The climb was as pleasant as climbs come. We followed a gravel access road that was clearly built for windmill service vehicles, but there was very little servicing going on that day. After rounding a sharp corner, fearful sheep made way for us. Then a quick bike push of twenty feet got us to a cairn. We had reached the first of our ten peaks with plenty of light left. From our perch near the top we could see the small upcoming town. Gargunnock nestled itself just below us. Four miles and 1500 feet of descent: we'd be there in twenty minutes, we agreed. And smiled at our success.

Night descended while we bushwhacked so we dug out our headlights and pushed onwards. We had made it through the fenced-in fields and came to a thick forest of trees. The town was no longer in view but from what we remembered it was supposed to be just beyond the forest. I left my bike and crawled underneath branches, both absolutely spent and absolutely sure that the road was mere yards away. When I came upon it I yelled to Ethan. I was so happy. I was so relieved. I went back and we used the sturdy loaded bikes to push through the branches again.

The road was welcome, but the relief was short-lived. Our initial dreams of the evening—a meal, a pint, and a warm bed—were quickly deteriorating. This was a small town and it was getting late. We rolled in to find the lights still on at the Gargunnock Inn. The bar was still open—and really what more could you ask for in life? There was a group of people sitting in armchairs in the corner enjoying their beers. We each got a pint and I took a much-needed visit to the bathroom. The vision of me told the whole tale: sweaty, matted-down hair, leaves and sticks stuck in buckles and buttons, arms scratched from pushing through the branches, the cuffs of my pants and the knees damp and grass-stained. The Inn didn't end up having a room for us—nor did the friendly people in the corner who we told of our harrowing adventures—but a bathroom and a drink did wonders for our spirits. We gratefully drank our pints, ate the leftovers of a breakfast burrito we had carried all day and pitched our tent in town. (In 2003 Scotland passed “right to roam” which means that outdoor recreationalists have access to the country's land and water even if it's privately owned—just don't be a shit about it. The bikepacking.com route included instructions on where to camp and how to get your bike over locked gates.) We slept in fallow land in between two farm houses. No one bothered us. And anyway, given our strange appearance at the Inn and the size of the town I'm sure everyone knew who we were by morning.

Our near-catastrophe required a day of rest and recalibration. When we continued on on day three, we were a bit more prepared and a bit more cautious. Ethan downloaded the route GPX to his Garmin watch so that going forward we'd get notified as soon as we missed a turn and the watch would literally point us in the right direction. As we got on the bikes again I was glad to see that my bike rode quite well even after being gently “dropped” to the ground from two fences days before. We learned what to look out for on the route: opening and closing a thousand farm gates, fording rivers, riding through marsh and matted-down grass—which we came to call Scottish singletrack. Over the days I came away from the route with a better understanding of the goal: to feel remote in a small country speckled with towns and roads throughout. In truth we were never far from civilization—we came to learn that some parts of the trails almost butted up against bike paths and traffic thoroughfares without touching them. And yet, parts of the ride felt so solitary and far away that those bare Scottish hills could have been the moon. We rode for hours, entire mornings or afternoons without seeing another person.

Day seven began at mile 136. We had just entered the Cairngorms National Park and there was no resupply for dozens of miles and four summits so we tore off the route for the Glenshee Cafe and Giftshop. It was worth every mile and more. We met a handful of cyclists there actually. It turned out there was a nice cycling trail all the way from Kirkmichael, drawing roadies to this spot. We enjoyed our flat whites and americanos and loaded up with cheese, crackers, gravy, lamb and gin and companionship (there was at least one conversation where one Scottish man translated for another Scottish man who was asking us questions) and we continued on, preparing for the highest point on the Ten Peaks route that day. We passed three people on ebikes while we were still riding pavement. But when we got to the gravel it was just us on the moon.

We opted for the “original” route on this day. The final ascent was described as “60% rideable, 5.5-kilometer rough gravel road with 18% gradient to the top of your forth peak, Little Glas Maol.” And if you know bikepacking.com you know that description is conservative at best. So we rode our bikes until we couldn't anymore. We stopped to refill our accessible water bottles and bladders and trotted on. Nearing the top we could see the Cairngorms all around us. The treeless tops of the hills were bare, exposed brown and sometimes green in the spots where there was water runoff—it felt strangely like the high alpine at home. Evidence of a closed ski resort a few peaks over was the only sign of civilization. We checked off the peaks: Little Glas Maol, then (big?) Glas Maol, and finally: Cairn of Claise, at 3,425 feet the highest point on the route.

While we were up there trying to take selfies at the top, someone approached us from the opposite direction. A solo hiker. He took pictures of us. We shared stories of our ascent and then he continued on the way we had come from. After Cairn of Claise we opted for the bailout route. For one, it was getting late. Two, we were behind schedule. And three, we wanted to stay at the Callater Bothy—which was supposedly only 6.5 kilometers of rideable downhill away. We had passed a few bothies already on the route—all of them appealing and empty but always too early in the day. But Callater would be a perfect stop. Scotland's bothies are basically a hut system—a shared, communal shelter for hikers, bikers or stalkers. No reservations required and be polite if you find others already there.

The descent was screaming. We ripped down that Cairngorm in golden hour light, watching the valleys and rivers appear and disappear with each turn until we could put our eyes on our bothy. It was a glorious ride—a descent that didn't happen as often as you'd think given how many peaks we were climbing. I yawped for Ethan and took a picture of him far away down on a switchback.

And as we pulled into the bothy we saw: tents. Lots and lots of tents scattered over the grounds. There were kids here. Dutch high school kids on their spring trip. Ethan asked one: “How was dinner?” as he slurped from a pot. “Noodles.” “Just noodles?” “Yeah and butter. It's good.” The teachers on the trip talked about how tickled they were that a handful of students had opted for the Scottish Highlands trip instead of the Paris trip that the school did every spring. More people arrived. A dad and son on bikes. John and Rory, but when they said Rory out loud it sounded like “Rury.” We checked out the inside of the bothy: it had a few bunk beds and ledger with notes from people who had passed through and half-used candles. Word on the street was that no one was actually sleeping in the bothy that night. And we decided to keep it that way. Anyway, if we had to get up and pee in the middle of the night we'd have to navigate the sea of tents outside our front door. Ethan and I set up camp a few dozen yards away at the lake.

There were just under twenty tents pitched at the bothy that night. (Turns out it was the beginning of Easter holidays, so everyone was off work and school.) But when we woke up and started packing for the day, the Dutch high schoolers were already gone—hardly a trace of them left. The bothy was alone and empty again. That's the kaleidoscope of a bikepacking trip: the camaraderie you find will slip away in the early morning, hiking in the other direction, sitting at the cafe in the small town while you continue on your adventure. And you will get lost out there, feel remote and far away. But lament not, when you're on an adventure you never know what's around the next corner.