Storm Loris & aftermath

Storm Loris blasted through yesterday with record-high wind speeds for the time of year. Storms in August are not unusual but they're normally not like this severe. 

While the storm raged I went outside very briefly and shot a few seconds of video with my phone. Rain was lashing down and the trees were thrashing wildly. I certainly wasn't go into the woods or even very near them. Watching the storm from inside seemed wise and I was soon back indoors.

Unlike many people, some not too far away, we didn't lose power and we weren't affected by road and rail closures as we'd no plans to go anywhere, having been following the build-up to the storm for several days. So a combination of luck and planning meant Loris didn't affect us. 

In fact the biggest shock was this morning when I woke up. It was unnervingly quiet. No wind in the chimney, no rain rattling the window. Just silence. 

In fact it was quite windy. Just normally windy though. It felt safe to venture into the woods so I went out for a walk to see what damage Loris had wrought. It was less than I'd expected. Plenty of twigs and dead branches everywhere of course but not that many fallen trees. Most of the latter were at two corners of the woods vulnerable to winds and where trees had come down in previous storms. 

At one of these spots the wind was still fierce and I recorded another little video, again having difficulty holding the phone still.

The weather looks unsettled the next few days but not abnormally stormy. The second half of August looks like it might be fine. I hope so. I have a walk planned.

Storm Bert's Big Thaw

The Cromdale Hills, November 22. 

Whilst Storm Bert has brought chaos and destruction to many areas of Britain, causing big problems for many people. Locally the only noticeable effect so far is the astonishingly rapid stripping of the snow. Today I walked on snow free ground where I was skiing just two days ago. Rapid thaws are not uncommon but this is one of the fastest I've seen.

The Cromdale Hills, November 24.

Storm Bert isn't over yet. There are weather warnings for strong winds tomorrow. I'm hoping these don't do too much damage as many areas are still recovering from last winter's storms. (See this post). 

Ben Rinnes, November 22

Climate change means storms are becoming more powerful and therefore more damaging, here and worldwide. The weather is becoming more unstable as the climate heats. This and the nature crisis, which are intertwined, are the crucial problems facing humanity. How we deal with them in the next few decades will have a huge effect on the future for our children. 

Ben Rinnes, November 24

Locally and immediately I'm waiting to see just how windy it is tomorrow and after the storm is over how much snow is left high up in the Cairngorms. I'll probably go and have a look soon.

Uath Lochans, winter storms, climate crisis

Uath Lochans & the Glen Feshie hills

On recent trips to Glen Feshie I’d been shocked by the storm damage in the lower glen, where great swathes of forest had been flattened by very strong winds earlier this year. I also heard that the area around the lovely Uath Lochans had been affected and the paths there closed whilst windblown trees were cleared. These have recently opened, unlike those at Feshiebridge which are still shut, as are the car parks.

Wanting to see how much damage had been done I recently visited the Uath Lochans and went for a walk in the woods around them. From the car park I made my way up Creag Far-leitire, with its splendid view over the three lochans to the Glen Feshie hills. Snow capped the tops and the forest and water shone in the sunshine. I was pleased to see there was no sign of destruction and the scene was as peaceful and beautiful as ever. However on my way up the crag I’d passed many fallen trees and in many places the path was lined with cut logs. I could see why the paths had been closed.

Uath Lochan & Glen Feshie hills

From Creag Far-leitire I followed paths and tracks, mostly signed as the Badenoch Way, down to Loch Insh, and then back to the lochans via another route, waymarked as the Speyside Way. There were many large areas of fallen trees. Lining these flattened areas were tall, thin, tightly packed pines. Most of this forest is a plantation, pine not spruce so perhaps more natural looking but a plantation none the less. The trees are planted close together in straight lines. With no space to grow outwards they grow upwards, reaching for the light. Even sized and in symmetrical blocks it’s easy to see how one falling can cause a domino effect. And in last winter’s storms many fell.

Storm damage

The climate crisis means storms are predicted to be more frequent and more powerful so more forest destruction is likely. This is especially so in plantations. Nick Kempe wrote an excellent piece that's well-worth reading about this on Parkswatch Scotland in which he argues that climate change makes plantation forestry unsustainable and that windblown areas should be left to regenerate naturally and not replanted. It seems storm damage is less severe in forests with a variety of randomly spaced  trees of different ages and sizes growing where they can expand outwards as well as upwards, a real forest not a plantation in fact.

Whilst slowing and limiting climate change is essential the effects are not going to just stop, whatever we do, so mitigation is also necessary. Allowing natural forests to grow via regeneration is part of this. 

Loch Insh & Geal-charn Mor

Approaching Loch Insh I could see Geal-charn Mor and the Kinrara Estate, the site of Brew Dog’s “Lost Forest”, where extensive planting is taking place. How will that stand up to future storms I wondered.

Storm Arwen & Aftermath

Two days before Storm Arwen blasted in we went for a walk in the local woods. The air was chilly and calm. The woods peaceful; glowing gold in the low sun. A savage storm seemed far away.

The wind came during the night, soon followed by snow. I ventured out into the storm in the afternoon. Snow was driving across the fields and swirling in great clouds. The woods felt unsafe, sticks and cones falling, some hitting me on the head. Better the full force of the wind out in the fields. Better still after an hour or so back home and in front of the stove with a mug of hot chocolate. 

Then the power went. 4.40 in the afternoon, just dark. Neighbours rang. No, we hadn’t power either. Out came head torches, a lantern, gas stove. SSE said the power should be back on at 7pm. At 8 they said 10, at 10.30 they said 3 in the morning., at midnight noon. I went to bed. The power came back on after 16 hours. It seemed a long time. Five days later though and some people are still without electricity. That must be so difficult, especially if you don’t have all you need to survive reasonably comfortably without it. We have a solid fuel stove and an open fireplace and plenty of fuel. Our private water supply is gravity fed so electric pump, as many neighbours have for boreholes. And we have plenty of warm clothing and camping gear. As we are usually cut off by snow at least once in the winter we also keep well stocked up with food. “It’s like being in a bothy only with a comfortable bed”, commented my partner.

When the power returned, I discovered that my computer had reverted to April, with no record of anything since then. This was rather disconcerting. Rather slow at thinking it through it took me a while to realise that when I’d had a bigger hard drive added in April the old one had been left in as a backup. It was now doing that job.

Nothing I could do would make the recalcitrant new drive work. Conceding defeat, I took it to Baztex in Aviemore, which I’ve used for computer purchases and repairs for many years. Hooking it up to some complicated looking machine Barry found that the disk was 97% healthy, which didn’t sound bad to me. “Needs to be 100%”. Oh. The sick 3% must be the boot up sequence. Repair or replace? The computer was creaking with age and struggled to cope with the latest software. I ordered a new one. 

 

When not fighting the computer and losing I went out into the woods. They’d changed now. White and sparkling and laced with fallen trees and branches. A swathe had been cut through the trees parallel to our track. A different direction and they’d have fallen across it. Clearing them would have been a great deal of work. As it was, just one small tree had landed on the track and that was easily dragged aside. We were lucky.

 

 

The snow lasted two days and nights then the temperature rose, and it began to rain, heavily. The thaw was rapid. The ground turned soft and green and muddy. 

 

 

Less  than 24 hours later the temperature began to drop. Fresh snow appeared on the Cromdale Hills across Strathspey. After dark it began to fall here. Tomorrow the whole world may be white again.

Storm Arwen was just five days ago. It seems longer. Tomorrow I hope to collect my new computer. I know what I’ll call it.

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.

Very wet and windy in the Cairngorms - not the day to try and make a video.

 

With a forecast for cloud on the highest tops plus a strong wind and showers, sometimes of snow, I thought I'd head again for Carn Eilrig, which is some 500 metres lower than the high tops of the Cairngorms, having failed to reach it due to the burns being in spate at the start of the month. That had otherwise been a good autumn trip with sunshine and fine views. Given that it's been very wet ever since I expected the rivers to be even higher now so I planned to climb the hill from Gleann Einich - there's a bridge across the river! 

Rain started as I took my first steps but as the prediction was for showers I hoped I wouldn't need my waterproofs all day. Five hours later the rain eased enough for me to lower my hood. It turned out to be one of the wettest days I've been out in for quite a while.

The forest is always a joy even in the rain and whilst some of the birches and rowans have lost their leaves and others are fading to a dull brown there was still enough bright autumn colour to raise the spirits. And in the background the brooding hills, dark outlines rising into the clouds. 

As the path rose to run above the Am Beanaidh I looked down on the swirling white water and was glad of that bridge. Carn Eilrig lies on the edge of the hills above the forest with the Am Beanaidh on one side and the Allt Druidh on the other. They converge some 2 kilometres north of the summit. A descent this way looks appealing but it's a terrain trap, leaving you between the two rivers with no bridge.

Once out of the trees I met the buffeting wind, driving the rain down the glen and into my face. Carn Eilrig was behind me now but I was heading for that bridge first. Once across I was glad to turn away from the storm as I climbed boggy slopes to the col south of the summit .

The wind strengthened as I approached the little cairn, blowing me sideways and sending me staggering several times. Without poles I'd probably have fallen. If it was like this here, at 742 metres, what was it like at 1296 metres on Braeriach, which I could see fading into the clouds to the south, a streak of bright white marking a swollen burn crashing down the dark slopes. 

Wondering if I could make a short video showing the conditions even on this lowly top I pulled out my phone. It's waterproof, unlike my camera. Trying to hold it still when I could hardly stand still myself proved too challenging. The short clip at the top of this post was the only half-usable footage I got. 

Returning to the col straight into the storm was hard work, the wind wanting to blast me back up the hill and the rain, halfway to hail now, stinging my face. Turning down into Gleann Enich gave some relief but I only finally relaxed when back in the shelter of the trees. I'd only been out of the forest a couple of hours. It was long enough.

A Stormy Walk on Craigellachie

Weeks of stormy weather. Snow, thaw, rain, snow. And worst of all wind, howling shrieking wind that roars through the tree tops and crashes down mountainsides, deafening disorientating wind that upsets the balance of body and mind. Day after day after day. 

Searching the forecasts, trying to second guess the next blast, hoping to seize any brief lull for a day in the hills that isn’t too much of a struggle. A week ago I managed this for an afternoon. A week later I didn’t. There was a suggestion of less stormy conditions for a few hours, at least on the lower hills. Meall a’Bhuachaille, I thought. Always good for a half day and the walk in and out is in the forest.

Blue sky and touches of sunshine looked promising on the drive to Aviemore. At first. The snow came in fast and hard, within seconds I was crawling through a blizzard, following the just visible taillights of the vehicle in front. 

In Aviemore I sat in a café watching the snow swirling. Meall a’Bhuachaille didn’t seem attractive now. Neither did a longer drive. A shorter walk from here appealed. Craigellachie, that steep, wooded, craggy hill that rises above the town. Most of the walking would be in beautiful birch woods, sheltered from the wind.

I set off in driving snow, the air thick with flakes. The woods across a little lochan were hazy and half-hidden by the blizzard. The muddy path wound through the trees, a dark line between the snowy trees. 

Above the woods the path was snow-covered. The wind was fierce and harsh, stinging my face. On the summit I gazed onto a bleak arctic landscape, a different world to the town that lay not far below. I didn’t linger.

On the descent the snow eased briefly. Some hazy sunshine gave a touch of warmth to a rugged knoll. Back down in the forest the trees were silent, mysterious, encompassing, welcoming. 

Thunderstorms in the Colorado Rockies

A storm approaching the Rio Grande Pyramid

Thunderstorms are scary. At least they scare me when out in the open. I knew that in summer they occur regularly almost every afternoon in the Rocky Mountains in Colorado and that it’s wise to be over any high places by noon. As the number of storms tails off as autumn approaches I hoped that by starting in mid-August I wouldn’t encounter too many of them. And initially it seemed as though they wouldn’t be a problem at all. Apart from a few distant rumbles of thunder and some dark clouds on the second day for nearly three weeks there was no sign of any storms. September came and I thought the threat was over. In fact, it hadn’t begun.

To leave the trees or not?

I was crossing open ground below San Luis Peak, a fourteen-thousand-foot peak I was considering climbing, when dark clouds rushed in and I heard the first rumbles of thunder. Thoughts of an ascent vanished and, as I wrote in my journal, ‘I scuttled over the high points pretty quick.’ There was thunder the next day too, and the one after that. In fact, it was stormy for eight of the next nine days and the thunder didn’t just occur in the afternoons and clear quickly. I had one storm at 8 a.m., just as I was setting out, and one at 6 p.m. as I was looking for a camp site. Others happened anytime during the day. 

 

Twice lightning flashed in front of me with thunder crashing barely a second later. Once when I was about to leave the forest for a high pass. I stayed in the trees until the thunder was fading into the distance. The second occasion was really frightening. The day was already stormy with a strong wind and rain and cloud down on the summits. As I climbed the rain turned to stinging hail.  I was following a narrow trail winding its way up a steep rocky ridge and was enveloped in the mist when a flash of lightning shot across the slope in front of me and deafening thunder cracked overhead. Without pausing to think I turned and ran back down to where the ridge broadened and I could drop down the side to  a shallow bowl, which probably offered little protection, but which felt safer than being on the ridge itself. I moved away from my trekking poles and sat on my pack. A flock of ptarmigan fluttered away. I could have been at home in the Cairngorms. After maybe half an hour the storm had moved away and I set off again, crunching nervously through the hail.

After the storm

Other thunderstorms stayed further away but were still unnerving, especially on the three-and-a-half-mile crossing of the vast plateau called Snow Mesa where there’s no shelter other than a few willow bushes in some shallow stream beds. I did sit in one of these for a while when the thunder seemed too close for comfort.

On Snow Mesa

During these days there was rain too, sometimes many hours of it, and my waterproofs, dead weight for nearly three weeks, were now essential. Much of the route is above the trees here and even when there was no thunder the rain and clouds made me feel edgy, constantly watching for lightning and looking for possible places to shelter. I walked fast too, partly to keep warm in the wind and rain, but also because the mountains no longer felt safe.

The nervous tension, the fear, the cold and the rain brought rewards though. The light was often startling and magnificent as the clouds towered up, lit by the sun. Several times I saw impressive mammatus clouds, very distinctive and spectacular but usually found with unstable cumulonimbus clouds, bringing thunder and lightning, strong winds, and hail. Seeing these clouds when far from any shelter really made me feel small, a tiny vulnerable dot in a vast mountainscape. 

Mammatus clouds