Remorse

The winter camping rhythm is rigid. Go and play outside from sunrise to sunset, which here, in the hills, means from 9 to 4 - if the weather plays along. The rest of the day: murmuring in the tent, restlessness, reading, until a battery dies, either from the lamp or from the phone or my own. At night I imagine being at Loch Loch, down around the corner. Sure, the wind would be violent, the days are shorter, but I would be at the end of the world, properly, and not just on a convenient perch with a view. More and more I learn that Loch Loch in its deep and secluded valley has the function of an end for me, a resting point, a place of destruction, clinging to existence, and then regeneration. When I re-emerge after three days, it's like starting from a blank slate. A new beginning. Being awake at night, standing on top of the ridge, seeing the dark shadow in the north, I miss Loch Loch. I am in the wrong place. So close, and still not there.

There are two ways to see Loch Loch from my new campsite, either by going around the corner, staying high, or by dropping down and taking the path. For a moment I was worried that the loch had disappeared, and all I would find is a patch of mud. But, as always, the loch is just exceptionally good at hiding. Deer and deer tracks everywhere, the old campsite in good condition, the shape of the loch unchanged.