Lord Byron eulogised this mountain in 1807:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved o’er the mountains afar:
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.
In contrast, Queen Victoria wrote of Lochnagar in September 1848:
“But alas! Nothing whatever to be seen; and it was cold, and wet, and cheerless. At about twenty minutes after two we set off on our way downwards, the wind blowing a hurricane, and the mist being like rain, and everything quite dark with it”.
After experiencing Lochnagar on a bleak day in December, I agree with the poet’s “wild”, “steep” and “dark” but otherwise I’m with Queen Vic. We woke bright and early in the Spittal of Glenmuick and met our friend Mike at the Lochnagar car park before sunrise. We set off on the 10ish-mile hike in a mix of fog, drizzle and gloom, disappointed with the weather but glad for the company.
The first section took us across a flat, heather-covered plain, with Loch Muick away to the south and a dark line of trees to the north. We couldn’t see much through the fog, but I knew that Loch Muick was cradled on three sides by steep ridges; I expect it’s stunning on a clear day. Lochnagar is within a few miles of the Balmoral estate, and I could just imagine the Queen (maybe a few years ago) tearing round the track in a Landrover, or a shotgun-wielding Philip bumbling after some grouse.
It was an easygoing route for about three miles, along a wide, stony track up a gradual incline. We branched off left about a mile east of Meikle Pap, where the track turned into a slabbed stone path. I got overexcited at catching a glimpse of a few startled red grouse, then we hit the snow and the hike got a bit more complicated.
Just as the path started getting scrambley, patches of snow appeared. Snow does a great job of concealing paths, especially when the landscape is strewn with rocks, covered in wild, tufty vegetation and bereft of other summit-seeking humans. We followed it as best we could but did a lot of guessing, aiming in the direction of “up” and “west-ish”.
The vegetation disappeared, and after scrambling up a formless sea of steep, slippery rocks, keeping close to avoid losing each other, we hit real trouble – just as I got excited at a flock of winter-white ptarmigans. Mulling over why on earth anything would choose to live up there, we struggled through an annoying mix of soft, calf-deep snow and hard, unyielding ice. As we reached a kind of plateau, the rocks grew sparse, the climb became less steep, and the already hurricane-like conditions worsened.
Lochnagar stands at a lofty 1,156m above sea level and curves around a beautiful northern corrie (I know it’s pretty thanks to Google images). The path follows the ridge along the top edge of the corrie, so the exposure is huge and complacency could result in a massive fall. This was problematic as by this time visibility was non-existent, we were ill-equipped (no crampons or axes – terrible foresight) and we didn’t know exactly where the summit was. Or where we were.
As we pushed on, I truly understood the term “white-out” for the first time. The only way to distinguish “up” and “down” was by looking at the other two and seeing where their feet were in relation to their heads. Ice, snow, cloud and sky all merged into one disorienting, blinding, infinite nothingness, like in a dream in a film, until little dark specks appeared and I tried to blink them away. Communication was limited to shouting in each others’ ears, and any exposed inch of skin was beaten raw by the strong, bitterly icy winds.
Just when it couldn’t get any worse, it did. We reached a false summit and the ground became sheet ice. Literally like an ice rink, only harder and less flat. I’m sure we went round in circles for a bit, slipping over constantly, resorting to bum-shuffling and actually laughing at our own ridiculousness while remaining acutely aware of our proximity to the deadly edge of the ridge. Still determined to reach the summit, we paused for a painfully cold moment to check the map and decided simply to follow the compass north to where we thought it was.
This decisiveness saved the day, and as the towering pile of rocks loomed through the whiteness I almost collapsed with relief – I’ve never been so delighted to reach a trigpoint. I slipped onto my trusty old compass and snapped it, fortunately without stabbing myself, but it had done what it needed to do. We fumbled about for a quick photo, then practically flew back down the mountain, eyebrows, eyelashes and beards (even mine) heavy with ice.
I would have liked to make it a circular route and gone back along the north side of Loch Muick, but given the conditions we decided the way we came was the quickest and most certain way to the pub, and it’d look the same anyway. The fog had cleared slightly once we were back on the wide, stony track, revealing a rugged, heathery landscape. From there, the walk back was made a drag by our cold, wet-through clothes and desperation for a drink, but we reached the car park eventually. Lochnagar is definitely one to come back to on a better day, but I was glad for the adventure we had.
Semi-thawed, we drove to find a pub before heading to Perth for the night. We ended up collapsing on the sofas in the Deeside Inn at Ballater. It couldn’t have stood in starker contrast to the bleakness of a few hours earlier; the lounge was a huge room with deep red walls, thick curtains and dark wood beams, lit softly and warmed by a roaring fire. It had tartan sofas with pheasant-patterned cushions, a big Christmas tree, books, boardgames, a piano, complimentary crisps and (most importantly) cider. I think my life peaked at that moment – in there, the world was perfect.