In northwest Scotland, they still drink water from mountain streams without a filter. The Scottish also refer to single malt scotch whisky as the water of life, as it's made by soaking malted barley in water and distilling the brew. Thus the pursuit of these mystical waters warranted our pilgrimage in search of misty myths of the British Isles, the wisdom held in its old mountains, the medieval tales of its relics and the taste of its renowned spirit on the tongue.

Water is abundant in Scotland's many rain and spring-fed lochs (lakes) and rivers. The jet stream carries spongy clouds that rain over hills green and plush as a '70s shag carpet. Hikers want to have the sun-god on their side — more often than not, dubious weather is a challenge in the mountains. For instance, Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Britain, is said by locals to average 60 climbable days per year. Our attempt to hike it turned out to be lost in the time when the peak sits in a cloud, which is the majority. Fortunately, the waters from the mountain flow right to the Ben Nevis distillery where we were able to toast offerings to the sun-god.

In 1825, the distillery was built by John MacDonald who is said to have been a strong man who once saved his invalid brother Archibald from being attacked by a bull while crossing a field on his crutches. John ran to the rescue, literally grabbing the bull by the horn, twisting its head and dislocating its neck. Undoubtedly it is auspicious to offer a toast with what has come to be known (and marketed) as "Long John's Dew of Ben Nevis" in hopes of favorable weather.

Disappointment over our aborted hike didn't last long upon reaching the Cuillin Mountains on the Isle of Skye. The jagged, gabbro peaks of the Cuillins are the most challenging mountains in Scotland. They can be seen from most vantage points around Skye and beautiful views are to be had from afar and atop. We chose Bruach Na Frithe (BROO-ach na FREE-ha), which means "slope of the forest," for our hike and left from Sligachan (SLEG-a-han) mid-morning for a full day of soulful Scottish hillwalking.

Most ascents in the Cuillins are a scramble to the top, and the Inaccessible Pinnacle calls for rock climbing. Hiking here is a more serious undertaking than most of the Munro peaks on the mainland. Sir Hugh T. Munro, an early member of the Scottish Mountaineering Club, compiled a list of Scottish Mountains over 3,000 ft. and published the Munro Tables in 1891. His guidebook has been edited in the last 100 years based on revised height measurements. "Munro bagging" has evolved as more zealous hillwalkers seek to reach all 284 summits. Though sometimes the butt of jokes, Munro bagging is nonetheless a formidable accomplishment.

But not all the 3,000 foot high mountains in Scotland are Munros. Munros are defined as distinct, separate mountains. "Tops" are also over 3,000 feet, but the difference is based on the drop in height and the distance between adjacent summits. One might hike to the summit of a Top on the way to a Munro, for instance, or even bag more than one Munro on the same ridgeline, but these categories are an attempt at bringing some order for summit-seekers into high peaks that are clustered together.

We began our hike to Bruach na Frithe on a private road that turns into a well marked trail following the Allt Dearg Mor (owlt FERR-ak moar), "Little Red Stream," through grassy lowlands. The terrain is treeless with patches of stone scattered throughout. As we approached the top of a small pass, the path to Bruach Na Frithe split off at a fork and we ascended along the northwest slopes of the Fionn Choire (Fyoon-Chorra), "fair corrie," a smooth grassy meadow at the base of an enchanting cirque of peaks.

Visibility was splendid so we chose to head up the crest of the north-west ridge. The ridge begins with a broad low-angled section and narrows toward the summit into a high 4th-class scramble. The last hour of hiking kept our hearts pumping as the ridge grew steeper and more narrow and the spectacular view on the other side unveiled itself the higher we went.

Soon, breathtaking views of some of the most prominent peaks practically smacked us in the face. Sgurr nan Gillean (skoor nan GEEL-yan), "peak of the gullies," and Am Bastier (am BASH-tyir), "The Executioner," were just to the west as if you could touch them and the sea and Outer Hebrides islands loomed in the distance beyond the peaks. To the south, more mountains drop to the shoreline and it's said that you can see Ireland on a clear day, but this view was obscurred by clouds to our south. We would end up paying homage with pints of Guinness at Seamus Bar in Sligachan at the end of the day.

I often feel the effects of gravity more beneath peaks than actually on them. As if a house-sized flake would choose the moment of my presence below it as its opportunity in 10,000 years to go for a ride, and the chances of my own human error are of little consequence in comparison. Funny how the mind plays tricks on spacial perceptions in wide open places such as this. If there was some way to measure the chances of a rock slide versus a person's odds for error, my theory would surely be blown out of the water. Especially given the chances of variables such as mist rolling in on a steep ridge, how many pints or whiskies I drank the night before (this IS Scotland), the elements, or the state of my own mind and body.

Regardless, it's a beautiful thing when all factors cooperate. The building-sized Bastier Tooth did not take us out that day, and we continued down scree with a spectacular view of the long sharp ridge that we ascended two hours earlier. Back to the grassy corrie at the bottom of the cirque, we glanced back at the changing light as the sun created dramatic shadows across the southern tops, and we finished our afternoon in the warm tendrils of Seamus Bar.

Fresh seafood and whisky rewarded us on Scotland's west coast for a couple of bonus days after Bruach na Frithe. Single malt whisky is thought to nourish the mind, body and spirit in these parts. A glass of the stuff warms the gut, though I hesitate to say nourish while sipping at 11am on an empty stomach, but it's a perfect complement (or should I say antidote?) to a full day in the mountains. We sipped by the lapping shoreline of the Laphroaig Distillery on the peat-rich island of Islay (pronounced EYE-lah) amidst smells of salty air, seaweed and smoking peat.

The robust flavors in some of Islay's whiskies first converted me to a single malt whisky drinker years ago. A delicious welcome after days of hillwalking in the fertile countryside, it's what Ian Hallen, distiller and manager at Laphroaig, refers to as "the finest drink known to man or woman."

Many single malt whiskies are aged in used Kentucky bourbon or sherry barrels. Upon seeing rows of barrels stamped with the words "Jack Daniels" I asked Ian if he liked bourbon.

"We only use the American whisky industry as our cask prep area," he replied.

Just like the mountains of Scotland, there are scotch flavors for all tastes. Though the basic ingredients are water, yeast and malted barley, the differences in flavor depends on different micro climates, water supplies (i.e. whether water runs over rocks or through peat), how much peat has been burned to smoke the barley and the design of the stills which break the drink into its essential flavors.

We decided not to be fussy or formal with our whisky drinking. Hallen gave us good advice, "Don't look at a bottle on the shelf and say 'I spent 200 pounds on that whisky,' buy 20 bottles at 10 a piece and have a smashing party!"

— Michelle Quigley, swillin' for The Mountain Zone