Jane Merryman

A few years ago, on a lonely road in the highlands of Scotland , I did something I never do at home—I got into a car with two men I didn’t know.

On the fourth day of a trek on the West Highland Way, from Loch Lomond to Fort William, the group leader gave us a day off from our forward progress. Most of the hikers wanted to brave the rain and fog to climb a nearby “ben.” I stayed behind in the lodge hoping the clouds would clear. After all, Brits are fond of saying, “You don’t like our weather? Wait five minutes.”

Sure enough, about eleven o’clock the rain stopped and I started walking down a single-lane road leading to a small loch. The wooded hills promised interesting birding.

Several cars passed me and the friendly Scots drivers all offered me a lift, but I held up my binoculars and explained I was content to walk, but thank you very much.

I was searching the brush for a tiny sparrowlike bird when I heard another car approach, slow down, and stop. I turned to see an old, dull-colored Ford, somewhat mud spattered. The two male occupants appeared to be in their sixties. The driver had a round, ruddy face and sparse yellow hair. The other man, with receding gray hair, leaned across the driver and called to me through the open window.

When I declined his offer of a ride, the gray-haired man said they were going all the way to the loch, about twelve miles, and good birding was usually found there. When I still demurred because of the distance I would have to walk to return, he said they would give me a ride back. They were going to look for wildflowers in a nearby bog and would be there several hours.

My experience with plant people, especially wildflower aficionados, is that they are gentle folk. It took me only a few seconds to make a decision. I hopped into the back of the car and we took off down the narrow road. The gray-haired man was small and thin and kept up a constant patter of hilarious stories, puns, and witticisms. I managed to learn between laughs that he was Joe and the driver was George, his straight man. In one of the few pauses, I explained I was an American on a walking holiday.

The road became narrower and more rutted and I soon saw the loch gray in the distance. Joe explained that George was from Poland and had come to England during World War II with other Polish pilots to fly with the RAF. Joe had been an RAF mechanic and the two became good friends. After the war, they married sisters and settled down in two houses side by side in a modest district of Glasgow where they both loved to garden.

It was in the war that George lost his arm, Joe said. I peered into the front seat. The hand that rested on the clutch looked hard and a bit shiny. George grinned back at me.

When we reached the loch, Joe and George dragged wellies out of the car’s boot and pulled them on while I searched the shoreline with my binoculars. I saw no bird life, not even an egret or two. Joe said, “Come with us if you like. We are looking for an orchid we think grows here.”

Again, I needed little persuasion. Bogs are one of my favorite habitats. I love the quirky little plants that grow in these wet places, especially the cute yellow butterworts and the sticky-haired, insect-eating sundews.

The bog was as waterlogged as a sopping sponge. I had on my Gore-Tex hiking shoes so I plunged in, keeping up with my new friends. Occasionally, the wind blew a spray of rain across my face, but this didn’t bother me.

Joe said to watch for a white orchid about so high. It was rather rare. We came across a few pretty little orchids but they were not the right one.

Suddenly, I stumbled and put one leg hip deep into a pothole full of cold brown water. Joe and George each took one of my arms and hauled me out. As I was coming up, I spied straight in front of me on the edge of the pothole a white orchid about so high. “Is this your orchid?” I asked.

It was. George scooped it up with a bit of dripping soil and gently put it into a plastic bag. Then he slipped it into the large pocket of his anorak. The two men found a few more plants of interest and carefully packaged them to take back to their Glasgow gardens.

While we were in the bog I was completely wrapped up in the moment and thought of nothing else. But on our return to the car, as I sat bundled up in the back seat in a dry blanket produced from the boot, I realized what we had been doing. As Joe resumed his comic routine and George silently drove, I recalled that at home in California laws prohibited removing plants from the wild, especially rare species. Britain probably had such statutes. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became of the truth. I had fallen in with orchid thieves!

What if we were stopped by the police? I began to concoct a story I hoped would explain my complete innocence in this caper. I didn’t let on that I knew their game, but from their conversation in the bog and in the car, it was obvious these two buddies made frequent such expeditions.

Joe and George drove me all the way to the lodge, and as we pulled into the driveway I offered to treat them to a pint. They looked at each other and declined. Well, then how about some coffee? Again, they looked at each other and said no, their wives wouldn’t like it.

“Would they ever know?” I asked. They just glanced at each other.

The red lights of the little Ford disappeared down the road. I had had a wonderful day even though I had been wet and cold most of the time. Two delightful men had been my companions and shared with me their wartime story. Yes, I did regret the beautiful plants that had been wrenched from their boggy home, but they would be well cared for in their new digs. Perhaps they would remind their caretakers of the American on a walking holiday. I certainly would not forget my day with the orchid thieves.