On October 23, 2016, I had the strangest end to a long-distance walk I've ever experienced. It was the last day of a month-long walk from Yosemite Valley to Death Valley in California. I woke up in the wilderness with mountains behind me, desert in front of me. No sign of humanity. I went to sleep in a hotel room in downtown Las Vegas. No mountains. No desert. Just the bright, noisy city.
Hotel corridor, Las Vegas, evening, October 23, 2016
Las Vegas felt surreal, an aberration. The real world was mountains, deserts, trees, rivers, lakes, wildlife. Las Vegas was bright lights, crammed-together tall buildings, traffic, and endless advertisements for casinos and shows. What strange reality was this?
I wandered into the Grand Hotel where I'd booked a room. To reach it I had to walk through a vast hall of slot machines. In my room a huge television offfere money off the first few bets and told me I could spend my time in Las Vegas gambling without ever leaving my room. That's why the room in this luxurious hotel was so cheap. Money came from accommodation was to lure you in.
My hotel.
Ignoring the gambling lures (I don't gamble so it wasn't hard) I headed out for something I did need: a meal. The hotel didn't offer this. Why eat when you could bet? Outside it was pouring with rain, something I was told never happens here. I wore my waterproof jacket, the first time it had come out of my pack since I set off on the walk. At least there was something natural here. Rain.
To cope with the strange unreality of Las Vegas my mind switched into detached observer mode. I was not part of this world, I was here simply to watch, to experience a place I never intended visiting again.
I posted some commentary and some different still pictures on my YouTube channel.
The year after the walk I wrote a piece about it for The Great Outdoors magazine which is available here.
I also wrote a piece on the gear I used.
We should have been in Torridon. At least, that was the
plan. A forecast of stormy weather had us deciding to shift the trip a few days
forwards. The forecast shifted with us. Maybe Torridon wasn’t a good idea. The
forecast looked a little less stormy in the Cairngorms. Also, there we had
options for more sheltered routes than in Torridon, with more trees, more long
glens. The Cairngorms it would be.
This was Tony Hobb’s annual autumn trip to the Highlands.
Stormy weather was not unusual on these ventures though the previous year we’d
had fairly benign conditions in Glen
Affric. Two years before that however Storm Agnes caught us in the Eastern
Cairngorms.
By the time we were setting off on this trip the forecast looked
stormier in the Cairngorms. We weren’t going to escape it. Summits and plateaux
seemed unwise. I planned a glens and passes route that would give us two nights
out of the four in forests.
First camp, Glen Feshie
The walk down Glen Feshie was uneventful. It was early
October and the autumn colours were just beginning. The glen was lovely and
peaceful. We found a good site deep in the woods and had a pleasant first camp.
Glen Feshie
The next day we continued up the glen as the sky grew darker
and the wind began to strengthen. The first spots of rain fell as we left the
last trees. Jacket hoods went up and down as showers came and went. Autumn
colours glowed. The twin waterfalls on the River Eidart, one wide, one thin,
looked superb.
Eidart Bridge & Falls
Then it was onto the shallow watershed between the River
Feshie and the Geldie Burn. This is bleak wide-open moorland with no shelter.
The rain was hammering down now, stinging bare skin. Hoods stayed up. The strong
gusty wind was hitting us from the side. We were thankful not to be walking
into it. I felt tired but plodded on. There was nowhere for a comfortable camp.
Colour in the storm
A brief break in the clouds gave a brilliant rainbow, the
only colour for several hours. The Geldie began to gently descend with slopes
closing in on either side. We found a good, fairly sheltered site right by the
burn. Exhausted I was soon out of wet clothes and into my sleeping bag. During
the night I woke with a streaming nose and a headache. A cold! Damn! That
explained my weariness.
Early morning at camp by the River Geldie
Dawn came with golden light and a feeling of warmth. The land glowed. The sun shone. Briefly. Within an hour the clouds had thickened and the glorious brightness had faded.
Sunrise, River Geldie
We debated what to do. Crossing the high Lairig Ghru pass was still the shortest way back to the
start so we decided to take the most direct route there rather than the longer
one we’d originally planned. Commitments meant we hadn’t a spare day for me to
sit out my cold here, something I would have done otherwise. I did not feel like walking far, or even at all.
In Glen Dee
Instead, we had a relatively short day and walked to the River Dee
and then followed it into the mouth of the Lairig Ghru. The clouds raced
overhead and swirled round the mountains. There were showers but no prolonged
rain. The landscape became more dramatic as the mountains closed in, the great
crags and slabs of Bod an Deamhain (the Devil’s Point) dominating the view.
Tony found a couple of patches of grass Just big enough for the tents amongst
the bogs, heather and tussocks. They made comfortable sites.
Camp in Glen Dee
Still feeling rough the next day I was slow to get ready and
we had a late start. I was slow plodding up the path to the Lairig Ghru too. We
passed the dark Pools of Dee in their stark boulder fields and reached the
835-metre summit of the pass just before dusk. The wind was gusty but not too
strong and any showers were brief. We had, we thought, done the hardest part of
the day. Now we just had to follow the path slowly down into the forest and
find a sheltered camp site.
Braeriach from Glen Dee
We were wrong. The wind was ferocious, blasting down,
funnelled through the narrow gap of the pass. Without trekking pole we’d have
been knocked over, often. At times all we could do was brace ourselves with the
poles and try and keep our feet until a gust eased. We were walking by headlamp
with Tony’s dog Bella, who had no problem finding the path, leading the way.
The terrain here is rocky. Being blown over was not a good idea. Caution and
slowness were the only safe way to proceed.
Beside one of the Pools of Dee
Eventually we came out of the narrow gap and onto a better
path. The wind was now merely fierce. It continued so down into the forest and
we went further than we’d hoped before camping on a site we’d used before where
the wind was a little less powerful. We were in fact only a few kilometres from
the road. But there was no point going on. We needed to sleep before driving.
It had been an exciting trip, a memorable trip, one to talk about in future.
But I was glad it was over.
In this issue I look at new items of gear that caught my eye at this year's Outdoor Trade Show. In reviews Kirsty Pallas and James Roddie each try out three pairs of hiking boots. In the Gear Opinion piece James Forrest gives a realistic assessment of waterproofs and what you can actually expect from them. Also on the always relevant matter of coping with rain Will Renwick describes how he deals with wet weather.
The main theme of the issue is bothies, which, of course, are good places to shelter from the rain. A long piece looks at the story of bothies and the sub-culture that goes with them through the eyes of those who know them best, including pieces from authors Kat Hill and John Burns, who have both written books on bothies. And in her Uphill Struggles column Mountain Bothies Association trustee Juls Stodel gives advice on what to do about snorers.
The Wild Walks pages cover bothies too. In Scotland James Roddie visits the tiny Lairig Leachach bothy in the Grey Corries, Simon Stokes climbs Suilven via Suileag bothy, and Alex Roddie Ben Lomond via Rowchoish bothy. In the North Pennines Vivienne Crow visits Greg's Hut enroute to Cross Fell. Not far away in the Lake District Norman Hadley finds Mosedale Cottage a welcome overnight stop on a long walk on the Far Eastern Fells. In Eryri/Snowdonia Andrew Galloway finds refuge in Penrhos Isaf bothy deep in the woods of Coed-y-Brenin. Further south in Wales in the Cambrian Mountains Carys Rees stays in the Lluest-cwm-bach bothy in the Elan Valley.
This is also the annual TGO Challenge issue and there's a selection of stories from this year's event.
Away from bothies and rain Francesca Donovan and Stew Hume embark on a piecemeal approach to Glyndwr's Way in Mid Wales and David Myers has a winter walk on the GR131, which links all seven Canary Islands.
The opening spread is a splendid photo by Alan Novelli of Duncansby Head and Sea Stacks on the far north-east tip of the Scottish mainland.
In a moving piece RSPB Scotland's peatland project manager Sally Berry writes about the wildfire that devastated parts of the RSPB's Abernethy reserve in the summer and the incredible response of the local community.
In her nature column Nadia Shaikh falls for the tiny, cute but aggressive goldcrest.
Francesca Donovan reviews Alastair Humphrey's latest book Unwilded - Finding Our Way Back To Nature and finds it calming and inspiring.
Jim Perrin's Mountain Portrait is Win Hill in the Peak District which he says is the best sunset bivouac site in Britain.
Queues to reach the summit of Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon) were in the news again last summer. Carys Rees discusses this phenomenon with her mountain rescue and ultra-running colleague Rob Smith, who is also a professor of sociology.
On September 26, 2016, I was on the fourth day of a walk from Yosemite Valley to Death Valley. This spectacular trip is one of my favourites. I crossed the magnificent High Sierra, climbed Mount Whitney, then crossed Owens Valley to the Inyo and Panamint Mountains where I climbed Telescope Peak before descending to Death Valley itself.
The first part of the trip was very hot and sunny. The pictures here are from the first four days.
I wrote a feature for The Great Outdoors about the trip. You can read it here.
And for those interested I also write a piece about the gear I used which you can find here.
The steep slopes of Clais an Dunain below Grant's Fort
Two years ago an exhibition at our excellent local museum
had a sketch map of Iron Age hill forts in the area, one of which lay hidden in
some woods not far from home so one autumn day I set out to visit it and see if
I could make out any of the hill fort amongst the trees. I wrote about that
trip here.
The hill fort is called Grant’s Fort but I couldn’t find
out why. I know the answer now due to another exhibition at the
Grantown-on-Spey Museum called the Legend of the Highland
Skull. Recently I went to the launch of this fascinating story at the
museum and discovered that an event that might be historical or might not and
which might relate to the skull or might not took place at Grant’s Fort. This
was in the 13th century and explains why this ancient hill fort is called
Grant’s Fort.
There is far more about the story and the skull on the
museum website, including links to a series of excellent podcasts. This is
local history at its best. If you’re in Grantown it’s well worth a visit.
Grant's Fort
Having heard this much more modern story about the hill
fort (compared to the iron age anyway) I decided to visit it again and try and
imagine the events that are said to have taken place there. The tale tells of
how a young Grant man and the daughter of the Chief of the MacGregors fell in
love. But the Grants were not powerful and the MacGregors were. There was no
way the MacGregor Chief would accept his daughter marrying someone so far
beneath him. So the young lovers fled and ended up with some followers at
Grant’s Fort. MacGregor pursued them and the two sides met in the deep ravine
below the fort called Clais an Dunain, a place I know well.
I had come across the story before but in a version that says the
lovers hid in Huntly’s Cave and met the MacGregors there. Grant’s Fort isn’t
mentioned. However the Grantown Museum story has them going from Huntly’s Cave
to Grant’s Fort, which makes sense as the fort, on a ridge with steep slopes
either side would be far easier to defend than a cave in a ravine. That applies
to whichever Huntly’s Cave the story refers to as there are two in the area,
just four kilometres apart. I wrote about them here.
In Clais an Dunain violence was avoided by the Grant man suggesting
that he and MacGregor should join forces and launch an attack on the local Clan
Comyn chieftain. The Comyns were a powerful clan and a victory over them would
be a boost for both the MacGregors and the Grants. Their base was at Freuchie
Castle, which lies between Huntly’s Cave and Clais an Dunain. The Comyns were
defeated and the castle taken over by the Grants and later renamed Castle
Grant.
Wandering amongst the peaceful woods in the Clais an
Dunain I imagined it full of armed Highlanders on a moonlit night holding their
meeting and agreeing to attack a neighbour rather than each other. I climbed up
to Grant’s Fort and made a guess as to what it might have looked like when it actually
was a fortress. I could see where ramparts might have been and I could see how
the ridge on which it lies could have been easily defended.
Bracken
Today in the Clais the bracken was turning rusty orange
and there were red berries on the rowans. The first aspen leaves were starting
to change to their brilliant autumn yellow and cherry tree leaves to their
brilliant autumn red.
An ageing rowan in the fields above the Clais
Then I wandered over to the huge old willow that’s a
favourite local tree. A dead branch that poked high above the living parts of
the tree had fallen since I last visited and the tree is now more horizontal
than vertical. A rowan that is growing out of the willow’s trunk is now quite a
substantial tree itself and was red with berries.
The old willow
The willow is only a few hundred metres from Clais an
Dunain. It would have to be exceptionally old for a willow to have been there
when the Grants and MacGregors passed however so it almost certainly wasn’t.
But maybe an ancestor was.
The Abernethy-Ryvoan Fire Day1. View from Craigellachie
On July 15 I was driving to Aviemore when I saw smoke
billowing up from behind Meall a’Bhuachaille. I was heading for Coire na Ciste
and a walk on the long north ridge of Cairn Gorm, a favourite quiet place.
Approaching Aviemore the smoke looked thicker. Stopping, I consulted the
internet. A fire had broken out near Ryvoan Bothy. Going that way seemed unwise
so I walked up Craigellachie above Aviemore instead. The wood shone in the
sunshine. The sky was blue. It was a lovely day. Except that once out of the
trees I could see the smoke again, more smoke now, filling the sky above the
Ryvoan Pass. This looked bad, this looked serious. It was.
View of the smoke from home. Day 7.
Over the next few weeks whenever I looked out of my study
window I could see the smoke. Every day I thought of all the people fighting
the fire and felt thanks. Every day I felt sorrow, knowing that a place I love
will not look the same the next time I visit, will be burnt, blackened, and
scarred. I think of the wildlife that will have perished. And I think of
climate change and of the fires burning all over the world and wonder what have
we done?
Those weeks it was hard to concentrate on anything else.
Every day I followed the story on social media and on the news. I’ve watched
videos, looked at pictures, read reports.
Dava Moor after the fire.
A year ago it was the same. Then a much bigger fire, the biggest ever in the UK,
burned Dava Moor to the north of Grantown-on-Spey. That fire was out of sight of
home but much, much closer. We could smell the smoke and at times see it
drifting low over the nearby forest. Not knowing how close it might come we
made plans to evacuate quickly. It stopped five miles away. I wrote about it here.
Dava Moor detail.
Although far larger the Dava Fire didn’t attract the same
attention as the Abernethy – Ryvoan fire. It wasn’t in a popular tourist area,
it was mostly outside the Cairngorms National Park, although it did just cross the
border (see map
here), it didn’t threaten communities, though it came close. It was on low
gently undulating moorland mostly used for grouse shooting and sheep grazing
with some areas of planted forestry (it’s noteworthy that the areas of muirburn
didn’t stop the fire). The main attraction for visitors is lovely Lochindorb with its ruined
castle on an island and its birdlife.
Lochindorb with smoke from the Dava Moor fire
The Dava Fire was declared out after just four days. The
Abernethy-Ryvoan Fire lasted over four weeks and even after that there were
hotspots. Two months later and the core area of the fire is still closed to the
public as dangerous trees and debris are cleared. Looking at the map it’s easy
to see why the much bigger fire could be dealt with so much faster. Dava Moor
is almost flat open terrain. Much of the Abernethy-Ryvoan fire was on steep
slopes and narrow valleys covered in dense forest or heather and rocks. As I know, this is difficult ground to move
over away from paths. Fighting a fire here must have been extremely difficult.
The much greater attention given to the Abernethy-Ryvoan
Fire means that much discussion is being given to what needs to be done to
reduce the likelihood of future fires – and there will be future fires as the
effects of climate change grow – being so devastating. Plans are being drawn up
which I hope will actually lead to action. This should really have been done
after the Dava Fire but nobody outside the area was much interested in that. I’ve
talked to a surprising number of people since who hadn’t even heard of if but
knew about the Abernethy-Ryvoan Fire.
Cotton grass on Dava Moor a year after the fire.
In May this year I walked the Dava Way from Grantown-on-Spey to Forres as part of the Moray Way (see this post). This took me through the area of the fire. Whilst there was much blackened ground and many burnt trees I was heartened to see that much of the open moor was white with one of the most extensive areas of cotton grass I've ever seen. Life was returning.
Two months after the Abernethy-Ryvoan Fire I returned to the
area. Until then I’d walkd in other areas of the Cairngorms. (Despite what some
news reports said the fire was only in a very small part of the national park).
Part of me was reluctant to go back. The pictures were horrific enough. I
couldn’t go into the fire area itself. This was still closed. But I could go up
Meall a’ Bhuachaille, right on its edge, and look across it. I took camping
gear, deciding to combine the visit with a night out in the hills.
View back down to Loch Morlich
The sky was cloudy, the forest stuffy and humid. I was glad
to feel a breeze as I left the trees. There were many fungi lining the path. The
heather was a brilliant purple, at the height of its summer display. Across
Loch Morlich dark clouds tore across the hills. Soon I could look across the
forest to blackened slopes around Coire Laogh Mor. The burnt area stretched up
to the Coire na Ciste car park. Higher up it stopped at the path up the ridge
on the east side of the corrie. The fire must have been weakening here for a
narrow footpath to block it.
View from Meall a' Bhuachaille to Coire na Ciste
From the blustery summit of Meall a’Bhuachaille I could see more
of the extent of the fire, how it had spread across Strath Nethy to the lower
slopes of Bynack Beg and east into Abernethy Forest. I knew it had burned in
the Ryvoan Pass, on the eastern side of Meall a’ Bhuachaille, and along Strath
Nethy but these were hidden from the summit. Notices on the path down to Ryvoan
Bothy said that way was closed. The view was sobering but not unexpected. The
year before I’d seen the aftermath of the Dava Moor fire. This looked the same,
just on steep slopes.
View from Meall a'Bhuachaille to the edge of Abernethy Forest
I’ve been up Meall a’ Bhuachaille many, many times over the
years. This was the first time I hadn’t gone up or down via Ryvoan though. I
turned away from the devastation and headed down the hill. A couple of runners
passed me. A lone backpacker with a dog was sitting in the heather. “I think
they’re crazy, they think we’re crazy” she said, seeing my big pack. This, she
told me, would be only her second night wild camping. Before I dropped off the
wide ridge I could see her pitching a green tent high on the hillside.
With the wind picking up I was looking for a more sheltered
site. Finding one was not as easy as I hoped. The tussocky heather high up I
expected. Not far down though I came across an area that had been clear-cut so
many years earlier that the tree stumps and whitened dead branches were
half-buried in thick heather and long grass. Crunching through these was slow
and arduous.
A somewhat sheltered, somewhat flat camp.
When I reached the burn that would be my camp water supply I
was still in the felled debris. I had to descend a fair way before I came to
actual living trees and a small patch of not too bumpy ground that would just
do for the tent. Down here it was now calm and rain was starting to fall. As
soon as I stopped the midges came out so I was inside with the doors closed as
quickly as possible, especially as I was showing rather a large amount of bare
leg, my admittedly ancient trousers having split almost from waist to knee as I
pitched the tent.
Oops!
The trousers were clearly unrepairable, or at least well
beyond skills. My only spare ones were my waterproof overtrousers so I’d have
to wear these. I was glad I’d had to come further down the hill to find a site
as this meant a shorter walk the next day. I was also, for once, hoping it
would rain. At least I was comfortable in camp.
It did rain too, most of the night, but it stopped soon
after dawn. However a gusty wind had sprung up which kept off the midges and
which I hoped wouldn’t make the overtrousers too unbearable. The trousers did
have full-length side zips and leaving these open from thigh to knee kept my
legs cool. In fact the trousers were quite comfortable, though I expect they
wouldn’t have been if it had been calmer and warmer.
Fly Agaric.
The walk back to the car through the forest was uneventful.
Near the camp there were some sizeable deciduous trees still in cracked and
splitting plastic tubes that should really have been removed long ago. The
trees, mostly willow, seemed healthy enough though. Lower down more fungi,
especially Fly Agaric, decorated the sides of the forest track. It was peaceful
down here. I relaxed, forgetting for a short while fires and the future.
I made a video of the trip, mostly about the camping.
