The routine

Christmas time out at Loch Loch. It is the third year in a row. I am wary of routines, and I considered many alternatives, but the lure of Loch Loch was too strong. That, and the promise of stable, clear weather, which, as it turned out, was just that, a promise. The long trip from home to the loch takes five hours, five hours that go by like a silent meditation. By car, the bike, then on foot. Then we are here.

I build my nest at the beach on the south end, like all these years except the last one. The campsite looks ravaged, but the ground is dry and the fireplace has been cleared out since I last visited. It still seems like a miracle that just here, where two or three streams from the slopes above trickle into the loch, a dry spot has emerged. But maybe it is just limestone underneath that keeps the water low. If something seems mysterious on the surface, the solution is usually inside the Earth. Maybe I am camping on an ancient rock.