I'm all out of words this week, so I'll leave you with just a few more and some photos.
My compadre has a great account over on his site that's worth a look too.
David, David, Rannoch and Newt went for a wet autumn wander in the space between Loch Torridon and Loch Maree. We aimed for the Isle of Graves on All Hallows Eve and strange things were afoot in the graveyard. The weather arrived a day later than planned and we rode the swell to the Letterewe pier and dug in for Beinn Eighe regardless. By the time of halfway, we were halfway to nowhere - more water was going uphill than down, the lochan was possessed of evil spirits throwing their blue and green weight around. It was temporarily unsafe. Heads bowed we scraped a hasty pitch between giant erratics and pretended to ignore the casual glug of the burn right above. In the morning, tiny, soggy carbon-based lifeforms scurried past solitary architectures, isolated giants standing alone against one another, hopping across a no man's land of scratchy rock and squelchy bog, out past Hamish's favourite and a bothy shut by the new laird Duncan Mackenzie, our paddle plans scotched by heavy doses of storm light and cold showers. Wet tarmac taken to Gairloch for whisky and candles, then a night walk to a bothy that once was a secret, shoulders and knees feeling the weight of 10 kilos of coal. An artist called in on our hangovers in the morning, a man called Stevenson who had enough footage and was leaving for Bristol later that day. We ran the Allt Strath Sealga in lively conditions, except for the rapids down by the loch, and found an old pentax deep in the mire. The fire wouldn't light that night. The sun shone weakly the following morning for an hour or two, but the river was too low to run again, so we cut our losses and walked out whilst the memory of that river the previous day was still unsullied.