Rains, Floods, Rivers, Climate Change

River Dee flood plain

The rain began in the evening. For two days it fell steadily. The big rivers rose, spread over flood plains (as they should). Hill burns became torrents, roaring and crashing down. The sky was dark, the hills hidden.

Before the rain

The day the rain started I was camped in a forest not far above the river Dee with my friend Tony Hobbs and his dog Lassie. It was the fourth and last night of a wet and windy trip (I'll tell that story in another post). A pleasantly gurgling burn ran through the trees not far away. After days of wind and rain it was wonderful to sit outside in the calm soothing forest. 

A burn bursts its banks

Then the rain began. Dawn came with a tent dripping with condensation inside and running with water outside. Breakfast inside then pack up, leaving the tent until last, trying to keep everything as dry as possible.

The wet track leads towards the river Dee and Braemar Castle

Knowing heavy rain was forecast we'd already decided to walk out by the shortest low-level route, which was along the track beside the river Dee. At least mostly alongside it as the river had already spread out and sometimes overflowed the track, as did the surging rushing burns in spate as they tore down the hillsides. The water was never too deep or too strong. The next day it could have been. Or even that afternoon. I was glad we hadn't far to go. We didn't linger. The rain ensured that, along with the concern we might meet a difficult ford. I only took a few photos with the phone. The camera stayed in its bag.

Trees in the water on the Dee floodplain

The single track road to Braemar was filling with water in dips but again not too deep for the car. Then the drive home to Grantown-on-Spey was uneventful, just slower than usual on wet roads and, at the Lecht ski resort, in dense fog. Back home drying out gear began. Two days later that's not complete. 

After the storm

The morning after the rain brought drifting mists and occasional sunshine. I wandered down to the river Spey. As expected it was a brown mass of rapid water and had burst its banks in many places. The riverside path was mostly under water, as was a low section of road at one point. In the thirty-four years I've lived here I've never seen the river so high.

Trees in the Spey

The floods are dramatic, frightening, exciting, destructive.They're also worrying when put together with all the other major weather events this year. The effects of climate change are occuring faster than many scientists thought. Action really is needed. 

Excessive rain may not seem a likely result of a warming climate. But it is. As the climate warms it becomes more unstable. The US Environmental Protection Agency says "scientific studies indicate that extreme weather events such as heat waves and large storms are likely to become more frequent or more intense with human-induced climate change". (https://www.epa.gov/climate-indicators/weather-climate). We can expect more storms like this.

All the photos below were taken along the river Spey at Grantown-on-Spey, October 9

A road disappearing into the river Spey

Where's the path?

Sunshine!

Steps to water

Birches in the Spey

Surging flood water

Rivers in spate & wild camps in the Cairngorms

River Feshie

Rivers are one of the delights of wild land, bringing dynamism to forests and hills as they slice through the land, twisting and turning and surging. I love following rivers and streams to see where they go, to see what lies along their banks. They’re particularly wonderful in spate after heavy rain or snowmelt when their power can be both scary and invigorating. One of my favourite Cairngorm rivers is the Eidart, which is remote and little-known though a key watercourse as it drains the Moine Mhor, that vast plateau on the western side of the range. The Eidart almost splits the plateau in two, running from close to the northern edge some ten kilometres down to a confluence with the River Feshie.

I’ve walked a circuit from Glen Feshie to the Eidart then back to the glen across the Moine Mhor a few times. It’s a superb trip. I’d never done it at the height of the snowmelt though so last week as the first really warm weather of the year was stripping the snow almost visibly from the hills I set out. Every stream was rushing furiously and I had several knee deep fords in the first few miles up Glen Feshie. My boots were quickly sodden and stayed that way throughout the trip.

Camp in Glen Feshie

I didn’t go far that first afternoon as I wanted to camp amongst the trees in Glen Feshie for the first time this year. I passed the refurbished bothy at Ruigh-aiteachan thinking it seemed a bit too clean and characterless. I guess the bothy atmosphere will soon return. A couple of miles further up the glen I camped with a view of trees and crags, a lovely wild spot. I had hoped for stars but the sky was overcast. I fell asleep listening to owls hooting.

Packing up in Glen Feshie

The sky cleared overnight and I woke to a deep blue sky. The sun was on the crags across the river but the glen floor was still in shade and the temperature was near freezing. I went and looked at the Feshie, all white water and roaring. The latter sound would be with me all day even when I couldn’t see the water. 

River Feshie

The rough path round to the Eidart leads out of the forest and onto open moorland. There are still trees though, hanging onto the steep banks above the river out of reach of deer. As the forest continues to regenerate and expand in the lower glen hopefully it will start to spread up here.

Eidart Falls

The confluence of the Eidart and Feshie was a clash of white water. Just upstream I could see a cloud of mist rising into the air. As I approached I realised it was spray from the Eidart Falls, crashing down below the Eidart Bridge. I couldn’t remember seeing the waterfall this powerful before.

River Eidart

I thought the same about the Eidart as a whole as I continued past a succession of smaller falls, water slides, and rapids. The river was sparkling, alive, boisterous. I watched dippers skimming the water, the little birds perfectly at home in the white water. 

The Caochan Dubh

 

In its upper reaches the Eidart splits into three branches. Previously I’d followed the longest of these, the Allt Sgairnich, which rises on the slopes of Carn Ban Mor on the north side of the Moine Mhor. This time I wanted to explore the westernmost branch, the Caochan Dubh, which took a twisting route up a narrow ravine into the heart of the Moine Mhor. 

Caochan Dubh camp

That was for the next day though. I camped beside big snowbanks not far from the mouth of the Caochan Dubh. The sky had clouded over during the day and rain started just as I finished pitching the tent. It continued hard and sharp, its drumming on the nylon waking me during the night.

Early morning, Caochan Dubh camp

The storm had passed by dawn, though the sky still looked angry, with dark clouds racing overhead. The Caochan Dubh ravine was rocky and there were big banks of hard icy snow. Eventually, as it grew steeper, I decided to clamber up the side onto flatter ground. This brought me, unintentionally, to a superb viewpoint, a little knoll at the end of the northern arm of Coire Mharconaich. Here I could look back down the Eidart to the hills on the far side of the Feshie and up the eastern of the three feeder streams, the Allt Luineag to cloud-capped Cairn Toul. Ahead of me lay the gentle undulating Moine Mhor.

The Caochan Dubh

 

There was less snow remaining than I had hoped for up here but the now shallow course of the Caochan Dubh was still unbroken white and I was finally able to don the snowshoes I was carrying for a few kilometres. As I neared the northern end of the snow and the end of the now hidden Caochan Dubh I saw a figure on the track that runs along the ridge above, the first person I’d seen since setting out the day before. 

The Caochan Dubh on the Moine Mhor

 

Reaching the path that leads back to Glen Feshie I stopped to remove the snowshoes. The walker came across the snow and I recognised multi-Munroist Hazel Strachan. She’d just done a walk round the seven Munros in the area, with a bivvy on the slopes of one, and was now heading back to Glen Feshie. Standing there in the midst of the huge expanse of the Moine Mhor we talked of the mountains, the weather, the snow, boots, waterproof socks and more then Hazel was off speeding up the path at a faster rate than I could manage while I packed away the snowshoes before following rather more slowly.

The snow covered Caochan Dubh

 

The clouds had slowly lifted during the day though a bitter wind nullified any warmth from the sun. The light was sharp though and the views west to Ben Alder, Ben Nevis, Creag Meagaidh and more from the descent were excellent. I was also entertained by a glider swooping silently over the slopes. Then it was dry shoes and socks and Aviemore for a late lunch after what had been an excellent trip.

Glider over Glen Feshie

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.

The Shining River Spey

The River Spey at Grantown-on-Spey

Yesterday's need to take the car to the garage for repairs (see previous post) left me with a few hours to wander beside the nearby River Spey. The swirling river was a deep, rich blue, full with recent rain and snow melt. Overhead dark fast-moving storm clouds sped by, split at times by short-lived flashes of sunshine. Far upstream I could see snow on the hills.

Between the surging water and the racing sky the strips of trees along the river banks were a reminder of a solid world. Even then their reflections in the water shivered and shimmered.

Tree Reflections

Mostly the water was so dark, almost black, that it was impentratable. If it had been still it could have been solid. Moving it looked thick, almost oily. In places though it had overflowed onto the little sandy bays that dot the riverside and here the golden rippled sand was clear under the water.

Ripples in Sand

As the sun sank lower and started to dip below the clouds its shafts of light grew stronger and sharper, turning the river and the clouds silver. The light was marvellous and I was glad the mundane nuisance of a burst tyre had brought about the wondrous magic of this stroll by the river.
 

Silver River, Silver Clouds

Heavy Rain, Rapid Thaw, Swollen River

After days of heavy rain and south-west winds that stripped the snow from the fields and woods I wandered down to the River Spey to watch the swollen surging grey water. The riverside path was under water in places and the river was on the verge of spilling over into neighbouring meadows. The power of the water felt immense, great dark swells heaving and pitching in a rush to the sea. Watching the fast moving river I felt disorientated as my eyes and brain tried to adapt to the constantly changing blurred water. There were flood warnings for the lower Spey, closer to the sea, and I knew there had been floods further south around the town of Perth, where several rivers pour down from the Highlands to converge on lowland plains. And of course for days the news has been of terrible floods in Australia, Brazil and the Philippines. Standing on the edge of the Spey in spate I could well understand how fast rain and snowmelt can turn a life-giving river into a fearsome threat and that thinking we can always tame and control nature is hubris.

Photo Info: The River Spey surging below the Old Spey Bridge, Grantown-on-Spey, January 17, 2011. Sony NEX-5, Sony 18-55 lens@36mm, 1/20@f8, ISO 400, raw files processed in Lightroom 3.

The Braan Gorge & The Hermitage: Hydro Rejected

On the southern edge of the Highlands near Dunkeld in Strathtay lies the beautiful wooded gorge of the River Braan. The National Trust for Scotland owns a section of the land here, known as The Hermitage, where there is a folly called Ossian’s Hall overlooking the Black Linn Falls. Much of the woodland was planted in the 1800s but it has grown quite wild and many trees are self-seeded, including a magnificent Douglas fir right on the edge of the River Braan that is reckoned to be the tallest tree in Britain by Forestry Commission Scotland, who have measured it at 59 metres (194 feet). The deep gorge with the river rushing down water-smoothed rocks in cascades and slides below the towering forest is quite magnificent and a wonderful place to stop for a quiet restorative stroll away from the noise and pressure of the main road just above, something I have done several times. That such a place of beauty and wonder should have been threatened by a hydro scheme seems inconceivable but such was the case until recently. The development would have diverted over 60% of the water from the river at times which, as at the Birks of Aberfeldy not far away (see posts for Novermber 22, 2009 and February 24 this year), would completely change the nature of the gorge. The River Braan is a free river and should remain so.

It’s also a special river for canoeists, rated as one of the top five in Scotland, and the Scottish Canoe Association led the fight against the scheme. The Scottish Environment Protection Agency, a government body, also opposed it and a public enquiry in January 2009 recommended rejection. Last week Scottish Ministers agreed and the proposal is dead. Mike Dales, Access & Environment Officer with the SCA said “the Scottish Canoe Association is pleased with this decision. It is the correct decision and shows respect for one of Scotland's most beautiful rivers. The Braan gorge is enjoyed by walkers, canoeists and thousands of visitors who pass by on the A9 every year. It is welcome news indeed that this attempt to industrialise such a unique river by diverting its water away from the gorge has been rejected."

Photo info: The Braan Gorge at the Hermitage. Canon EOS 350D, 18-55@47mm, 1/30@ f5.6, ISO 400, raw file converted to JPEG in Lightroom 2.6

The Birks of Aberfeldy Threatened

Having just returned home from two weeks in Aberfeldy during which I walked round the Birks of Aberfeldy twice and along the lower Birks into the town almost every day I was astonished to learn that the dramatic ever-changing waterfalls and rushing Moness Burn are threatened by a hydro scheme that would greatly reduce the flow of water. If this goes ahead the falls would be much less impressive and the huge variations in water volume that make the river constantly different would be far less. That this could even be proposed is shocking. That the Council planning committee has approved it is astounding. Even if these people have no feel or appreciation of nature and beauty do they really want to damage the main attraction that brings visitors to their town?

That the water flow makes a huge difference I saw every time I walked beside the Moness Burn in the Birks and it’s reflected in the two photographs to the left, which were taken from the same spot, the left one on November 11, the right one on November 19. It could be a different river. Losing this variety would make the Birks a poorer, tamer place. The Birks of Aberfeldy is one of my favourite woodland and waterfall walks in Scotland. I will not go there again if the hydro scheme goes ahead. It would sadden me to see the river controlled and the waterfalls restrained.

The Birks is owned by the local community and part of it is a Site of Special Scientific Interest. The latter would be damaged by the reduction of humidity caused by a lower flow of water, as would the whole of the ravine. Without the variations in flow with spates and dry period the natural history of the Birks would change.

It appears that another group of councillors has to approve the decision, a group that is meeting on December 16. Local opinion will be important of course but outside opinion can count too. While in Aberfeldy I was finishing a book on the Scottish Highlands in which a visit to the Birks of Aberfeldy is recommended. I shall be asking the councillors if I need to remove this section and say that once there were tremendous waterfalls here but they were sold for a pittance by the greedy. Anyone who’d like to object to this destructive scheme can email the following councillors:

Council Leader Ian Miller imiller@pkc.gov.uk

Council Depute Leader George Halton gghayton@pkc.gov.uk

Cllr Ken Lyall klyall@pkc.gov.uk

Cllr Kate Howie khowie@pkc.gov.uk

Cllr Ian Campbell ICampbell@pkc.gov.uk

Photo info: left, the Moness Burn on November 11, Sigma DP1, 1/30@f5.6, ISO 200. right: the Moness Burn on November 19, Sigma DP1, 1/6@f5.6, ISO400. Raw files converted to JPEG in Lightroom 2.5.