Mid-afternoon and the September light was already fading as I parked at Loch Na Gainmhich, the sandy loch.
I was only going to be a few hours so decided to travel light. I didn't need a rucksack or flask so they stayed in the car; waterproofs on, tackle in pockets, hood up and off I went.
I smiled at my first glimpse of the loch. There was a “chop” on the water, small regular waves would work my artificial flies and hide my poor technique. The burns feeding it were foaming white, contrasting with the slate grey of the loch and russet brown grasses bending with the weight of the rain they wore. Sprigs of purple heather were fighting to keep autumn away. The loch looked good; if you ignored the rain.
The fish were pretty safe as I cast my flies; sometimes nicely off the water, sometimes after the wind had wrapped them round my coat, sometimes after they’d snagged in the heather.
Halfway round, I realised that the path was now part of the loch but that was fine, there was good fishing ahead.
I smiled at the prospects until I noticed the torrent coming down one burn, flowing too fast for fishing, forcing its way into the loch, bubbling like a jacuzzi, no doubt stirring up all sorts of feed for the fish.
I could hear a noise. I stopped. Listened. Rocks were being forced downhill, clattering into other rocks, together, heading into the loch.
OMG, the power of the water.
The force of nature.
The beauty it created.
I muttered thanks that I wouldn’t have to cross here again.
Then stopped and looked around.
I was at one end of the loch; my car was at the other.
The burns behind me were fuller now, full of white foaming water forcing its way into the loch. It struck me how spectacular this was but also …
I felt my heart skip. The way back to the car was over stepping stones at the other end of the loch. I started walking, going faster as I splashed the kilometre or so along the waterlogged path, cursing as I got closer.
I could see one stepping stone but it was under about thirty centimetres of water. The exit from the loch had doubled in size, water backing up onto the banks, over the path looking for a way out.
For some reason I put a foot in the water. I was pushed off balance, teetered and only saved from a fall by jabbing my fishing rod into the ground.
There was no way across.
Yet, I could see my car.
Looking back, the mist was beginning to creep down towards the water, towards me. It was coming for me. I could literally see sheets of rain flying across the loch, the wind whipping the waves up. I shivered - dramatic yet frightening.
I climbed away from the stepping stones, looking for a way down. I slipped. My foot stripping a layer of grass off. Below me I could see a white frothing pool then nothing. An abyss. I was at the top of the Wailing Widow Waterfall. I winced at the irony.
There was no way down.
I looked across the hillside; could I contour round? It was covered in rivers of white water, bubbling and falling, the hillside at an angle that, if you fell, you’d slide. Stopping when you hit a rock or the river below.
I looked back along the loch and saw the burns. There seemed more of them now. All busy, racing into the loch, the loch boiling when they met. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, ‘How do I get out of here?’
I looked up, down then around. I shook my head, I had to go back the way I’d come, climb up and try to cross the burns before they had time to gather water and speed, what choice did I have?
My heart started thumping in my chest, faster and faster, swearing as I realised, if I couldn’t cross these burns I’d need to call for help.
If I could get a signal!
Movement. I turned and watched the mist and the rain swallow the lights of a solitary car. I was truly alone.
I shook my head and cursed as the first burn came into view. It had more fingers, these fingers cutting through deep heather and round rocks. I paused then shivered. Cold, hungry or scared?
It was imperative I pushed on.
I walked up and down the hillside, looking for a place to cross, looking for rocks hiding in the heather, waiting to trip me. Taking a deep breath I threw the rod over no longer really caring if it broke. My hands were so cold it was a struggle to hold it. I walked back a few paces, ran, jumped, collected my rod then repeated the process. Again. And again.
There seemed to be a never ending supply of burns. Water was everywhere. There was no let-up in the rain and the wind was now bouncing off the corrie walls, hitting me from all angles. Water sneaking under my cuffs, slipping down the side of my hood, trickling down my neck.
Eventually, I crossed the last burn and smiled as I headed to the path. I felt my shoulders sag and my steps get slower and shorter. My way was flooded, hiding holes, still trying to trip me.
The road was a welcome sight. I turned and looked back at the loch. It had calmed, the rain had eased and the white horses had reduced yet the burns at the top still roared. I lifted my hat to them, ‘Respect.’
I had been caught out.
I should have known that the ground would be waterlogged.
I should have known after the first swollen, cascading burn that it was foolish to continue.
I should have learned from this … but …