Autumn to Winter, Lochan Uaine, Ryvoan Pass, Meall a'Bhuachaille

View over Loch Morlich at dusk

Summer is long gone. Autumn is slowly fading. Not many weeks ago there was lingering warmth as autumn gradually entered. Now there is the first cold of winter as autumn starts its lengthy exit. In the glens autumn still feels in control. On the summits winter is already here.

Snow lay in the garden the morning of the 25th, the first this autumn. Just a smattering, and it didn't last, but a sign of what's to come. The autumn colours are starting to fade. The cycle of nature rolls on.

In the forest

A walk through the woods and up to the summits is always a good way to experience the changing seasons in one day, altitude replacing time. A favourite I've written about and photographed many times but which never disappoints is the walk over Meall a'Bhuachaille from Glenmore. 

Lochan Uaine

The air was cold but still as I started out through the forest. The birches mostly were still a brilliant yellow, but I noticed a few stripped of their leaves. A breeze rippled Lochan Uaine. Under the overcast skies the water was dark, the surrounding pines sombre, making the brightness of the birches startlingly brilliant.

The Cairngorms from Meall a'Bhuachaille

On the way up Meall a'Bhuachaille the wind caught me, bone-chilling and bitter, quickly stripping away the warmth built up in the forest. Over the Cairngorms layers of cloud covered the sky, some catching the rays of the now low sun. The snow-spattered mountains looked firmly in winter's grip.

Weather edge

Over the lower hills to the north and east, out towards the coast, the sky was still mostly blue though the edge of approaching stormy weather was sharply delineated. West the sky was a tangle of racing clouds and patches of blue, constantly changing.

On the summit

Autumn had fled the summit of Meall a'Bhuachaille. Here it was winter, the ground frozen hard, spattered with remnants of the last snow fall, the wind painful and stinging. Cutting below the clouds the last rays of the sun gave a warm colour to the landscape but made no impression on the air. I didn't linger.

Dusk

Descending in the dusk I watched the light changing over the distant hills. Down in the forest it was calm again.

For National Parks Week: Pictures of the Cairngorms

View across the Lairig Ghru from the Cairngorm Plateau

This is National Parks Week so here are some of my favourite pictures of my favourite park, the Cairngorms. Any excuse!

Autumn, Ryvoan Pass

Loch an Eilein

Loch Muick

 

Castle Grant & Braeriach

Camp on the Moine Mhor, looking to Sgor Gaoith

Sunset

Lochan Uaine, Ryvoan Pass

View down the Lairig Ghru from Ben Macdui

Camp in the Lairig Ghru

Ben Macdui from the White Mounth

Sunrise, Gleann Einich

Camp on the Cairngorm Plateau

Cairn Toul

Igloo on the Moine Mhor

Camp with Terry Abraham on Mullach Clach a'Bhlair

Camp above Loch Avon

Braeriach & Loch Einich

Camp in Glen Feshie

 

Sgor Gaoith

A visit to a favourite place: Coire an Lochain in the Cairngorms

Coire an Lochain, the easternmost of the Northern Corries, is one of my favourite places in the Cairngorms. Although not far from Coire Cas and the Cairngorm Mountain ski resort it feels remote. The paths into the corrie are rough and stony - it's not that easy a place to reach. The flat floor of the corrie, much of it filled with Loch Coire an Lochain, comes on you suddenly. The great cliffs that tower far above the lochan are distinctive and can be seen from afar - they're visible from Aviemore. But only when the loch starts to appear does the full magnificence of the scene burst into view.

In winter this is a wild place, often swirling with snow that hides the cliffs. The frozen lochan is invisible. Avalanches crash down the gullies and rock slabs. It can feel ferocious and terrifying. Come spring and the snow begins to melt, colour comes back to the land, the loch thaws and there's a feel of softness amongst the harsh rocks. That's when I think the corrie is at its finest.

I went up there late this April to see how the spring was progressing. Snow lingers here and distant views showed the steep headwall below the cliffs still mostly white. What would the loch be like? As the snow melts ice floes float around on the water, sometimes into May and June. Cold weather in recent days with a touch of new snow on the summits would have slowed the recent rapid snowmelt though as I approached I saw that the stream pouring out of the corrie was full and white and fierce. Then I came over the outer lip of the corrie to see a pool of water clear of snow and ice. This small lochan is shallow and dries up completely in hot summers. Today it led the eye to the snow and the cliffs reflected in the shimmering water.

Soon the bigger loch appeared. A few small ice floes remained, a few snow banks still ran into the water from the slopes above. And there was a skim of soft ice over part of the surface. The loch was freezing again. At one end broken sheets of snow and ice were up on the grass, driven there by the wind.

Mountain hare tracks laced the snow on the soft marshy ground at the edge of the loch. I wasn't going to rely on it holding my weight and stopped my circuit of the water here. On the far shore snow slopes running down from the cliffs were cracking and breaking into the water. They'd have stopped me anyway.

I sat on a rock and stared into the clear water, the boulders under the surface sharp and colourful, and across to the snowfields and the dark cliffs. I felt relaxed, at peace, calm. After a while, reluctantly, I turned to go, and wandered slowly out of this mountain haven, looking back frequently until all I could see were the cliffs rising into the sky. I'll be back.

The difference a day can make

The Cormdale Hills, January 20

The last weekend has seen a huge contrast in weather and conditions. Saturday was calm and crisp, the air well below freezing. High thin clouds drifted across a blue sky. The hills and woods shone. The day ended with a golden light. The snow underfoot was firm, boots biting in just enough to give good grip.

Snow falling, the Cromdale Hills hidden, January 21

Overnight the temperature fell to -9C. Then the weather changed. Sunday began with grey skies and a flat light, the hills hidden in the cloud. A bitter wind brought heavy snow showers. Underfoot the snow was icy. Saturday it was a joy to wander in a beautiful landscape, pausing frequently to watch the trees, the animal tracks, ice on pools, patterns in the snow. Sunday it was demanding coping with the weather and stopping even briefly was not appealing.

The Cromdale Hills, January 20

The Cromdale Hills, January 21

This is one of the pleasures and challenges of the Scottish weather, especially in winter. Hope for weather like Saturday's but always be prepared for weather like Sunday's.

Here's some more pictures of the two days. The ones from Sunday have not been converted to Black & White!

Castle Grant, January 20

Looking towards the Cromdale Hills, January 21

The day ends, January 20

Snowing, January 21

New Years Eve, New Years Day

Across Strathspey to the Cromdale Hills on New Years Day

The old year faded away in soft mist and cloud. The new year began much the same way. Nature doesn't acknowledge or notice our arbitrary division of years. Winter just continues.

The temperatures hung around freezing. The air was still. A slight thaw for a few hours on New Years Eve softened and shrank the snow. Overnight cooling turned the snow crunchy and slippery. Bands of mist drifted along the strath, marking the line of the River Spey, and floated in layers across the hills. The High Cairngorms remained hidden. The land was quiet, waiting, maybe asleep.

Across Strathspey to the Cromdale Hills on New Years Eve

The constantly shifting mists gave an ethereal feel to the landscape. Hillsides appeared and faded away. The hazy Cromdale Hills, sometimes floating above the mist with the long summit ridge rising into clouds, could at times have been Himalayan giants. Strands of mist laced the tops of the forest.

New Years Eve rainbow

Rain and sleet accompanied the New Years Eve thaw, making the air feel colder than when it was dry and the temperature lower. As the dark storm clouds moved away late in the day the sun caught them and a rainbow appeared, a fitting finale to the year.

Dusk, New Years Eve

On both days the clouds began to break and dissolve as the light faded, the sun lighting them gentle shades of orange, red and pink. Subdued sunsets on subdued days. The snow made walking under the darkening sky easy with no need for torches. Then as the clouds thinned some more a hazy moon could be glimpsed, soon strengthening and brightening, a bright aura surrounding it.
 

New Year moon

This, the first full moon of the year, is known as the Wolf Moon (actually full on the 2nd but it looks much the same!). I gazed up, imagining the sound of wolves howling in the woods. If only. Instead there came the soft hooting of owls. Wild hunters of a different sort. Then at midnight a burst of colours and explosions lit the distant sky - the New Year celebrations in Grantown-on-Spey. Across the strath more fireworks in Cromdale. The quiet and the owls soon returned. The year had changed. The owls hooted on, oblivious.

Strathspey, New Years Day

The first day of the new year faded away just as the last day of the old year had, the clouds turning pink in the last rays of the sun. The woods dark, the fields white with snow. The air still. A quiet change.

Dusk, New Years Day

By The River

Walking by rivers can be exhilarating, terrifying, tense, soothing. It all depends on the mood of the water and the mood of the walker. A few weeks ago during a big thaw the River Spey was wild and angry, full of surging snowmelt, overflowing its banks, submerging tree roots, crashing over rocks. I walked beside the water overawed by its power. The river seemed out of control, unpredictable, dangerous. 

Yesterday as the big freeze continued the river was in a completely different mood. Dark, sombre, deep, somehow sinister and calm at the same time. Black water swirled slowly against snowy banks. Distant hills shone white in bursts of sunshine. Reflections of trees shimmered in the glassy surface. Beside it I felt calm but also alert and observant. There was a feeling of waiting. For what? Anything, nothing. Whatever would happen next.

 

The flooding snowmelt river was bereft of bird life. Nothing moved on or above the tumultuous water. The river of the freeze was alive with life. Mallards paddled in the shallows by the banks. A pair of goosanders flew low over the water, long necks and bills outstretched, while a solitary female, her reddish-brown head distinct against the much darker river, bobbed on the slight swell. Another long-necked bird, black and cumbersome, flapped upstream. A cormorant. Rounding a bend I came on six more, floating in midstream. Five took off at my approach, skimming heavily away. The sixth remained, alone, slowly turning in the flow.

 

Three times I put up herons, watching them slowly and heavily fly along the banks before settling again in the shallows. On some snow-covered ice on the edge of a quiet pool out of the main flow I found the tracks of their large feet.

As I watched the constantly changing almost hypnotic complex patterns of the river a small dark dumpy-looking bird suddenly bobbed up, floated for a few seconds, then disappeared under the water again. A dabchick (as I learnt to call them many years ago, more formally a little grebe), the first I’ve seen on the Spey.

Other than the occasional splash of wings on water these birds were silent. The only sound was the crunch of my shoes in the snow. In the background there was the hum of traffic on the main road that lay not far away but I was able to fade this out, it only impinging on my hearing when a particularly noisy vehicle whined and roared.

Then a harsh cry rang out across the river, repeated again and again. I looked up from the water. A crow sat atop a birch tree, cawing loudly, before flying off to disappear into the woods, still calling.

Returning through the woods via an icy set of steps I admired the delicate tracery of snow, ice and frost on the birches, very temporary beauty that would be gone at the first touch of wind, or sun, or rising temperatures.