Race Report: Scotland's Eagles Crag Hill Race

by Ron Peck

Date: June 21, 2025
Location: Fort William, Scotland

Last summer, I spent nine days walking the West Highland Way, a beautiful 96-mile trek through western Scotland, with my fiancée, Julie Millard. We finished in the city of Fort William and celebrated by sharing drinks and stories with a few friends we had met on the trail. The next day was my 50th birthday, and I wanted to commemorate it by dipping my toe into the local culture of “fell” running. Fell running is a sport originating in Scotland that isn’t just trail running; in fact, there often aren’t trails of any kind. It’s a scramble across “fells” (high, often trackless hills) where racers are expected to traverse bogs, thick heather, and VERY steep gradients. The Eagles Crag Hill Race, organized by the Lochaber Athletic Club, was a relatively short fell race: a mere 8.6 km out-and-back that included a small section of the West Highland Way. I naïvely thought that anything under 10 km couldn’t be THAT challenging.

Julie, graciously accompanying me for emotional support, and I walked to the race start about two miles outside of Fort William. We followed a single-lane road seemingly going nowhere through fields thick with sheep. Just when I thought that we were completely in the wrong location, a small van parked ahead of us and a few wiry figures in running gear hopped out. The check-in was a foldout table staffed by a few friendly volunteers. After paying my entry fee (a real bargain at £5!), I asked how the course was marked. They assured me that “it was very
hard to get lost.” A fellow racer overheard the conversation and handed me a map of the area which didn’t alleviate my fears as a navigationally-challenged runner.

​A few minutes later, about 25 runners gathered at the starting line. The race director pointed to a blurry silhouette on the horizon. “Just go toward Graham at the top of the hill,” she cheerfully instructed. “Then you’ll head down to the trail.” I assumed that we weren’t going to go all the way to that tiny speck (was it even a person?), and that there surely would be some turnoff to a smaller hill before then.

The start was deceptively easy. I felt fine for the first few minutes, but we quickly moved off any recognizable trail and the world tilted upward. Soon, everyone switched from running to a crouched walk. My calves began to burn intensely, and I regretted my overconfident start. Eventually, the slope became so aggressive that we were on our hands and knees scrabbling towards the ridge. When I finally reached the top, the local runners immediately accelerated into a sprint while I had to take a few moments to stand and catch my breath.

The descent was a revelation in Scottish toughness and bravery. The other runners flew straight down the hill, using the thick vegetation—a mix of heather, grass, and ferns—to catch their weight with each step. I was quickly gapped and found myself alone, eventually hitting a section of the West Highland Way. Seeing no one in front or behind me, I forlornly studied the map and decided to just keep going along the trail. I was greatly relieved when I reached a race marshal who pointed me off the trail and back over the hill I had just descended.

​The final stretch was a gauntlet of obstacles. I encountered fences topped with barbed wire and, seeing no gates, had to climb over them before hurrying across pastures of disinterested sheep. There were long stretches of tangled thickets that I just had to claw through. At one point, I was sure that I was completely lost, but I eventually spotted some shapes (fellow racers, I hoped) moving uphill in the distance. I started pausing to rest after every step. My watch, unhelpfully, repeatedly asked if I was finished with the workout. I finally crested the ridge again
from the opposite direction, received a high-five from a volunteer, and began the quad-burning stumble back to the start. The finish line sat just across a burn (small stream). I didn't even bother looking for a dry path and splashed straight through the water to finish in just under two hours.

The awards ceremony was fun, although humbling. The prizes for age groups were bottles of local beer which looked very appealing to my exhausted body. Despite being the youngest in the age group, I didn’t manage to make it into the top three in the 50-59 category. However, the race director had mercy on me and gave me a prize for just being there. Even better, we didn’t have to walk back to town as we were given a ride from a veteran fell runner. He mentioned that this run was part of his training for the upcoming race up and down Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Britain. I can’t even imagine, but maybe someday…

​The Eagles Crag Hill Race wasn’t my most outstanding run, but it was a memorable way to mark a significant birthday. I left with two tired and scratched legs, a bit of a bruised ego, and massive respect for the fell runners of Scotland.