Paddle-to-the-Sea

Long before we ever made it to the British Isles, Kelly and I made a plan to paddle the River Spey in the Scottish Highlands. From the Cairngorm Mountains, this free-flowing river descends a broad valley of barley fields and whisky distilleries before spilling into the North Sea.

From Leeds, we struck north by train, traveling for hours through the rural countryside and along the silent industrial mills of northern England and Scotland. We watched the grand stone towers of York Minster rise over a landscape of sheep pastures, and searched a distant ridge for the white chalk horse of Thirsk. In Newcastle, we looked down from the high girders of a rail bridge onto the piers and warehouses of the Tyne. Under the stone turrets of Edinburgh, we changed trains, threading through shuffling crowds to a train that waited at a quiet, distant platform. It seemed an apt jump-off from the urban centers of southern Scotland to the rural country of the far north. The rail stretched yet on for hours, tracing the coast, then climbing through a bare, U-shaped glacial valley to a pass near Dalwhinnie Distillery, and into the watershed of the Spey.

On the gravel of a river bank in Aviemore, we picked up our rental canoe from John at Boots and Paddles, and sheltering from the rain under the rear gate of his van, we made a plan to meet in five days, sixty miles north, on the coastline. We spent that first night at a bunkhouse tucked between the rail line and the river. Kelly had paddled this stretch of the Spey the previous summer with her sisters, Casey and Kate, and we examined the waterproof map that they'd marked up with camps and river hazards.

We paddled a long section of water on that first day, giving ourselves time to explore the whisky distilleries concentrated in the lower reach of the Spey. An old steam locomotive pulled passenger carriages along the edge of the river valley, and though it was out of sight for most of the day, a whole vocabulary of noisy pressure releases told the story.

Running the nose of our canoe up onto a gravel bar after twenty seven miles, we made our first camp, deep in grouse country. The big, drab birds were clucking around by the dozens on the banks and islands, and we pitched our tent in the birdshit. As we relaxed on the cobble beach, periodic waves of summer-fat grouse flew low over our heads on their way to the opposite bank, like a sluggish, noisy air raid.

The Spey ran thin over the rocks during this long, dry drag of August. At bridge pilings along the way, the water lapped low below the bottom of the painted river height rulers. The dead-black rocks were impossible to spot, and we left quite a few marked bright polyethylene green from impacts with our canoe.

Like nearly all of Scotland, the land surrounding the Spey is privately owned. The river itself too: since Victorian times, wealthy anglers' clubs and Lords' estates have controlled fishing here. Although the Land Reform Act in 2003 formalized traditional rights of access to the countryside and rivers, this access doesn't extend to activities such as hunting and fishing, which are still largely the domain of the elite. Miles of riverbank are mowed to facilitate river access and dotted with tiny fishing huts--a wise concession to the wet climate of northern Scotland. It's an environment steeped in tradition and exclusivity, and many anglers view paddlers as interlopers into their formal, manicured fishing grounds. We caught more flak for being on the water than we deserved. In other circumstances, paddlers and anglers would be allies in defending the river as a wild resource. We got over it, made friends wherever we could, and enjoyed the river.

With abundant local barley and bracing northern winters, the Speyside farmers were bound to make whisky. You can spot the boiler smokestacks or pagoda-style roof vents on the skylines.

Anytime we had the chance, we hiked up to the distillery and asked nicely for a tour. The answer was usually 'yes', and not once were we turned away without a dram of whisky. Then back to the boat and scanning for the next distillery. There was a lot to learn. Cragganmore had a great map of the facility, with some building names that told the whole story: boiler house, mash house, yeast, still house, filling store, and the warehouses.

Glenfarclas was high up on a saddle, surrounded by barley and the moor. We were told there was no way to walk there, but found instead there was no good way to walk there, just a long stretch of motorway without a shoulder. The quiet forest lane leading to the distillery was a causeway built above deep beds of moss and bog. The forest opened up to this view of Glenfarclas tucked between the barley and the moor.

Below the drop through Knockando rapids, we tied up our boat and set up the hill to catch the day's last tour at Cardhu. Our down-to-the-wire jog through the small village around the distillery earned a few knowing smiles from the locals sitting outside their houses. Back down the hill, we hid from the rain under the cover of a tree, and sipped from a tiny bottle of Cardhu. Thus emboldened, snuck around the edges of the no-visitors Knockando and Tamdhu distilleries.

There was some great industrial equipment in the distilleries--boilers, chillers, and grist mills, not to mention the fermenters and stills. The big roller mills were finely marvels, all a hundred years old, and kept in a state of high polish. The long-dead Yorkshiremen that made these machines would be proud to see them still milling grist.

Whisky develops most of its character from interaction with wood, and many of the distillery sites are dominated by vast aging warehouses. Denied a tour at Macallan after a hike up from the river, we instead snuck past the visitor center, ditched our security tail, and explored a city of looming windowless monoliths. Back on-program at other sites, we walked into some of these structures. The smell of thousands of barrels aging in open-floored warehouses is distinctly sour and musty. As you can tell from the floor joists, there's more whisky stored upstairs.

Though each distillery is built around the same basic process and similar machines, the feeling of the sites was made vastly different by differences in the surrounding landscape, the age of the buildings, and the staff. The practical slate-roofed structures at Cragganmore were buttressed by an imposing stand of trees and, down the lane, a black-and-white stone stable. We peeked in the warehouse windows and climbed up the hill for a view: by the time our friendly guide led us inside the facility, we already felt at home. In contrast, the Macallan distillery was an industrial monster of space-frame construction and settling ponds: who wants to drink that? The setting for Glenfarclas was unique, a spur road bordering the moor, and Cardhu was set in the old company village amid hills of barley. After touring Aberlour, our host poured us an ambitious six whiskies, from the clear raw spirit to their 18-year fancy stuff, and hung out for an hour while we asked questions.

Our last camp was made on the fine pebbles at the tail of a long gravel bar. We awoke, packed our gear into blue plastic barrels on the boat, and under gray skies, paddled out towards the sea. In swelling rainfall we sheltered below overhanging trees. We ate a bit of food under this protection, then released our hold on the bank and were carried on. Now rushing over large cobbles, the river braided, and still sped seaward. The character of the river became completely wild. We passed Scotsmen fishing the lower reaches of the river and saw forests of the toxic Giant Hogweed. We passed into the coastal air, which smelled of seaweed and salt, and raced along stands of willow growing from the rocks of the delta. In its last moments before meeting the sea, the Spey broadened into an estuary and the tremble of current faded: a pause before the breakers. We pulled up shy of the surf on a cobble beach at 57.7° north latitude.