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

Dealing with the weather on a testing short trip

 

Sometimes stormy weather gives a salutary lesson, a reminder that life in the wilds, especially when camping, is not always easy and that it’s useful to have to put hard earned skills into practice now and again.

With no long walks this year I haven’t had to deal with bad weather when camping as I’ve only gone out overnight when the forecast has been good. Being self-employed and able to work whenever I like (as long  as deadlines are met) I can usually head out of the door quickly when the weather is fine. My last trip was not like that though. The forecast was for a sunny afternoon and evening but also strong winds overnight and rain the next day so I’d planned accordingly  - head up high, descend to a low camp, then walk out along the glen in the morning. 

At the car park the wind was already quite gusty and the tops were in thick cloud, not clear as forecast. I adjusted my plans. An out and back low level route now sounded attractive. The wind was chilly and I set off in a light insulated jacket and a lined windproof cap plus dark glasses as every so often the low sun broke through the clouds and I was walking directly into it.

The previous few days had seen a thaw of snow below the summits and heavy rain. The main river was in spate and the side streams were full and roaring. The first one I crossed on big stones just below the surface, getting the outside of my boots wet but keeping my feet dry. The next stream was much bigger and looked more challenging. Fording it would not be dangerous but my boots and feet would be soaked even if I put gaiters on. On a day walk with dry shoes and socks back in the car I’d have waded across without a thought. I did have dry socks to wear in the tent but my boots would be sodden the next morning. As I wasn’t going anywhere in particular there was no need for that. Changing plans again I decided to head up beside the stream rather than cross.

An old narrow, overgrown path led through the heather. The going was rough. Bursts of sunshine lit patches of woodland and hillside but never lasted long. In the mouth of the steep-sided, twisting corrie down which the stream poured I pitched my tent on some bumpy, grassy ground. Just a touch higher than the surrounding damp area it was well-drained. The wind sweeping down the corrie was gusty but not strong enough to do more than gently shake my tent. 

I filled my water bottles from the stream then settled in for the long hours of darkness – nearly seventeen of them at this time of year. If the skies cleared I would go out and look at the stars. Otherwise I’d stay inside. I’d brought a fairly large tent so I’d have room to stretch out and sit up, without pushing against the walks or feeling constricted. There was room for all my gear too and the porch was big enough for safe cooking even with the walls moving in and out in the wind. I had a library on my e-reader and my journal to write so the time would pass quickly enough.

I had just settled into what I hoped would be a pleasant restful evening when the wind picked up suddenly, turning from a strong breeze into a roaring crashing banshee that screamed down the corrie and smashed into the tent, shaking it violently. With the wind came torrential rain, hammering and rattling on the flysheet. The noise was deafening, drowning out the nearby stream. The time was just six pm. If this kept up I doubted I could sleep. I could be back at the car in a few hours and home before midnight. I was tempted even though the walk out in the dark and the wind and the rain would not be pleasant. I’d give it two hours I decided. After an hour and a half the wind eased and the rain ceased. I would stay. 

I was asleep before ten o’clock. I was awake at midnight as another violent squall hit the tent. Half past one it faded away and I did too. Three o’clock and I was awake again, all too aware it was still five and a half hours before dawn. That squall died away too. Seven o’clock and wind and rain again woke me. This time I would not go back to sleep. The fierce wind was really shaking the tent. By the light of my headlamp I started the stove, glad I had so much porch space as the walls were really billowing in and out now, and made a mug of coffee. I was not cold, I’d brought a winter sleeping bag and the temperature had only fallen to 2.5°C overnight. Now it was 4°. The hot coffee was very welcome though. Breakfast was a bowl of muesli. Often in winter I heat this and make porridge but not this morning. It wasn’t cold enough. As I ate I started packing up, glad again that there was room to stand my pack up while I did so. Outside the wind and rain raged on.

All my gear in the pack and wearing waterproof jacket and trousers I finally put my boots on and exited the thrashing nylon. A blast of wind almost knocked me over as I stood up. I lowered the pole that held up the tent, then went round removing the pegs, careful to keep tight hold of the fabric and gather it in bunches, so it didn’t get ripped out of my hands and blown away. Once down I stuffed the sodden tent into a large mesh pocket on the outside of the pack. That way it wouldn’t dampen other gear and could start to drain and dry if the rain stopped. 

After checking for any overlooked items and picking up a tent peg I’d missed I grabbed my trekking poles and set off. The wind was behind me but the walking was still tough. I was almost blown over several times. Many new pools and little streams had formed and I soon had sodden feet. I might as well have forded the stream the day before. The wind and rain kept up all the way back. My camera stayed firmly in its case. I took just one photo with my phone (this is waterproof, my camera isn’t) – a selfie to show how wet it was.

By lunchtime I was in a café warming up, dry shoes and socks on my feet. I’d been out less than twenty-four hours and I’d only walked around twelve kilometres. It had been an intense trip though, a reminder of what the weather can be like. Enjoyable is the wrong word. Worthwhile is a better one.

Sometimes the woods .....

I was almost in Aviemore when I heard the word 'thunder' on the radio. I was planning on a walk high in the Cairngorms, up on those bare, open, exposed slopes. But the forecast seemed to have changed. I stopped and checked . Rain and maybe thunder. Suddenly a walk in the woods seemed very attractive. I've had enough close calls with lightning, most recently in the Colorado Rockies last year, not to want any more.

Plan changed I went to Loch an Eilein. As I set off round the loch the hills were fading into thickening clouds. Spots of rain fell. By the time I was opposite the ruined castle on its little island the dark sky was dramatic and ominous.

The forest though was lovely, midsummer rich and verdant. I took the narrow path round reedy Loch Gamhna, soaking my trousers as I pushed through the vegetation.

Halfway round this second loch the rain started, dappling the water. The shelter of the trees gave some protection. It wasn't cold anyway and the dampness on my head was refreshing. The air felt alive, sharp and invigorating.

Up in the hills, on a long walk, or if camping out I would probably have pulled on waterproofs, not wanting my other clothes to get wet, but I was only out for a few hours. A little rain wouldn't hurt.

By the time I was completing the circuit of the two lochs it was more than a little rain. There were big puddles on the road back to Aviemore. I stopped to buy food and sat in the supermarket car park wondering whether to put my waterproof on for the dash across the open space to the door. I didn't bother and got wetter than I had in the woods.

I never heard any thunder. I didn't mind. The woods and the rain and the dramatic clouds were enough. If I'd gone up high I'd have had that word 'thunder' at the back of my mind, hurrying me on, keeping me on edge. The woods were a better choice.

Lake District rain and wind, a ruined priory, and Hadrian's Wall: a weekend with the OWPG

On Causey Pike in the rain and wind

Rain hammering down. Well, it was the Lake District. In October. The Outdoor Writers and Photographers Guild always holds its AGM weekend somewhere scenic and this year it was at the Newlands Adventure Centre in Stair in the Newlands Valley. Right above us steep bracken and grass slopes rose into the mist. Somewhere up there was Causey Pike. The morning of the AGM six of us decided to climb the hill despite the weather. After all, why come to the Lake District and not venture into the hills?

A bit of a view from the climb up Rowling End

 

The ascent was enlivened by easy scrambling on the initial steep slopes of Rowling End, the rocks greasy from the rain. Waist-high bracken hanging over the path ensured that those of us not wearing overtrousers quickly had soaking wet legs. It wasn’t very cold and I reasoned I’d have been nearly as damp and probably more uncomfortable with overtrousers than without. My camera is more water-sensitive than my legs and stayed in its case. For photos I used my smartphone, which is waterproof.

Getting wet legs

Occasionally the clouds thinned to give hazy views of shadowy hills, green fields and shining Derwentwater. The rain came and went. Hoods went up and down. The mist was damp anyway. Staying completely dry wasn’t possible, especially as the wind grew stronger as we climbed. On the summit I recorded gusts of 48mph. Enough we thought and cut down to the path by Stonycroft Gill. One hill would do.

En route to Causey Pike

The next day the weather was no better with the hills still hidden. The forecast was for rain, low cloud and high winds. I was glad I’d put myself down for a trip east to Hadrian’s Wall, somewhere I hadn’t been since the 1980s. The day began though with a visit to 12^th century LanercostPriory, which is partly built with stones from Hadrian’s Wall. This gaunt ruin is quite dramatic, as is its history, and there’s a particularly fine vaulted undercroft.

Part of the undercroft

 

After Lanercost came the Wall itself and a walk from Cawfields Quarry to Sycamore Gap that took us over Winshields Crag, the highest point of the wall, and which gave excellent views of the Wall undulating over the hills. We looked at mile castles and the dead straight line of the Vallum, thought about patrolling the Wall in Roman times, and learnt much from our guide Mark Richards, author of the Hadrian’s Wall Path guidebook. The weather was blustery but with only spots of rain until we left the Wall. To the west dark clouds hid the hills. This was the place to be. 

Hadrian's Wall

 

Dropping down from the Wall in the rain we walked to The Sill, a futuristic-looking building that is the Northumberland National Park’s National Landscape Discovery Centre. Wet and starting to get chilly – soaked legs again – I’m afraid we were most interested in hot drinks, feeling we’d discovered enough landscape for the day.

Hadrian's Wall and Crag Lough

Into The Storm: A Wet Cairngorms Trip

Above Loch Avon

The forecast wasn't good but it wasn't bad either. Strong winds looked to be the worst aspect. With a friend visiting an overnight camp beckoned. High up seemed inadvisable but we did want somewhere with a feel of wildness and mountain grandeur. The basin at the head of Loch Avon below the great cliffs of Carn Etchachan, Shelter Stone Crag, Hell's Lum and Stag Rocks with the waterfalls of the Feith Buidhe and the Garbh Uisge Mor crashing down between them seemed suitable so we clinbed to the Cairngorm Plateau and then dropped down Coire Raibert to Loch Avon. There was a cold wind but it wasn't that strong and a cloudy sky but without rain.

First view of Loch Avon

Once past the head of the loch we found a dry pitch in the partial shelter of some boulders. The Shelter Stone lay not far above. In a big storm this is a welcome refuge but it is dark and damp inside and generally I prefer to camp. The evening was cold and breezy with occasional glimpses of blue sky and brief shafts of late sunshine. I wandered up to the Shelter Stone and gazed down at our little camp.

Camp below the Shelter Stone Crag

Looking down on our camp

The wind was chilly however and we were soon making hot food and drinks in our tents. The temperature was 10C, rather cool for late June.

The rain began at 4.30 a.m.. Or so Graham told me. I was fast asleep, waking two hours later to look out at grey wet air, falling rain and Graham's wet tent. We were camped in the cloud. The temperature was 6C.

Rain and mist the only view

The rain was to keep up all day and into the evening, one of the wettest days in a wet month. Coming from the north-east the rain was cold too, driven by a strengthening wind. Clad in waterproofs, fleece jackets, hats and gloves we climbed the stony path up into Coire Domhain, admiring the waterfalls and the rushing stream. All else was lost in the mist.

Blasted by the wind we traversed Stob Coire an t-Sneachda, the only peak of the trip, and then went north to the Fiacaill a'Choire Chais. The air was bitter now and the icy rain stung our faces. The cold wet weather continued throughout our descent. As did the mist, all the way to the Coire Cas car park. We saw no-one on the hills all day, which is really unusual for this accessible area even in stormy weather.  Damp and chilled we drove down out of the mist, the car heater on full, and were soon esconsed in a cafe with hot food and coffee, steaming gently and staring out at the rain bouncing off the pavement and people struggling with umbrellas in the wind. It had been a short trip but the weather had made it an intense one.

Thunderstorms & Sunshine: Days of Contrast

Coire an Lochain

That the weather can change rapidly in the Scottish Highlands is a truism. ‘Four seasons in one day’, as the saying goes. Sometimes the contrast is stark though and so it was on two days this week when I went on two short walks.

River Spey

The first was along the River Spey on a very hot day. The river shimmered in the heat. The sky was blue, distant clouds white. The banks of the river were rich with fresh vegetation and bright with blossom and early summer flowers. On sandy beaches children paddled in the edges of the river. Anglers waded out into the water thigh-deep to cast their lines. Further along a group of teenagers were swimming, splashing and shrieking out in the middle of the river. Away from the people birds dozed on rocks in the hot sun – mallards, pied wagtails, dippers, common sandpipers, black-headed gulls. All somnolent and still. It was a perfect summer’s day, an idyll, the sort of day summer should be.

River Spey

A day later I was in Aviemore as the first crash of thunder shook the skies and the rain began, torrential rain that lasted for several hours. It’s not wise being up high in thunderstorms (I’ve run from them a few times) so I amended my plans to a walk into the Northern Corries, and only that if the storm eased. In Corrie Cas I sat in the car watching the rain lashing down and decided another coffee was a good idea. Eventually the rain lessened a little and I ventured out. Although the sky was solid grey the cloud was above the summits. Heading into the lower reaches of Coire an t-Sneachda I could see a surprising amount of snow hanging on the walls of Coire an Lochain. After many days of hot sunshine I thought more would have gone. 

View over Glenmore to Meall a'Bhuachaille

Before I reached the upper corrie the rain strengthened again and there was a hint of thunder, just a distant faint rumble but enough to make me feel exposed. I turned and retreated back to the car, looking over a mist-filled Glenmore to the dark outlines of the Meall a’Bhuachaille hills. Only the new bright grass beside the path made any connection with the lush richness and sunshine of the day before.

It really was wet