I stood on the Land Rover track out towards Loch Einich contemplating my second failed long run in seven days. The air temperature was barely above freezing and brought below by gusts of wind. Around me, the mountains that form the walls of Gleann Einich were barely snow covered on their tops but grazed with low clouds. At my feet, the fast waters of Beanaidh Bheag flowed too deep and too wide for me to safely cross alone. A line of rocks emerging from the water like a row of broken teeth looked viable. The large steps between them and the ice clinging to them weren’t a good sign. I was three kilometres away from where I’d intended to turn around at the northern shore of Loch Einich. Three kilometres away from my planned lunch spot, but only nine kilometres into a twenty-six-kilometre run. I’ll take risks, and the main consequences of crossing that river were likely discomfort, nothing worse. However, the knowledge that I’d have to cross the same river again on the way back made me decide against continuing. Another week, another failure.
The week before, Jen & I drove to Braemar, so she could buy bindings and have them fitted to a pair of Nordic-skis. We planned to make a full day of it with Jen hiking up and over Morrone, the village’s local Corbett while I executed my long run. I headed east up Creag Choinnich, a small hill beside the village, then out into the Balmoral estate with the intention of revisiting the longest climb on the Bristow 15 Mile course. I missed the path coming off the top of Creag Choinnich and found myself on rough ground trying to find a path down. I spent fifty minutes covering the first five kilometres of a planned twenty-five-kilometre run. Forty minutes later, after running along the estate’s rolling Land Rover tracks, with detours to avoid a herd of deer and forestry works, I was halfway into my time estimate for the run. I stood at the base of the race’s longest climb. Still, I had to turn around. I’d burned too much of my time budget on Creag Choinnich. Annoyed with myself, especially after more wanderings off route, I arrived back in Braemar with a slow, three hour half-marathon under my feet just as Jen reached the car.
I think of both outings as failures and personal attacks on my ego. I wanted to see the shore of Loich Einich. I wanted to climb that part of the race route. However, I also accept them as examples of good judgement when travelling alone in semi-wild places. In both instances, my route planning wasn’t good enough because I trusted the map too much. But I was still outside moving alone in the hills at my own pace, which is an experience I treasure. For me, depending on my starting mood, it’s either a form of meditation or disassociation. It mostly doesn’t matter where I’m going, only that I’m going somewhere.
The Shelter Stone 