine was 82 kg. (For comparison, a round-trip economy flight from London to Paris produces 102 kg; a Caribbean cruise can result in 445 kg of emissions per day.) The objective, according to Wilderness Scotland's founder and CEO Paul Easto, is that by quantifying the carbon impact of each traveler and each trip, the company can make continuous improvements—and encourage travelers to be more mindful of their impact.

“Food labeling is now a common practice,” notes Easto, who conceived the idea for carbon labeling after noticing the differences in calories between a sausage roll and a vegetarian roll at a café in England's Lake District. (He chose the vegetarian option.) “You can see the calorie count and nutrient information. Some individuals are certainly making decisions based on this data. The hope is that if more businesses provide this carbon labeling information, consumers can at least make informed choices about the type of travel they wish to pursue. However, let’s not overlook that travelers also want to have a good time.”

The adventure truly begins about 15 minutes later, as we leave the lake and arrive at a light-hued timber building nestled in the heart of the Caledonian Forest, which once served as royal hunting grounds in the 14th century. Launched in April 2023 on 10,000 acres by the Scottish conservation charity Trees for Life, the Dundreggan Rewilding Center is the world’s first facility entirely devoted to rewilding, focused on restoring the land to its natural condition through natural forest regeneration and reintroducing native species. Scotland is in dire need of this: by the 1950s, only about 1 percent of the original Caledonian Forest remained, a figure that has now increased to around 2 percent, thanks to efforts from organizations like Trees for Life, which has planted nearly 2 million native trees and reintroduced red squirrels among other initiatives.

The center is open to the public at no cost, including its four trails that vary from half a mile to two and a half miles in length (with difficulty levels ranging from “all-access” to “strenuous”). For a fee, guided rewilding walks are also available, and we set off into the woods with Caoimhe Keohane, who has studied Gaelic mythology and folklore and aims to connect these stories with nature. It isn't long before she pauses to point out a fairy hill, where travelers were once said to be lured to the underworld by promises of buttermilk. She then gestures toward nearby aspen trees, once cherished in Gaelic culture for their leaves, believed to grant safe passage to the underworld and back.

For the next hour, we wander, ensuring to disinfect our boots before visiting the tree nursery, where more aspens are sheltered in tunnels. (Aspens are among Scotland’s most depleted native trees.) For our final stop, we climb a small mound and pause at a grand fairy oak, estimated to be around 500 years old. Sunlight filters through its drooping, sprawling, lichen-covered branches. It feels fitting that this was a gathering place for fairies, I reflect.

After enjoying lunch in the center’s bright café, I set off on foot with one of Wilderness Scotland’s guides, Ailsa Armstrong, towards our overnight destination: Fort Augustus via the Great Glen Way, a 77-mile long-distance path recognized as one of Scotland’s “Great Trails”; today's trek will cover 7.5 miles. Armstrong, a former trauma nurse and backcountry skier, has summited all of Scotland’s 282 Munros—mountains over 3,000 feet tall. She suggests taking the high route, which involves climbing more than 1,500 feet, estimating it will take us around four and a half hours. A car would make the same journey in just 13 minutes.

The path begins easily, with Armstrong and I strolling quietly through forest trails carpeted with pine needles, the soft sound of our footsteps the only noise. Soon, however, it’s time to climb, winding our way up, back, and up again. I scramble over rocks for a 900-foot stretch, eager to finish the tough part, but when I stop to catch my breath, Armstrong kindly advises me to take it slow. “Pace yourself,” she encourages. “We still have a long way to go.”

We continue our ascent. Eventually, the path levels off, revealing a view of Loch Ness behind us. Heather and bog myrtle blanket the ground, and the lake sparkles below. We walk silently alongside the lake, pausing now and then to scan for wildlife, to crush the bog myrtle between our fingers, and to listen to the soothing sounds of a stream. I reflect on how much of this beauty I would have missed if we had traveled by car instead.

Three and a half hours after we began our trek, we reach Fort Augustus, surprised by the hardness of the roads beneath my feet. "We made great time," Armstrong remarks, pleased. I check into the Lovat, a hotel established in 1869, now managed by Sean and Caroline Kelly, a couple committed to sustainability while preserving its historic charm: wood-burning fireplaces and antique windows remain, but a biomass wood-chip boiler heats the premises, and for every reservation, the hotel contributes to Trees for Life. Most meals at the Station Road restaurant come from their kitchen garden or are foraged. Since the restaurant is closed upon my arrival, I stroll to the Boathouse, which offers comforting pub fare in a converted boathouse. As the sun sets, I watch a group of young boys tip into canoes and paddle toward the center of Loch Ness, their oars creating gentle ripples in the water. I indulge in a sticky toffee pudding, then return to the hotel and collapse into bed.

I rise early the next morning. The sky is brightening, but rain is predicted, so we decide to alter our plans and head out earlier than intended for our destination: Loch Ossian, nestled deep within Rannoch Moor, a 50-square-mile area recognized as one of Europe’s last true wildernesses. The loch can’t be accessed by public roads, so we’ll bike the 15 miles there, a journey expected to take about three hours and involving an ascent of 1,246 feet. A relief for my sore quads: the bikes are electric.

Despite our careful planning, rain finds us shortly after we start, and after ten relentless minutes of being drenched, I mentally note to Google “when does waterproof really mean waterproof?”—once I have service, that is. Soon, we enter the 57,000-acre Corrour Estate, featuring 10,000 acres of forests and 17,404 acres of bog, home to rare flora and fauna, including mosses, liverworts, bladderworts, and greenshank birds. We cycle up and down gentle hills, the only signs of humanity being the estate keeper’s lodge and a hydro-electric scheme along a river. There are four in total, and the energy they generate powers the entire estate and 6,000 nearby homes, making Corrour one of the largest renewable energy producers in the country. We seize a break in the rain to stop at the base of a mountain and enjoy the picnic we brought from the Lovat: an egg and watercress sandwich, vinegar chips, and a fruit-and-nut chocolate bar. The sky clears, and the only sound is the gentle wind rustling the heather and myrtle. It feels so different from my noisy life back in New York City.

After packing up our litter, we hop back on our bikes to complete the final three miles to Loch Ossian, where we check in at the eco-friendly Loch Ossian Hostel, a green building with slate shingles powered by hydro and solar energy. With a few hours to spare before dinner, I make my bed, unpack, and change into my swimsuit. The air is 54 degrees and cloudy, but the loch is flat and dark like a pool of ink. With a water temperature around 44 degrees, it’s brisk; I enter slowly to let my body adjust. I swim toward the center of the loch while Armstrong and Thorburn wave and shake their heads from the shore.

An hour later, Armstrong, Thorburn, and I mount our bikes again to ride the mile to the Station House, a café at the Corrour train station, the most isolated station in the UK. The restaurant is snug and inviting, featuring wooden tables and well-loved couches around a warm hearth. Three Labradors—one chocolate, one yellow, and one black—wander about, occasionally slipping under tables. Following the waiter’s suggestion, I order Scottish venison sourced from the estate. It arrives as tender strips in a savory gravy, resting atop creamy mashed potatoes. It’s the perfect remedy for the rain outside, which has resumed its fall. After dinner, I indulge in another sticky toffee pudding, convinced that if there were a way to earn calories, I’ve certainly earned mine today.

The next morning brings more rain, but our journey today is brief: we take the train from Corrour Estate to Spean Bridge, where we meet a Wilderness Scotland representative to return the bikes. We then switch to a Tesla for the trip to Rothiemurchus, a quaint town in the heart of Cairngorms National Park, known for its 13th-century castle and abundant wildlife.

With the sun shining, we opt to sit outside at the Barn, an extension of the popular Rothiemurchus Farm Shop, which sources meat and produce from the estate, along with cheese, honey, and jams from local producers. Still feeling full from last night’s feast, I choose a leek and potato soup but can’t resist adding a cheese scone after spotting the tempting display case. It strikes me how in Europe, about 20 percent of food produced goes to waste, while in the United States, that figure is as high as 35 percent.

After lunch, I strip off some layers and set out on the Speyside Way, which meanders along the Spey River—Scotland’s second longest—stretching 85 miles from Buckie to Newtonmore. Today, however, we’ll only walk a gentle 5-mile loop to Aviemore, home to Wilderness Scotland’s offices. The forest trail is soft beneath my feet, with the hills we traversed yesterday appearing as faint silhouettes in the distance. Upon reaching Aviemore, I catch a Tesla to the Speyside Hotel in Grantown-on-Spey, where I quickly freshen up before heading out again to Anderson’s, a restaurant also located in Cairngorm National Park, known for its commitment to farm-to-table cuisine and collaboration with local producers.

During dinner, Thornburn discusses how food will increasingly become a focal point for Wilderness Scotland. He suggests the concept of meat-free Mondays during trips, which highlights the company’s message that small, collective changes can make a significant impact.

The next day, we make our way to Lynbreck Croft, a 150-acre farm comprising fields, woodlands, bogs, and hills. Owned by partners Lynn Cassells and Sandra Baer since 2016, the farm produces honey, beef, pork, eggs, and compost, while also offering courses on tree planting, wild foraging, and sustainable living. Their recognition stems not just from their products, but from their methods: they employ a no-dig philosophy and leverage natural animal behaviors to regenerate land once considered ‘unfarmable’ and challenging. They rotate their mixed herd of Highland cattle and Jacob sheep between paddocks to improve soil quality, utilize rare-breed Oxford, Sandy, and Black pigs to clear dense vegetation, and place their hens in hedgerows and fields to manage weeds.

As we walk the land in sturdy boots, following Cassells, the low-carbon mission of the farm—and the overarching theme of our journey—begins to take shape: This effort to connect more closely with the earth serves as a model for the world, merging rewilding with organic living in a way that can be replicated. When the duo acquired the land, they planted 17,400 trees; today, over half of the croft is free of livestock. “In 25 years, this landscape will be vastly different,” Cassells observes as we stand atop a hill, surveying the pigs, sheep, and Highland cattle against the backdrop of mountains and moors. “But we are merely conductors in an orchestra. Just imagine how productive nature can be when you collaborate with it?”