White Queen
We woke to clear skies with the waters of Loch Goil almost completely calm, reflecting the snowy mountains. Even at sea level there had been a sprinkling of snow and the heavy frost had iced up the locks on the car as well as coating all the windows with a thick layer of ice. Eventually, with the aid of hot water we got in and made it driveable. This delay meant that our start from Lochgoilhead was later than it should have been at this time of year.
We set out on the forest walk, where the trees were beautifully coated in fresh snow which showed no sign of thawing. By the time we left the circular route for the much rougher track to Coilessan we were struggling through an inch or two of fresh powdery snow. The path was icy in places but it was perhaps not quite cold enough, for some of the bogs were almost impassable. A stile took us onto the open hill.
The views were fantastic with every mountain freshly decked in white, yet with each rocky rib etched sharply black against the undrifted snow. There was no wind and no water. Seldom can two consecutive days have been so different.
Our two undone Elsies on the other side of Loch Goil were particularly conspicuous, along with Mullach Coire a' Chuir which has a more distinctive outline but, by reason of insufficient re-ascent, fails to make it into the tables. All these hills looked rocky and formidable in these conditions. Ben Donich and The Brack, closer at hand, looked easy by comparison but behind the latter peeped the most dramatic mountain in the view, the craggy outline of The Cobbler.
We left the line of posts marking the through route to Loch Long and trudged up the grassy north ridge of Cnoc Coinnich. Very suddenly, as the gradient steepened, the soft powder turned to treacherous ice. In these perfect conditions it was easy to detach the ice axe from the rucksack, retreat a little and turn the obstacle, but this sharp surprise served as a timely warning and a reminder of how easy it is to walk into trouble on the winter hills. Trouble threatened again as we approached the summit, a circumstance which I have encountered before. The very top few feet of the mountain had been swept clear of fresh snow by the wind and was extremely icy. Only the easing gradient made it possible to continue to the top without using crampons.
A small cairn, beautifully adorned with sparkling crystals of frost, marked the spot where we could stand with our heads in the realm of Corbetts, for this mountain is top of the list of Elsies at 2497 feet. It claims top place only by alphabetical supremacy for another hill, Sgurr a' Chaorainn, equals its altitude.
The highest Corbett, Beinn Dearg, we have always called King of the Corbetts. The Elsies clearly must have instead a queen, or rather two queens. The conditions under which we climbed Cnoc Coinnich made it inevitable that she should become the White Queen of the Elsies, leaving Sgurr a' Chaorainn, by default, as the Black Queen of the Elsies. It remains to be seen if she merits this more sinister appellation.
The summit of our white queen was a beautiful place, an untrodden carpet of purest white, a dome of clearest blue and a frieze of mountain splendour more magnificent than any artist’s canvas; a palace fit for a queen indeed. Only to the south lay a subtle threat as a thin line of clouds sullied the blue and veiled the sun so that it cast an orange glow on the still waters of Loch Long. This glow, evocative of sunset, introduced an ominous air of evening although it was little past midday.
The ridge south started steep and icy, the exit to the forest road was doubtful and tomorrow was the shortest day of the year, so common sense decreed abandoning our original plan of continuing down the Ardgoil peninsula. We returned by our upward route, varying it only by following the second half of the forest walk with the trees still decked in Christmas card apparel. There had been no thawing at all of the fresh snow which touched their branches with such beauty. Two deer crossed the track, slipping silently into the forest. This magical day was also slipping silently away as we dropped down to Lochgoilhead where the sea, now totally unruffled, reflected the snowy slopes of our lovely mountain and the perfect half of the waxing moon.