There’s a running joke among Scottish hikers that if you climb Ben Nevis hoping for a view, you’re really just paying for an extended walk inside a cloud.
I laughed at that before I set off. I wasn’t laughing by the time I reached the top.
Still, that’s the thing about Scotland — you don’t do it for the weather.
It was just after seven in the morning when I left the car park at Glen Nevis. The mountain loomed ahead, its summit already swallowed in a thick blanket of mist. The air was cool and heavy, the smell of wet earth rising from the grass. A few other early risers were packing their rucksacks and swapping good-natured jokes about waterproofs.
A man in a faded blue jacket grinned as he passed me on the path.
“First time up?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
He chuckled. “You’ll love it — if you like grey.”
The Climb Begins
The first stretch wound gently uphill through ferns and birch trees, the morning light filtering through a haze of drizzle. The path underfoot was solid, laid with broad stones that seemed designed to lull you into false confidence. I set a steady pace, breathing in the cool air and listening to the faint rush of the river below.
Not long after leaving the treeline, the wind picked up. The clouds began to drift lower, and soon I found myself walking into them — the world shrinking to a few metres of damp rock and the sound of boots crunching gravel.
There’s something both eerie and peaceful about that kind of fog. You lose sight of everything — the view, the distance, even other people — but your focus sharpens. It’s just you and the mountain. Step by step. Breath by breath.
Finding Company in the Cloud
Somewhere near the halfway lochan, I stopped for a sip of tea from my flask and met a pair of walkers huddled under their hoods.
“Bleak, isn’t it?” one of them said, grinning through the drizzle.
“Character-building,” I offered.
We walked together for a while, following the zigzagging path as it climbed steadily into thicker mist. The temperature dropped sharply, and soon tiny beads of rain were clinging to everything — my jacket, my eyelashes, my thoughts.
We chatted about where we were from, how many layers were too many, and the quiet absurdity of climbing Britain’s highest mountain to see absolutely nothing. But there was laughter in it — the kind that only comes when everyone’s equally soaked and equally stubborn.
The Summit That Wasn’t There
After what felt like hours of endless stone, the path suddenly levelled. The wind howled, and the fog thickened into a blinding white. Out of nowhere, a cairn appeared — ghostly at first, then solid — followed by the outline of the old summit shelter.
That was it. The top.
No sweeping views. No dramatic drop-offs. Just mist, wind, and a group of damp, triumphant strangers laughing into the void.
Someone cheered, and a small ripple of applause broke out as another walker arrived. A man with a Scottish flag tied to his pack raised it proudly, though it hung limp in the drizzle. A woman handed around a bar of chocolate, and we all took a piece like it was communion.
I found a spot behind a rock and unpacked my lunch — oatcakes, cheese, and a lukewarm flask of tea. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was perfect. Every bite tasted earned.
For a while, I sat in the white silence, the fog swirling and thinning for a heartbeat here and there. Once, I thought I caught a glimpse of the valley below — a faint grey outline far beneath the cloud — but it vanished as quickly as it came.
The Long Way Down
Eventually, the cold began to creep in, and it was time to head down. Descending was harder than I remembered — the wet stones slick and untrustworthy. Every step demanded focus, and the mist made it hard to tell how far I’d come.
But there was a strange comfort in it. The rhythm of descent, the sound of my own footsteps, the low whistle of wind through the rocks.
Halfway down, the clouds began to break. Not dramatically — just small, quiet moments of light cutting through the grey. The outline of Glen Nevis appeared below, washed clean by the rain. I stopped and looked back. The summit was invisible again, hidden behind the mist, as if it had never been there at all.
The Warmth of Return
Back at the Ben Nevis Inn, the fire was burning and the smell of chips filled the air. Hikers sat around with damp hair and tired smiles, comparing stories that all sounded suspiciously similar — “No view, freezing wind, still worth it.”
I ordered a pint and a bowl of soup and sank into a seat by the window. Outside, the clouds shifted briefly, and the lower slopes of the mountain appeared, dark and gleaming with rain. I raised my glass to it.
Climbing Ben Nevis without a view might sound disappointing, but in truth, it felt right. There’s something humbling about walking inside a cloud — about not seeing the reward, yet pressing on anyway. You learn to find beauty in the effort itself: the crunch of wet stone, the laughter of strangers, the warmth of tea in cold hands.
You climb for the view, sure — but sometimes, the mountain gives you something better: perspective.
