I was on my own this time; partly freeing, partly terrifying. I’d cleared the week, and given myself a couple of spare days beside. Some additions to the kit: a personal locator beacon and a hot water bottle, not for me, but for the batteries. Braemar had been the coldest place in the UK for two consecutive nights (-14) and even parts of the Linn itself had frozen over: huge slab-shards of ice butting up against each other.
The goal more focussed this time: to film in Garbh Coire and at the foot of the falls of Dee... the only part of the river that had resisted all attempts to film it. I’d been playing the shot in my mind for months. I settled on these few days because the weather fronts were timed to pass over during the nights, leaving clear days.
After a fun night in Bob Scotts I woke early to sort the kit, leaving behind as much as I could. My ability to assess what was necessary improved by aching shoulders after just 90 mins of walking. Set off with the aim of getting to Corrour by lunch and Garbh Refuge by the evening. That would give me two days in Garbh Choire to wait for the weather window get the sequence.
The first part of the walk was manageable as I was following in someone’s tracks. Then at Lui Beg bridge the tracks stopped - I could see they returned the way they’d come. Day walkers? Or was it too tough walking in the fresh snow? I was about to find out.
From Glen Lui to get into the Lairig I head round the Forest of Mar; the bare, treeless bulge at the foot of Carn a’Mhaim. This was a slog like no other: wading through thigh-deep snow headlong into a howling gale. It wasn’t technically snowing but it felt like it: the wind whipping clouds of spindrift into my face. Hard to breathe. Snow devils danced around me and I donned the artic gear: balaclava and ski mask. I consoled myself with the thought that this was the lee side of the hill, and the slope would be scoured on the other side. I’d make up the lost time there. But I was wrong.
One of our guides on a previous expedition used a kind of traffic light system to asses how safe we were at a given point. Discomfort wouldn’t nudge the light to amber but a lost glove would send us straight to red. I’ve always remembered that so when it came to checking the map I tied them securely to my walking poles. 7km to go, 3 hours in. Garbh is out. New plan: Corrour and reassess.
Spotted another snow devil barrelling straight towards me so I lent into it to avoid being pushed over. Managed to stay upright but it tore the map from my hand. I could only watch as it skitted violently over the ice and down the mountainside. No question of going after it. Fuck. I’ve got a spare... I think. Green to Amber.
I inched along for the next few hours with a new routine: find a rock on the horizon: aim for that, forget about everything else. Eventually Corrour came into view in the fading light. I let out a whoop, then saw the gullies I had to cross. My line had taken me much higher than I intended, so here they were deep and full of snow. I could hear the water gushing underneath so shuffled across on my belly, which is a hard thing to do with a drone strapped to your front. Looked up at one point to see a bemused looking deer watching me struggle. I started laughing and then she scampered off, taking the humour of the situation with her.
I’ve blacked the rest out, but I made it to Corrour. It had taken me 9 hours: barely a kilometre an hour. No one in the bothy and no real possibility of anyone else coming. They can’t be as mad as me.
The valley cold and empty that night. Down to -6. Got a fire on and prepared the kit for the next day - I needed a lighter pack. I’d been carrying around 30 kilos in total, which meant I was sinking deep into the snow with every step, then struggling like a drunk beetle to get up whenever I fell (which was often). A lighter pack meant using Corrour as a base and trying for Garbh Choire and back the next day. I packed bare minimum in case of emergency (and enough for a night in Garbh refuge worst-case, without comforts). Delighted to discover the spare map had survived the Bob Scott kit-cull. Amber to green.
Dinner and a dram before bed. I’d brought a mini radio in for company, wondering if I’d get any signal. I tried it out and caught a few indecipherable fragments of the shipping forecast on a long wave station, but then lost it. Scanned the stations again but found only noise: electro-charged ghost echoes bouncing off the granite. It sounded eerie so I recorded it: a bonus psycho-acoustic nugget for the film.
Went for a pee in the moon shadow of the Devil’s Point. No one for miles. Wind howling angrily. Went to bed questioning life choices.