Spring Snow in the Highlands

The snowiest winter for many years continues into the spring with deep snow on the hills this April. A two night trip to Glen Affric a few days ago showed that the snow isn’t just confined to the Cairngorms. Indeed, the extensive views showed snow covered peaks in every direction. Above 700 metres the cover is just about complete except where the sun has melted the snow from rocks and exposed banks. In places the snow is thigh deep and soft, in others crusty and thin, making for slow hard going. Not wanting to carry skis up to the snowline I walked into the hills. In places skis would have been easier but in others there were too many rocks for comfortable skiing. Recent heavy rain and snowmelt had left the ground saturated and finding a dry spot for a camp was difficult. Eventually I squeezed the tent onto a patch of not too sodden moss beside some large boulders on a slight rise. Wild geese called as they flew north low over the camp and the occasional grouse cackled in the heather. Faintly in the distance I could hear the rushing waters of the Abhainn Gleann nam Fiadh. Otherwise all was quiet as I sat outside the tent as the white peaks darkened and a crescent moon grew bright.

Although the sky was mostly overcast, just the occasional burst of sunshine or flash of blue sky colouring the monochrome scene, the clouds stayed above the summits and the air was sharp and clear. I wandered up Toll Creagach, leaving a madly meandering trail as I tried to avoid the deepest snow (not always successfully), and gazed on the mountains all around, a beautiful, wild sight sweeping round the horizon. To the south-west though the view, and my mood, was sullied by a new wind farm, a row of monstrous turbines running along the snowy hills above Glen Moriston, destroying the landscape and the environment. There are already too many of these industrial horrors in the Highlands. As well as fighting to prevent more being built I think it is time to argue that ones like this should be torn down and the land restored, as far as that is possible, not sometime in the future when profits can no longer be made by the developers but now. Destroying wild land in order to save the environment is a contradiction. Anything that reduces wild land and biodiversity is not environmentally friendly, whatever wind farm developers claim.

The self-portrait was taken on the col between Tom a’Choinich and Toll Creagach with Sgurr na Lapaich in the background. Photo info: Canon EOS 350D, Canon EF-S 18-55 mm IS@ 24mm, f8@1/500, ISO 100, tripod, raw file converted to JPEG in DxO Optics Pro.

Memories & Iron Men

Last week I returned to the flat Lancashire coast where I was brought up for a family gathering. Here on the vast beaches and amongst the sand dunes and pinewoods – without a mountain in sight – my love of nature and wild places developed. On this visit I discovered an old journal, perhaps my first, kept in the 1960s and headed “Outings” and recording outdoor trips, mostly local. Many of the entries are lists of birds and plants – I had a hankering to be a field naturalist – and there is little to suggest what I was feeling. That I kept going back is all there is to show how important these walks were. A touch of excitement and pleasure does show in an account of a school trip to the Lake District, where we climbed Scafell Pike, which must have been one of my first ascents, in late March. I record that from Angle Tarn “we were walking on snow that covered the whole ground and it was very, very hot …. so hot that we had taken to eating snow and rubbing it over our hands and faces”. I thought the view from the summit “magnificent” and regretted that we couldn’t stay longer but did write that “happy and weary, we set off down the mountain”. My joy in climbing hills began early and has not abated in the slightest over the years.

On this return visit my brother John drove me and my partner Denise past the still familiar pinewoods and sand dunes to Crosby beach, where the wide expanse of sand stretching out to the distant sea under a gigantic spreading sky also felt familiar, as if I had been there just yesterday. We had come here to see Anthony Gormley’s Another Place installation, which consists of 100 life size iron figures cast from the artist’s body spread across two miles of beach and all facing out to sea. Initially I couldn’t distinguish these figures from the dog walkers, joggers, families and other people scattered on the sand. Then I noticed that some of the people were strangely rigid and still. Approaching the Iron Men – as they are popularly known – showed them to be strange indeed, and becoming stranger with every tide. The tidal range is huge here with the sea almost disappearing into the horizon at low tide. The Iron Men are scattered between the high and low tide marks. Each one is covered by the sea for different lengths of time and this has had a marked effect on how they have changed in the three years they have stood facing the ocean. All of them are slowly becoming part of nature and less like statues. Barnacles and seaweed are colonising these new rocks. Creeping around the lower legs of those close to the high tide mark, shrouding the heads of those out at low tide. Some are slowly sinking, their feet vanished, as if in quicksand. Faces are fading and smoothing on others, the features dissolving into rust. They reminded me strongly of the dead sailors on the Flying Dutchman in the Pirates of the Caribbean films, human figures that are merging with the creatures of the sea, a curious connection between Anthony Gormley’s artworks and a Hollywood blockbuster. The presence of the Iron Men on the beach creates an air on unreality and strangeness. What are these silent figures looking for, endlessly staring out to sea?

The photo of the Iron Man was taken on a Ricoh GR-D, f8@1/320, ISO 64, raw file converted to JPEG and processed in Photoshop Elements 5.

Wild Cairngorm Weather

After drifting through the Yellowstone Wilderness in sunshine, gentle snow showers and the occasional gust of cold wind returning to the wet cold brutality of the Cairngorms was a bit of a shock. My first day out on my home hills was a short venture up little Meall a’Bhuachaille above Glenmore on a day previously spent sitting in the Mountain Café in Aviemore staring out at torrential rain. Flashes of blue sky and an easing of the rain stirred me out of my lethargy and onto the hill where a brisk cold wind kept me moving. On the summit I was leaning into the wind and looking across the Glenmore woods to clouds tearing across the big Cairngorm summits. I was glad I had gone no further and no higher. By the time I was back down in the glen the rain was pouring down again.

A week later a reasonable weather forecast lured me out again, this time on skis and intent on the crossing of the Cairngorm Plateau to Ben MacDui, one of the finest ski tours in the area when conditions are good. The forecast had said the effect of the wind would be “negligible”, a statement I remembered as a bitter north-easterly blasted me up onto the plateau through squalls of hail and wet snow and into dense damp clinging mist that condensed and froze on my clothing and equipment, coating my poles with ice. Hood up over a warm hat, overmitts over my gloves, goggles on my face for better visibility and for protection against the stinging wind, I was wearing more than I ever needed while skiing in Yellowstone. Temperature isn’t everything, this damp cold penetrated and chilled far more effectively than the dry air of the Rockies. A navigation exercise across the plateau and a return into the storm didn’t appeal so I headed for Cairn Gorm instead, needing a compass bearing to navigate the few hundred yards to the start of the summit slopes as I was in a complete white-out. Rocks scoured clean of snow by the wind gave depth to the hillside and confirmed that I was still climbing. When the ground and sky merge it can be very disorientating. Soon the terrain flattened out and I glimpsed the surreal snow plastered contorted shape of the Cairngorm Weather Station, behind which I sheltered for a quick snack and a warming drink of hot Rock’s Organic Ginger cordial from my flask. A thinning and lightening of the clouds suggested the air might be clearing. A touch of blue flickered above, astonishingly bright in this otherwise black and white world. Revived by the hot ginger and visibility that stretched farther than ten yards I skied over to the rocky top of Cnap Coire na Spreidhe, a wonderful viewpoint for the deep straight cleft of Strath Nethy which led out beyond the snow clad hills to the green and brown fields and moors of the lowlands, a different, colourful world. The wind was still strong and cold so soon I turned and skied carefully back down the wind blasted snow. The weather had been wild and unforgiving but for a few minutes the wind had torn apart the storm and revealed some of the beauty and majesty of the Cairngorms, reminding me of why I love these hills despite the rain and wind and snow.

The picture shows the weather station on the summit of Cairn Gorm. Photo info: Canon EOS 350D, Canon EF-S 18-55 mm IS@ 18mm, f8@1/2000, ISO 200, raw file converted to JPEG in DxO Optics Pro.

Yellowstone Podcast with Cameron McNeish

Yesterday I recorded a podcast with Cameron McNeish that has just appeared on his web site. On the podcast I talk about the reasons for my Yellowstone trips and the gear I used. The podcast can be downloaded from Cameron's site or via iTunes.

The photo shows the second igloo camp in the Firehole River valley on this year's trip. Photo info: Canon EOS 350D, Canon EF-S 18-55 mm IS @ 24mm, f8@1/640, ISO 100, raw file converted to JPEG in Capture One Pro.

TGO Gear Issue

The April TGO magazine, just published, is a special gear issue. It’s not however full of long lists of gear. In fact there are no lists at all. Instead there are masses of gear reviews, trip reports of how gear performed and interviews with outdoors people about the gear they use. There’s also a piece I wrote on the ethics of outdoor gear, which was an interesting piece to research and write and more encouraging than I initially expected. Other work of mine in this issue is a trip report on new gear used on a high camp in the Cairngorms (GoLite Xanadu 1 tent, MontBell Ultralight Super Stretch Down Hugger #3 sleeping bag, Primus EtaExpress stove, GoLite Trail Fly shoes & Mountain Equipment Compressor insulated jacket – all items shown at the Friedrichshafen show a few months before the trip), a trip report on the gear used on my Yellowstone ski tour last year (much of which was used again on this year’s trip), a piece on safety and lightweight gear in which I argue that the latter can be just as safe as heavy gear and eleven gear reviews including the FurTech Talon jacket, Baffin Mountain Boots, GoLite Shangri-La 3 shelter, Wild Country Sololite tent and the Inkapen. Small items are important too! There’s much else by other people too including Cameron McNeish’s latest contribution to the Alladale estate proposals, which I’ve commented on in several blog entries. The issue is introduced by Cameron in a short video on the TGO website.

The picture shows the camp on the Moine Mhor during testing for the “High Camp in the Cairngorms” TGO feature. Photo info: Canon EOS 350D, Canon EF-S 18-55 mm @ 55mm, f8@1/500, ISO 200, raw file converted to JPEG in Capture One Pro.

Yellowstone Wilderness

Deep snow, smoking rivers, geysers throwing water and steam high into the freezing, sparkling air, bubbling mud pots, magnificent old growth forest, winding canyons, vast pristine meadows – Yellowstone National Park in winter is a very special place, which is why I returned there last month for a second year’s ski touring and igloo building. For ten frosty nights I marvelled at the enormous starry skies, the brilliant waxing moon and the dark outlines of the forest before retreating to the cosy (really!) confines of an igloo for hot food and a comfortable night’s sleep. During the days our party of five skied through the forests and meadows, towing our gear on pulks between igloo sites, and touring with light daypacks from the igloos. We ventured down steep-sided river canyons, explored remote thermal basins and wandered across little-visited meadows. Eleven days of refreshing wilderness and natural beauty. Shoshone Geyser Basin was weird and wonderful, coloured thermal pools and steaming bare ground lying beside snow covered meadows below trees and rocks thickly coated with the frozen damp air from the thermal features. Lone Star geyser blasted water and steam high into the air at three hourly intervals, a display we could watch from outside our igloo. The high meadows at the headwaters of the Firehole river were quieter and more subtle, rippled white fields stretching for miles between dark forests to the final cliffs above Madison Lake. To reach the meadows we skied through silent groves of giant Engelmann spruce and subalpine fir, tremendous trees soaring into the sky. Wildlife was scarce in this harsh snowbound land but we were visited by foxes and pine martens, intent, sometimes successfully, on raiding our food supplies. One pine marten bravely ventured into our igloos while we were away, showing a great liking for chocolate. At another site a less bold marten hissed and chattered at us from a pine tree. Coyote tracks were everywhere but we never saw one of these wild dogs. Gray jays and Clark’s nutcrackers visited every igloo site, on the lookout for any scraps of food. Surprisingly, one of the commonest birds we saw were mallard ducks, which were often encountered in the creeks and rivers, open despite the bitter sub zero temperatures due to the warmth from the thermal features.

Ski touring in winter Yellowstone was a deep wilderness experience, an immersion into a wild, natural world. It will live with me for many years.

The picture shows the Lone Star geyser erupting just after sunset. Photo info: Canon EOS 350D, Canon EF-S 18-55 mm IS @ 29mm, f8@1/30, ISO 100, raw file converted to JPEG in Capture One Pro.

And The Snow Came

Two days ago it began to snow. And went on snowing, thick, wet flakes swirling down hour after hour after hour. Driven by a strong, gusty wind the sticky snow was plastered onto rocks and trees and piled up into great drifts, rippled like sand. I ventured out into the blizzard and wandered through a hazy landscape, ethereal trees fading in and out of the pulsating air, the ground and sky merging out in the meadows, the world lacking solidity. The ground collapsed and broke at each step, the snow sucking my boots down, making lifting them hard work. Soon I turned and trudged home, my body labouring slowly through the resisting snow but my mind swooping free, exhilarated by the storm and the sharp touch of real winter. By dawn the next day the snow had stopped falling and the land was white and pristine. Out to the west the high mountains were hidden in dark rushing clouds but here in the foothills of Strathspey only thin shreds of cloud, ripped by the wind, swept overhead and the sun shone hazily through their ice crystals. I went out on skis, the first time straight from the house this winter, and slid through the soft snow, drier and more powdery than when it fell due to a hard overnight frost. The ease of skiing, of slipping effortlessly over the snow, contrasted with the laborious postholing of the day before. The woods were quiet and still, the meadows white seas of undulating snow, blown into gentle frozen waves by the wind. The big pines had developed split characters. Towards the north-west, from whence the snow had come, they were white and cold, to the south-east they were green and brown and warm, their bark glowing reddish-gold in the sun. Tracks of rabbits, pheasants and roe deer radiated out into the meadows from the woods, heading for clumps of reeds and tall grass only partly covered by the snow. The thin prints of the pheasants ran across the surface of the snow, the deer and rabbits went in deep, showing what a struggle they had reaching essential if meagre food. A buzzard called overhead, drifting across the sky with barely a wing beat. A flock of chaffinches fluttered, calling shrilly, across the open space between two pines. Startled by my sudden fast approach a pheasant shot, squawking loudly, into the air and crashed off through the bushes. Mostly though the land was still and quiet, nothing moving, nothing making a sound, just the quiet hiss of my skis across the snow and the rustle of the wind in the tree tops. I slid down a bank into the mouth of a steep narrow ravine filled with a tangle of old trees, a hidden, secretive spot that is one my favourite local places. There is a sense here of the old wildwood, of an ancient forest untouched and undisturbed by humanity or civilisation. I looked in from the edge, up the little stream trickling through the dense woods, then turned away, there being no place for skis in the undergrowth, and skied home across wide, open meadows with the high Cairngorms finally appearing out of the clouds.

The image shows the little ravine the day after the snow came. Photo info: Canon EOS 300D, Canon EF-S 18-55 mm IS @ 43mm, f5.6@1/100, ISO 100, raw file converted to JPEG in Capture One Pro.