No further research

In July 2013 I started my systematic exploration of Loch Loch. I started it, because something didn't seem right. Loch Loch had a mystery, it posed a question, or, in the words of a scientist, a research proposal. Let's summarise the state of the field at the time.

All contemporary images showed that the loch is divided in two halfs, by two finger-like peninsulas protruding from either side. The fingers almost touch each other, leaving a ankle-keep,  a few metres wide channel in between - the infamous Valve. Here the Valve in December 2019. The southern half is further subdivided by another finger, the peninsula. This is not the mystery.


The mystery was an old image I found on Geograph, which seemed to show that the eastern finger of the Valve was broader in summer 2005. I concluded that the loch must be a dynamically changing landscape, and decided to monitor it. Further research, conducted from the warm confines of my living room, revealed the banal truth. The image from 2005 was taken when the loch was still and the sun was out. The combination of mirror images of mountains and shadows of mountains make the finger look broader. There is no real change, just shadows and reflections. No real mystery either, just a normal puzzle. The field advances incrementally. The project is concluded.

Six years I have been chasing shadows and reflections. But the loch was really different that day in 2015, there is no denying that. Shadows and reflections are just as real as a landslide. They just follow other laws. And as transient events they can only be scientifically confirmed when, by some coincidence, the circumstances conspire to create the same conditions again. Here is the mirror image of Carn nan Gabhar touching the tip of the Peninsula, creating a second valve.

Nighttime entertainment

It is difficult to write about the long winter hours. There is no way to take pictures, no way to record the noises. Fifteen hours of darkness, the only illumination the star light reflected by the snow. Even in nights without moon, it is never completely black when snow is on the hills. There is nothing to do, but to stay warm, to think only simple thoughts, and to listen.

Animal noises are rare at this time of the year. Footsteps outside, made by a small creature. An errant roaring stag. The resident ravens, awake at an untimely hour. An owl. Wait, an owl? The next tree is miles away. What other bird can make such creepy noises at night? Next up, a screeching sound. Sometimes I think the loch is making this up. Sometimes it is not easy to decide if a noise is made outside or inside my half-awake mind. A gunshot? Not really.

The wind has a strange way of entertaining me. It is called "guess what will happen next". I can hear gusts of wind minutes before they hit the tent. Small, defined bundles of air move through the hills. Sometimes they stay up there and all I get is a swooshing noise. Sometimes they drop down and blow through my bubble. Sometimes they emerge from the north, and when that happens, there is no way to escape them. I can hear the air minutes after it is gone, when the water in the loch splashes around in memory of a wind gust.

Swimming holes (theoretical)

Late December is not the ideal time to try out swimming spots around Loch Loch. By the time I am fully in the water, my feet are numb and my legs feel like they are on fire. Six degree cold water is fine, apparently, but one or two degrees is a different problem that I still need to solve.

But in theory, this is a cold water swimming paradise. The loch itself is shallow in the south, and deep in the north where it narrows and squeezes through the hills. The outflow An Lochain has some good bathtubs. On the approach, Allt Fearnach presents a great hole with easy access, just before the slope steepens and the river accelerates. And north of the loch, Allt Feith Ghuithsachain has formed glorious rock pools at the bottom of equally glorious waterfalls, places that nobody ever visits. 

I had seen the lower parts of these falls before, but I didn't know that higher up the stream has more of these, better, steeper, faster, and still nameless and undeveloped. The water has carved a deep incision into the rock. Bare trees cover up the entry point. And right next to the best pool is a grassy spot, the most secluded, the most mysterious, and also the loudest campsite in the world. In theory.

Granularity

I like to think that Loch Loch has a weather system that is detached from the rest of Earth's climate. It presents weather in well defined packages, some last only a few minutes, some days. But it is very clear what it wants to do. Sharp edges, clear boundaries, no ambiguity there. And it is always beautiful, terrifying, yes, but also beautiful. Standing outside, in the middle of the night, trying to guess what the weather will be in the next moment, while familiar constellations on the sky get re-organised by intervening clouds. Andromeda surely looks different without that star.


Monday morning I wake up to rain, which turns into snow, a transition that is mesmerising to watch from inside the tent. The hard noise of rain drops turns soft, and just moments later the first layer of snow make it just slightly darker inside. Then little avalanches slide down the walls of the tent. Then an ice rim at the beach. The slopes look like a black and white photograph from an old family album. Then the clouds move away, show is over, next chapter.

Tuesday the same beginning, rain, but now it continues onwards as rain, for hours. I can see the rain coming down the loch. The dominating colours are a pale green and the brown of mud and heather, brown everywhere. It is difficult to be sure how unpleasant the rain is going to be. In the tent it always sounds annoying, or peaceful, depending on my state of mind. Eventually I have to get outside and try it out.

Visiting squares

Last year I posted my first picture on Geograph, a cross-grid view of Loch Loch, of course. Geograph's goal is to take a picture of every square kilometre in Great Britain and Ireland. I realise that three squares just north of my loch (it's my loch now) are not pictured yet. This will be the goal for this year. It is as abstract as it gets, but the abstract is filled with wilderness. I am in luck - the 23rd of December, which started with wet snow, gifted me a few hours of clear sunshine. 

NN9975 is just along the loch, and then a few hundred metres up to the east, onto the sprawling plateau of heather and peat that frames the east side of Loch Loch. There is absolutely nothing to see in this square. I take lots of pictures of nothing. The pictures don't show how wet my legs are. Even if the ground is frozen, a layer of soft mud, a layer of wet heather, and another layer of fresh snow is terrible walking terrain. 



NN9976 is next, to the north, the square where Allt Feith Ghuithsachain turns into an actual stream and plunges down into the valley. The river is surrounded by wetlands. An errant landrover track crosses through the bog. 







NN9977 is my favourite, a natural end point to my walk, still trackless, but with a distinguished viewing platform called Meall na Spionaig (which a summit that protrudes into NN0077). It is almost a surprise to be on top. Spectacular views to the north, into unknown territory. Moraines, gullies, cascades, everything.

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.

Neighbours (alive)

The way to Loch Loch is, as always, trying. With the bicycle parked at Daidhu, halfway on the way, the last human settlement, it still takes two or three hours, more, if you forget to pack your sleeping bag in plastic, it starts to rain, and you have to wait in a stinking shed with some agricultural artefacts. It's a steep hill to climb to Glen Fearnach, and the walk from Daidhu is up and down. It does not happen very often that I walk with more than ten kilograms on my back. I arrived way after sunset, and grope around for pegs in the darkness.

On the way out, I meet the people of Daidhu, a couple with several dogs. Him, working with his dog on his purpose-built dog playground, her, later in the car, with another dog. 'I saw your bike', and 'we were worried about you'. I could almost see Daidhu from the Sron nan Dias campsite, and their lights were comforting, and terrifying at the same time. 'A guy with a big pack, we heard, he is probably out for a while.' Considerate people. I sort of assumed that Daidhu was only temporarily inhabited, maybe by hunting parties, but these people live here. But what are they doing in their free time? Do they have any free time?

So far, the people in the glen have been like foxes to me, invisible, elusive, unrelatable. I see their tracks in the snow, sometimes their noises at night, or rarely the remainder of their food. That's it. There is no return to that idea. Also, it is difficult to relate to people in a normal way after several days of constant interior monologue. I'm not sure what they made of me, and I probably don't want to find out. I hope I looked marginally competent, that's all I'm trying to project. Being accidentally rescued while relaxing at Loch Loch will remain one of my nightmares.