Sunday, September 01, 2024

Cnoc Dearg & Stob Coire Sgriodain, Geal Charn, Ben Klibreck

Prelogue

It's been a weird old year.  September is here and yet, my planned ambitious desire to complete the munroes before I am 60 came to a grinding halt between March and September as I single-handedly failed to travel North of the border for my own needs.  

I got unfit (see "Not Gairich" post) and convinced myself that to be successful I needed to train first and I never got chance. Our summer holidays were the first opportunity to set things straight and train into it.

I warmed up with some approach reccies and mianders along highland trails with my support crew (family) and generally tried to relax and cheer up.  It was easily done, give or take a few midges and downpours which are all part of the experience.

Munro walk 1 - Chno Dearg and Stob Coire Sgriodain Thursday, 8th August 2024

TSK dropped Lena and me off at the carpark at Fersit near Loch Treig and after a short walk to the bottom of the route, went off to do his own thing.  Every time I memorise the booky description of the hill route and I don't memorise it well so I take photos of it. I then get my camera out and read the book as well as interpreting the map.  I was at a farmyard, figuring out where to go as buzzy things flew by and I hoped I wasn't standing in someone's driveway.  All was quiet.

We followed the obvious path, tantalisingly labelled Corrour Station - miles away across the moorland track.  After the bookish km, a faint path did indeed head out across boggy moorland towards a shoulder leading down from the main summit.  We were mildly distracted by a quad bike track rather than accessing the shoulder and after quite some time bog-hopping, decided we should've stuck to the route description.  We spent the next forever trying to achieve the ridgeline, giving up in the end and cutting over to a grassy slope that went up to the ridgeline at around 45 - 50 degrees incline.  It was hard work but we sprinted it in a heather-bashing kind of way then sat down to eat crisps to celebrate being back on the route before the next bit.

The wind was pouring over the shoulder of the mountain and we had a great cool-down from earlier midge bites. I thought of work once - realising that there was no reception and I was missing a meeting with Aberdeen Council that I had said I would attend if I had reception.  I put my phone away for the rest of the day.  Even if I got reception they'd not be able to hear a word I said.

The view of Loch Treig told me TSK had no success with photographay unless he'd tried to get some gritty shots of the low shoreline.  The water level was low - whethter that's its hydro status or it is in maintenance, I don't know.

Grasping at the last tangible edges of any views from the summit, we rushed to the top of Stob Coire Sgriodain, camera in hand.  It was blusteringly windy and there was no shelter so the summit photo from there was rushed.  Impressive cliffs pointed down towards the loch so there was a semblance of reward from a relatively simple and close-quarters hill.  I won't say "easy" because the alloted ammount of heather bashing and swearing and lack of path had already put it in to the far-from-easy category which was satisfying for the proximity to a carpark.

I chose to do these two (slightly harder) peaks so that I could save their solo neighbour for another time on a weekend when I had limited hours to spare to climb a peak before heading back south.

As soon as we left the summit of Sgriodain, the clag started to descend so I took an inordinate number of photos of the view before it disapeared, and the route ahead.  I got out the compas just in case. The garmin was doing fine but it was suddenly easier to work in a more analogue way and follow the guidebook's more vague "north a bit then north east a bit", and there is, indeed, a sketchy path.  

I would later find out from TSK that some of the reviews of Chno Dearg describe it as "a really boring lump of a hill which no-one would ever bother to climb if it weren't a munro".  That's fine by me.  I'm in munro bagging as a reason to be in the hills places where I wouldn't normally go, sometimes in conditions I wouldn't necessarily choose, not to tick off the big-name items.  I understand that conflict of list-ticking, it's not lost of me.

What I enjoyed about Chno Dearg was the absolute sense of isolation we got from it.  Appart from it being a blustery, cloudy Thursday, it was still the middle of holiday season and we didn't see a damn soul all day. Even if they'd been up there, we might not have seen them.  The sensory deprivation that came from the clag was both eerie and all-consuming.  Chno Dearg did have a summit cairn and we sat on it, out of the wind, and celebrated with the second sandwich, frazzles and dog biscuits.  Lena stole herself a frazzle.

The clag was still down when we set off but we were rewarded by startling a grey ptarmigan in part plumage shift - or maybe a youngster.  They clattered greyly into the grey sky.

The route description changed to "North East a bit then North" but without the warning to avoid the quad bike tracks again.  We descended (as described) down some slippery rocks but then the whole hillside seemed to be a batch of slippery rocks and the path quickly disappeared.

We descended below the clag again so we could clearly see the way off the mountain but the illusive track disappeared so when we found a quad track we followed it hoping it would swing around and rejoin the earlier quad track to base.  We were wrong.

I finally gave up on the bog hopping through quad sinks when I caught sight of the forest and reservoir road below and the farm buildings where I'd looked at the book first thing this morning.  A suitable "paralell road" feature appeared in the hillside.  Not actually a road but a natural phenomena of ice-age deposits - an old shoreline - that was half way up the valley side and long-since abandoned by receeding water levels.  We attained it then followed it Eastwards aways before rejoining the Northerly direction across more bogs and moorlands to get back onto the Corrour Station trail.  

I'd been in my shoes all day which were new and very comfortable and successful.  My feet were still dry in them but I no longer had the energy to keep them that way with the car park only 1km away.  I trudged straight through the last river and instantly regretted it as the cold water seeped into my new shoes.  It made my feet feel lovely and refreshed but I could forsee days of waiting for the shoes to dry out again before I could wear them.

Back at the road through Fersit, I marvelled again at the remote yet beautiful houses lining the road side.  There was more to it than met the eye and for my next trip I recognised that leaving the van to nip off for a wild camp would not be an issue.  We were still the only ones in the car park in August.  Midges abounded, even as we moved and I started to formulate a plan to get us into the car as quickly and midge free as possible - involving dumping my rucsac, getting the dog towel to wipe the dog then bailing her in while I removed my layers and boots.  TSK helped.  Then I did a lap of the carpark on foot to wipe off the last of the bitey wee bastards.

In the car, I set about a killing spree before turning on the cool air conditioning while Andrew drove my tired feet back to the tent.

Rest day

The next day we had a sunny rest day trip to Mallaig to look at the sea and have seafood.  It was too windy for swims or walks and we had a townie day.  

Geal Charn, Cairngorms National Park, Laggan Saturday 10th August, 2024

TSK was keen to do a mountain with us so I scoured the book for one that I could drag my arthritic old man up.  We stepped outside the local area a little but it was worth it to find something that should be doable in 3 hours or so.  Particularly pertinent since we'd been lazy about the prep (and I wasn'st really rested enough to do another one but hey) and it was getting on for lunchtime by the time we got to Laggan.

We stopped in the cafe in the village, a little too early for lunch and were restrained since I had put sandwiches together.  We had coffee and cake then set off up the hill.  

After a short drive, I realised where I was.  I had not recognised it due to the slightly bizare approach and I'd rarely driven in the East of Scotland but I found myself driving along the Highland Trail route... or rather my comment to TSK was, "I have cried my way up this hill many times" - and this is just the first day!  We were on the road that turns into General Wade's Military road and "the Coireayrick Pass". We passed the bizare waterway which looks like a dutch canal dyke in the middle of the scottish highlands and it suddenly makes sense that it's part of a larger fishery and hydro network of waterways.

I looked at the farmyards I have dreamt of tresspassing in for a sleep or some shelter and, usefully, knew to bypass the over-prescribed car park and continue over the bridge to additional parking... also right on the bottom of the approah path to Geal Charn.  It's necessary to state where your Geal Charn is, for there are 6 munros called Geal Charn and 3 of them are in this area.

The day started bright, sunny and warm and we shed layers and I considered a swim in the natural river but decided to save it for the way down.  I did not want to burn my family mountain passes with frivolity at this early stage.  The going was good as a path (which was intentional) and took us over minor hillocks to the start of a more substantial climb up the hillside.  We stopped to take in lunch at a point that was out of the high winds but sufficiently breezy to keep bitey things off.  People count on the way up was two sets of hikers, a pair of fell runners and some muddy dog walkers... then we had the place to ourselves except for a few sheep.

The summit plateau reached, I took heed to the guidebook's warning that the first cairn was not actually the summit but it was a litte further along.  I also took the opportunity to walk to the right to avoid the breeze coming from our left.  I say breeze, I mean, "stay upright".  I shepherded TSK to leave the cairn alone and follow the well trodden breeze-avoidance path that had formed over the years.  At one point he had to whistle to me to avoid getting lost in the clag as Lena and I strode out to get the wind flapping done with asap.

I can't remember if there was a cairn or no cairn but we had a spectacular view over the wind farm at the top of the C-Pass and the hills around and beyond.  It felt odd for me to be near somewhere so familiar and yet somewhere so new to me - at the top of one of the peaks I have so regularly wondered at when I ride by, underneath, on my way to something much bigger.  I marvelled at the difference between my historic self and my self, now - clinging on the edge of one-day trips and reminded myself to get in shape.

We ate snacks and I stuffed a sandwich into my pocket to get us off the hill quicker.  Me and Lena strode ahead and then sat on a rock to eat marmalade sandwiches while TSK caught up and laughed at me, "you're going to get fat if you start eating a sandwich every time you have to sit and wait for me".  It's photography and dank humour that will get us through ageing.

I helped myself to skipping down the rocks on the descent to practice a bit of running and fast descending.  Back at our lunch spot I sat near the river then we skipped on through the heather.  It warmed up but not much, the wind getting a better grip on the day.  The draw of the water had waned with the increasing cloud and we re-traced tired, praying that the van would appear around the corner and hadn't been stollen or moved out of (it wasn't in) the way.

It was there.  A hiking pole was left behind.  I propped it up for its owners to return for it.

We re-traced down the road.  The cafe was now closed, we'd been up late and were back late.  We retreated to the increasingly blowy tent to cook and easy dinner of pasta and sleep off the days wonders.

Recovery day

The recovery day was, as often happens in Scotland - packing up to depart in glorious sunshine.  We packed our bags and disassembled our dry (hallelujah) tent and drove on up to Lairg.

Thanks to TSK, we punctuated the trip with a visit to Dundregan Trees for Life, a Scottish charity "fattening up" saplings for planting out on rewilding projects, giving nature a helping hand to re-establish the ground cover of history, lost to the clearances and deer stalking for recreation.  It's likely that their results will save your children's lives.  Climate drama asside, they have a lovely cafe, visitor centre and shop and some nice walks to do  - some of which take you up to the highest points on their estate, overlooking Ben Nevis, Glen Garry (site of March's holiday fail) and Knoydart beyond (on the list).

What a difference 24 hours makes to the weather.  We sat by waterfalls in shorts and dangled our feet then I walked through bogs in my sandles and returned to the car happy and with soaking feet - and a full belly of delicious salad after 30 minutes watching the pond skaters and swallows, whilst I ate ice cream.

Lairg camp site is incredible.  It's run by a couple whose grandma ran the campsite before.  They're still working multiple jobs to make ends meet, having sunk all their money into the toilet block and kitchen.  The campsite spots are a free-for-all so we picked somewhere flat with a bit of breeze to keep the midges off but prepared ourselves to move the van should it get windy and feisty (which was the forecast). 

On our first morning I was awake at 5am - symptomatic of a day of driving and restless muscles which haven't quite recovered yet.  The sky was dark but the sun was on its way so I watched it on my way back from the luxury toiletblock then stood around some more.  We got up and ate breakfast, faffed and did some short walks nearby to recover from Geal Charn and a day in the car.  At the end of the day I walked out on to the campsite and did yoga into the setting sun, pressing my face and body into the dry grass.  I never thought I'd be doing that this far north.  When I checked the weather here the week before we travelled it had been 4 degrees C over night.  On our day out, we had investigated the next few days weather.  In the evening, we sat and watched the sunset which was cloud-filled and equally as crimson, the layers and intensity drawing across the whole sky until suddenly it was just dark and dull with a faint orange glow beyond the horizon.

Ben Klibreck Tuesday, August 13th 2024

Although I'd not had much rest or long sleeps, I joked with TSK that if I was awake at 5am the next day, I was going to pack my rucsac and go for another munro.  In my head, it was still a bit iffy.  The weather forecast was for high winds - upland gales I think is the technical term.  Tuesday was to be the better day before things deteriorated.  

From Lairg, I really have two choices - Ben Hope or Ben Klibreck (excluding the high number of other hills in the area that I want to walk on / past because they look good and are in a cool place).  With a solid weather prediction for mostly clear skies, I wanted to do something and I was ready for something a little challenging.  Although Ben Hope is the most Northerly Munro and has a reputation for being bleak and monsterous, it's actually an easy walk with a big path and not much time required.  in fact, the guidebook quips, you can walk both hills in the day - not together - but using a car to drive between the two - three hours in the morning, three in the afternoon?  I don't think so!

I decided to honour Ben Klibreck with the pleasant weather and do the longer, harder route.  That way I could attend to Ben Hope at my leisure, at the whim of tenuous weather and preferably out of season when there were fewer people on it... I have something in mind!

I had the route for Ben Klibreck plotted on my Garmin plus the book author's recommendation of an easier exit to the Cluannie Inn, at a different pickup spot to the drop off point.  I set my alarm for 7am and drifted into a sound sleep, uninterupted by the normalcy of city life - banging car doors, alarm sirens, streetlights and barking dogs.

At 1:30am my bladder spoked to me and, rather than try (unsuccessfully) to ignore it, I decided to deal with it and get back to sleep as quickly as possible.  There were too many on the campsite to wee in the field so i set off towards the toilet block, checking up at the sky which was awash with stars, the milky way being particularly prevelant.  This far North, there's very little difference between sunset and sunrise locations this far north so roughly where the sun set, to the North, streaks of cloud remained from the sunset and then I realised that they were curved and streaked and was it... was it really the Northern Lights?  I stared.  It wasn't moving.  One thing was for sure, I wanted to enjoy this in silence for myself but also, if I didn't fetch Andrew and the thing kicked off properly, I'd be gutted.  I woke him from his sleep, told him not to get his hopes up (it was, after all, very faint and very still) and dragged both him and the dog out of bed to look.

We stared for ages, postulated that it was just clouds and went for a week.  When we re-emerged from the indoor lighting, the streaks across the sky were still visible.  We watched a few shooting stars from the summer Perseids meteor shower, stared at the "clouds" a bit longer then went back to bed - thinking there was no point to getting out the camera.  
 
Again, I was awake at 5:45, this time being punched in the head by a dog who wanted to tell me that outside was on fire.  Actually, it was the sun making it's (now accusstomed) firey appearance on the Eastern Horizon.  I kept my word and ate breakfast with the kids from an Edinburgh Academy whose teacher confirmed the presence of the Aurora Borealis in the night and we cursed not getting the fancy cameras out.  As promised, I packed a rucsac and was dropped off beyond the Cluannie Inn at a carpark turn-out. I turned the GPS on and followed a combo of the route description in the book and the pink line on the map which was plotted from info in the book.  I thought I was on the route as I took great strides across the heather and tussocks of a headland past some small tarns and headed for a headland that led to the larger slopes of Ben Klibreck.  

After quite some time and effort I realised something was wrong.  I lookked for the easy way back so that I was informed later, when I would be more tired.  Unfortunately, the way back seemed to be exactly the way I had come and there I realised it.  Rather than starting from the hard start and finishing with the easy way out, I had actually made the easy way out difficult (by heather bashing instead of following the obvious path to the Cluannie Inn) and was going to have to walk out the hard way.  I had also missed the new appearance of a perfectly good path up from a new wind turbine centre where there was a perfectly good carpark giving perfectly good acess to this Northerly Munro.  I was a bit pissed off with my (old) book but also kind of smug because I like doing things the hard way and it was good training.  I sat by a spring and had snacks and watched the dog face-plant into the heather and blaeberries, smearing the purple juice across her forehead and legs so I had a multi-coloured dog.

Once we reached the big path from across the heather we had a sit in a sheep shelter to eat early lunch and change out of the early morning waterproofs.  I didn't even bother to change out of shorts and into long trousers.  The weather was holding out nicely.  Again the dog waved her feet in the air and I looked out across the flow country to Ben Hope and the sea beyond.  

For a good 2 hours I strode across the ridge which led to Ben Klibreck and the route up that I should have taken.  Eventually I was beaten by the wind to start walking along a sheep-trod-turned-footpath which ran along the leeward side of the hill to get respite.  Second lunch was consumed in another sheep shelter, changing into those long trousers and adding my waterproof coat for warmth rather than rain proofing.

I tried to reccy the route down on the way past but "straight up there" (or now, "straight down there") just seemed like a mental concept.  I decided I'd make the decision later and was thankful for my Spot which would actually let TSK where to come and meet me at the end of the day. 

When we got to the end of the leewards path, we finally had to come to terms with the full force of the wind as we made our way over a number of rock bluffs, exactly where the wind was tearing over a low col.  The path to the summit set off in the wind and never got out of it.  Only my legs, below the knee, were safe from the breeze and the rocky path disappeared into a bit of a rut in places.  I decided to ditch my rucsac to summit.  I don't usually like to leave my safety kit behind but the bag was making my progress more difficult and dangerous as the wind snatched at it sideways, pulling me off ballance even more than necessary.

A convenient boulder emerged and I hung my rucsac off it upside down, using the waist strap to secure the bag to the top of the boulder.  I took my camera and one pole because the other was useless and merely served to blow in the wind and try to trip over my left foot with every step.

The top was truly beautiful - even on the leward side.  Inside the shelter cairn, the trig point lay on its side - presumably blown over by decades of gales.  An attempt had been made to errect a post of some kind but that was gone too.  I ate something then dared, momentarily - to stand up and photograph the rest of the scene.  I should have stayed longer but I was concious I was already going to be late for my pick up and I didn't want someone to find my rucsac and worry that I was gone or lying inured somewhere.  I'd seen one couple walking on the hill - quite some way behind me.

Still, when I turned to descend, I found quite a troupe of people on their way towards us.  

Lena and I recovered my rucsac then, still being blasted by the wind, we took to the leeward side of the hill again and rather than use the windy path, I staggered down a moss-covered boulder-field, carrying my rucsac in my hand, from time to time dragging or heaving it against the breeze instead of wearing it on my shoulders where it got blasted and blew me off my feet.  It was embarrasing.  At the bottom of the steep descent, everyone else looked so composed.  A couple smiled, an elderly couple (seriously, they looked about 70!) waved hello and proceeded like lightening.  At their age, I'd be worrying about my capacity to stand in the conditions I decided I was incredibly out of shape and as a solo mountaineer, didn't regret my over-packing in the slightest.

Back at the steep descent, I attempted to find any trace of a path described in the guidebook as "mostly pathless exept for where one has established itself near the top across some greasy rocks".  At the 60 degree slope, greasy rocks didn't sound like a healthy thing.  We found what we could which was probably a sheep trod rather than a greasy rock and that deteriorated into a steep stream / spring which oozed from the ground.  The descent had 2 things going for it - it wasn't a 3 hour re-trace the way we had come, it was as described - a grassy slope.  Not once did I find a sketchy boulder to fall over or off.  It was long-winded and awkward but terrifyingly simple and its bark was worse than its bite.  I constantly thought, "one foot wrong and I'm a gonner" and I constantly put feet wrong. The worst thing that happened was I fell on my bum and slid a bit.  I wondered if it would be the fastest way off the hill but didn't have the guts to try.

Up the valley in the coire, I heard deer bark and huff at us.  I watched them stare.  Thankfully the wind was blowing the wrong way for Lena to even notice them. 

We acquired the lake shore which we should have passed on the way out in the morning.  It was beautiful. It had a little sandy beach.  I should've stripped off for a swim but I was a bit behind my timeschedule.  I still regret not doing so.  The constraints of time and space were weighing down on me.  I appreciate everything Andrew does for me but I have a guilty conscious which makes me try to stick to time as best I can.  I suspected I'd already be 1 hour late.  Future note to self - add an extra 90 minutes to all estimated trip times!

We picked our way around the loch shore following sheep trods again.  Any path the writer of the book might have imagined were long gone to the convenience of the path from the wind turbines.  At the edge of the Loch we followed the book to the North side of a smaller lochan before striking off up the hillside over a headland.  There were tracks in the grass here - our old friends Quad bike tracks but at least here they went vaguely in the direcion we wanted and all we had to do was put up with a few bogs where they'd dropped down off the hillside at speed through stream beds.

I knew there were two headlands to clear and in between the two I was washed with depression.  Effectively this was to be the last big hill day of my holiday and I was sad.  Like the last day of a bike tour/race, I didn't want the simplicity to end.  I needed a wee so before I got back to civilisation and watchful eyes, I dropped trou and sat on a tussock of grass to have a wee.  The flow country lived up to its name and drained my bodily fluids into the ground away from my tired, damp skin. It was like a natural nappy.  Tired dog lay down in the heather and went to sleep.  Still not wearing any pants, I had a few biscuits then packed up my stuff, re-dressed and set off over that last bluff.

For all that I didn't want it to end, I was very relieved to see the van parked in a large carpark at the top of the main road climb.  He was parked below me but my easiest way off the hill was to descend to the river directly ahead then cross it and join the road on the other side.  The quad bike tracks plunged into the river there so I assumed there would be a sensible crossing point.  I pinged my spot then set off down the hillside, stopping only to get the dog over some wire fencing that had been ploughed down by the quads. 

I told Lena to "Go find dad" at just the moment a couple of touring cyclists were riding up the hill so she started pulling me towards them, rather than the van that I had my eye on.

Everything was as it should be.  The stony bed of the river permitted easy crossing and we just about managed to scramble out of the other side to attain the road as the mercu trundled down and I indicated at the driveway to the forest land on the other side of the road where TSK dutifully parked up and picked me up.  Lena crashed out in the back, I crashed out in the front and we trundled back into the village to the perdiam question of what to have for tea.  Easy - pasta and sauce.  

Epilogue

We had days of wind storms to follow.  2 nights of tending to the tent to ensure it didn't fail... and it didn't - nice one alpkit!  As a new tent, we were unsure about how it would respond and it felt touch-and-go.  At one point I got up in the night to move the van, reversed over the guy ropes then had to lie on the ground to move the peg from under the van and ensure the van didn't saw through the guys.  The wind was so fierce, the ground wasn't even wet, despite it raining quite intensely.  Andrew thought I'd collapsed in the night.  The tent survived and we just about survived two nights of noisy flapping and intermittent sleep.  At one point I thought about switching for the low-level tent and kipping in its porch while Andrew and Lena slept inside it.  Might have worked but we didn't get that extreme.  There was no damage to the Alpkit Axiom and it lives to protect us another day.

I thoroughly enjoyed this trip.  It was everything I expected from Scotland and nothing less.  I'm disappointed I didn't get to swim or take the kayak out but it will come another day.

I came away with a renewed enthusiasm for walking the scottish hills and started making plans.  Those plans get put to one side every now and then in favour of the house sale / purchase and work commitments but what I need to do is make time for the hills so that I remain a happy person and keep going with my absolutely pointless quest.

Because I like it.



Wednesday, April 03, 2024

Not Gairich

After a beautiful day in the hills on Easter Sunday, I managed to get enough reception to check the weather on Tuesday, which told me it was going to get blowy by the end of the week with some gales so I chose to attempt Gairich on Wednesday - regretting earlier decisions to delay, basically, to do it asap!

It was already dauntingly breezy by the time we got to the dam for TSK to drop us off. I got dressed into boots, gaiters & coat in the car & stopped on the dam to add waterproof trousers on top of my paramo waterproofs - not because of any moisture issues but because it was the quickest way to add warmth. TSK left us to it and we spent a pleasant hour hiking into the valley at the base of the climb. It was pleasant until my left foot slid rightwards on a rock, forcing me to slam down on the ground. The shaft of my ice axe hit me on the head and both wrists took a beating. The rest of me squelched noisily into the mud. After a quick self check I decided the best thing was to get moving to avoid feeling cold and damp.  We scurried further along the trail, descending to where a woodland provided some shelter for an early lunch break and to recollect my composure over some pre-emptive ibuprofen. It was a little sparse on wildlife but secure and warm.

The next pitch had superb views over Sunday's route and under the cloud we could see into Glen Kingie with Kjoydart beyond. The path up was easy-going. Lena found a Greenshank paddling in a tarn.  We were soon approaching the sleep rocky section which was described as having "one easy scramble". 

We ducked behind a rock to take another food shelter and cursed the knobed who had left a can of Nurishment on the hillside. We shared/clamoured over rations then went to pick up the litter. We found, somewhat soberingly, that it was a smoke flare, probably used by the Lochaber MRT to rescue some poor person who had fallen (or been blown) of the route.

Sure enough, it felt like all the wind which had been barrelling down the glen was concentrating on our single mountain. After almost being blown off my feet twice I decided to stick to the leeward side & carry my ice axe in my hand rather than on my backpack, where it was catching the wind. This turned out to be a minor stroke of genius because for the first time in around 25 years, I used my axe to claw and scratch my way up the moss, peat and rock, to avoid being blown away by the wind. Thankfully I never tested it fully but it gave me some sense of security as I bbum-slidand crawled my way up the hill. 

For a while the path got deep and sheltered but then I cheated death with a scramble over some rock bluffs. Once it was over we took to the leeward side again and slumped into the grass just to get over the adrenaline. Icicles lay scattered around us where they'd been blown out of the gullies in Tuesdays "heat". We composed ourselves and pressed on, somewhat hopeful that the worst was over, the scrambley bit was done with, but then realisation hit. There was still some distance to go and between us and the final pitch was a saddle with torrential fog pouring over it at what looked like 100 mph There wasn't any way around it. The leyward side didn't really exist or was too steep.  I decided we'd already got away with a lot. We were both scared, Lena was cold and the time said we'd been on the mountain a while and would probably be down just in time to meet TSK if we left now. 

Without any further deliberations I sent a message on my spot to say I was "OK but it was all a bit shit".  This is one of the pre-set messages on my Spot.  I let it send a while as we set off down hill. In the meantime my phone rang. I actually had service for the first time all week, so I sent a text to make a planwith TSK. 

We seemed to avoid the wind better on the descent, though stopped in again at the woodland for a wild wee and the last of our shared food. We were both warmer but still a little grumpy so I hoped food would improve the outlook. It did. Things were muttered about me chasing this & also, things were muttered about this being part of it. 

I thought about wild camping up here and Scotland's temperamental weather. I didn't think I'll ever fully camp in the open if I can help it! Then thought of all the times I have and it's been fine.

Things were also muttered about making Gairich part of a bigger expedition into Kingie, Dessary and Knoydart but I will have to see. 

I pinged the Spot to indicate we were leaving the woods and set out across the path again where the wind fell to a manageable level and we were treated to some spectacular weather light shows, although I wasn't allowed to photograph them well.  Someone realised she was on the return route to resume her throne in front of the fire.

It was a real pleasure to see the lightning conductor for the dam sticking up like a beacon for the Spanish Armada. For 500m we watched 2 people stood chatting by a car and were quite dismayed to watch them both leave, then half way across the dam we looked down to see the familiar view of the Mercu, lights on, trundling along the single track road towards out rendez-vous.  

Near the end of the dam the opposing winds ricocheting off the two sides of the valley were so intense that I could hardly make any progress across the cattle grid and for a moment I was stuck in a legless stasis, unable to step forward or back, but marching on the spot. I think the mercu broke the curse and I escaped. 

After a brief interlude photographing deer I was allowed in the van and, fatigued, I drove us back to base to dream of better, more complete, less exciting adventures to come.

Sunday, March 31, 2024

Meall Tarsuinn

I should have made a Munro my first walk of the holiday to get a March one done but instead I faffed all morning and then it was too late.  T5K was motivated to tick off our closest hill, which was probably a Marilyn and do-able from our front door. 

We packed up and set off up the hard- standing /rocky/boggy sometimes-path to our local hydro station and continued above it as far as the associated river dam.  The route was TSK's but the navigation was mostly mine. New trails existed on the map but they veered off in gungho directions towards other mountains, so when a path appeared which went on our route, we gratefully trudged along it - the natural stone-on-moss effect was perfect for progress and dog paws and better than the bog-hop it must once have been. 

In fact, the luxury ran out in the middle of the hillside so we stopped to eat bagin' of cake, banana & crisps and I offered to head back as I was tired. I had realised I'd left my head torch behind and was now concerned about the light since Andrew's arthritis was moving a bit slower today. 

The instruction was to keep going so I switched to glasses that actually enabled Map reading and walking, removed a layer since I was boiling & started the trudge across the bog & the hillside to gain sufficient elevation to be in the river valley below the summits. I tried to count the rivers on the map but since I didn't have them all on the Garmin, we ended up following the main river around & hunting for paths. Time dragged on, so I suggested finding the path heading straight down to base without a sumint. A popular idea.

We overshot on the easy line & I put 2+2 together and realised we were in the wrong valley. It was already too late so I called it too energy-sapping to go around the hill. The best bet was over the top and along the paths so we did summit Meall Tarsuinn eventually. Delight at 664m. 

When we realised the path down was tenable TSK called another rest stop, and no-one was arguing... just to find somewhereout of the breeze. 

Sadly, the redt of the descent was quite slippy and Andrew hit the deck twice. I almost went over twice. He slowed right down but soon it didn't seem far to go to get back. Me and Lena went on ahead to make tea and toast our success.



Sunday, January 14, 2024

New year, new tent, new comfort levels

Sometimes a backpacking trip or a camping weekend is just that - no epiphany, no shinning sunrise or sunset, no barriers or records broken. It can just be grey, damp survival - one day becoming the next.

I suspected this weekend's weather might be amazing so I packed up on Saturday morning to go out. It took me most of the morning and I eventually got going at 11, stopped for coffee then "accidentally" walked out via Fulwood a second time. I almost submitted to the god of lost causes & kept walking through this very poshest of" burbs" My cafe stop turned into lunch.

In Fulwood you don't think twice about leaving the dog outside the co-op so I bought some more calories or continued down into the Mayfield valley - where I should really have started out.

I dropped in at Forge Dam but it was busy, full of children throwing seed at ducks and waste food for the dog to be driven mad. I used their facilities then ran away. Just as I was feeling that nature was a little strained I noticed a hobby sitting in a tree at the edge of the field, waiting to feed on anything that sang. It was grey against a greying sky, but beautiful.

We took another afternoon tea break at the Lama farm. For all that the Mayfield valley was lovely, I finally felt like I started my walk when I got away from all the people commenting on Lena carrying her own luggage. I know they're only being friendly but if you think "you should do that for your dog" good for you - get on with it, keep it to yourself - see you soon.

Peace only came on the final climb, passed by a few runners doing their own thing. I watched mountain bikers cross my path, heading up the bridleway. At the Lama caf I moved a chair under the eaves to a dry spot to eat and put on my waterproofs. I didn't want to get too comfortable indoors. The incoming rainbow was beautiful but meant one thing. I was glad it was cold enough to justify wearing fleece trousers under waterproofs.



We joined the Houndkirk road too late for sunset, only just in time to catch the orange glow against the grey skies but Sheffield always looks superb, receding and twinkling in the distance. As the sun finally disappeared from the sky I got quite sick of trudging the wide dirt road and not a fan of powered vehicles at night, I led us off onto a footpath that crosses to Burbage with a stop to struggle into a new head torch. I made a mental note that a peaked hat is great for shading eyes from the sun but shit on a night hike.




Another couple descending in the dark kept us company to the Fox House road, then they were gone. We had the Peaks to ourselves.

I momentarily considered dinner in The Fox House Inn and turned that way. I considered a close-by building bivi but there was too much chance of unexpected company.

Anyway, this hike was all about testing my tent in some harsh(ish) conditions - cold but not too cold. It would hardly do to sleep in a building. Before I went any further up the hill I turned tail towards Longshaw. I could use another Landslide-favourite spot... but before turning in the right direction, my brain thought it might like to have dinner in the Millstone pub instead. I knew they were dog-friendly and welcoming of muddy walkers. The path down the hill was new to me and - so completely engaging that I forgot about the pub - I clearly wasn't hungry enough anyway. It was 530pm. I'd fallen into the trap of believing dark = dinner time then bed. My body clock has gone "back" but my brain still has not and it's a while since I've done this winter camping malarkey.

For 40 minutes) we stumbled through the woods on the lookout for a flat piece of grass or woodland floor between the boulders. I even considered the famed cave bivi but I didn't have the GR. Anyway, this hike was all about testing my tent in some harsh (ish) conditions - cold but not too cold. It would hardly do to sleep in a cave. We followed a few side paths toward the river. One led to some boulders- perfect for a summer swim but not a winter dip in this raging torrent. We cursed our way back up, stepping into a side stream on the way. The second path led to a lovely flat rock, a perfect size for our free-standing tent but on inspection, it leaned too much for sleeping on and the water noise would have been too much. I returned to the main path and memories that a friend had once been moved on from here while out bivyng with her children in the mid- noughties. I looked at the Garmin screen. We were almost at Froggatt Edge and Grindleford Station so I started up the hill and crossed the road - now noisy with normal people fleeing from the darkness. Frogatt held no better answers. Had I been here before with TSK & Landslide. We'd been to a pub then camped elsewhere- couldn't remember where. Was it the Maynard? Wasn't that too posh now?

Walking up the hill away from the road noise, I started to see pairs of tiny glowing eyes in the light of my headtorch. A few at first - occasional golden blinks Then more and more, around 30 pairs of eyes, adult deer, watching us stumble into their world. They were eerily silent, not a wheeze, bark or foot - stamp, just watching. Momentarily my heart raced as I imagined them to be demons come to ambush us, then I snapped back to rural England in the 2020s.

Everywhere I walked in the woods around the rocks had paths. I didn't want to camp next to a path and be woken up in the morning by an inquisitive spaniel. I found moorland and peered over the wall - barbed wire, a block-built shed, probably locked. A road beyond the wall with the comings and goings of traffic. We'd be overlooked.

I did a few laps of the open space but everything was tussocky, sloped or boggy to the point of sinking. This wasn't fun anymore. I needed something better. We were both running out of energy. To avoid the traffic I made a beeline for some low, scrappy deciduous trees, bared like twigs stuck in the ground. Beneath the twigs were more boulders, possibly quarried stone. Ripples of land out into trenches then over-grown with moss, lichen, brambles, gauze and trees so tenuous I couldn't identify them. I was glad I'd worn my old waterproofs as I forged my way through spiky things. I paused occasionally to wait for Lena who followed tentatively. If a dog can look worried, her expression said, "I hope you know what you're doing".

Eventually I found it - a flat patch of broken bracken boarded on 4 sides by scrubby spiky things. Even if anyone spotted us, there was a fortress of thorns that might persuade them to leave us in peace. I trampled the area. The occasional rock meant there was just a one-woman-and-her-dog-sized pitch The porch and extras would need to overhang space but that was Ok, the footprint I had with me was only big enough to protect our sleeping area. The less weight we put on the spiky bracken, the better. A good test of my supposedly bomb-proof tent.

I was glad it was at raining as I set down my pack, laid the footprint out then laid myself out to check the spot. I could have fallen asleep then and there. I didn't need to worry about the dog - she'd already started building a bracken nest.

Tent out, poles in. Rucsac in, dog went in, straight to her place she had been shown in the loft at home. She fell down a hole - that worried expression again - climbed out and went and sat at my foot end. I threaded her mat underneath her, dried her paws and covered her with her coat and duvet. Now to sort me out.

I peeled off boots and waterproof trousers and just for a while, I fully shut out the world, closing tge tent door to see how cosy it could be. It really was proper cosy inside. Aware of condensation building up, I opened some vents then set about organising. The rucac tucked out of the way in the dry porch. I climbed out of sweaty socks fettered out my mat and inflated it then fluffed out my sleeping bag and inflated my pillow. As part of the process my stove, mug, coffee and general useful kit were unpacked and stacked for when I felt ready. I hunted for the sleeping bag liner as I knew it would be chilly and put on my thermal layer. I do love that time of year when walking in fleece trousers is the base load and you don't get too sweaty doing it.

I made a list of things I had to do outside the tent so I wouldn't forget:

  • pee
  • put some tent pegs in
  • get some water
  • put the rain cover on - we were currently sat under a chimney with the rain cover dangling limply down one side of the tent.

My boots were still dry-what a relief after stepping in the stream earlier.

I could hear the stream behind us so I fought my way through the brush in the opposite direction to go pee. Finding the water was more of a challenge. I retraced our approach route but had to fight my way over 3 rocky ridges & through gauze and briar and still couldn't see the stream. Eventually I found it, plunging 2 feet down through a 6inch hole in the grasses. I had to balance on two tussocks - a foot on each - and lean over the hole with my bottle, trying desperately not to fall in or let go of the bottle as 2 litres per second pounded past my hand. There wasn't much room for pegging out guys but I managed 2 and put in 2 pegs on the ground sheet as a nod to the gods or something. I flipped the rain cover over the vent panel and secured it in the direction of whatever paltry breeze was around. I hadn't actually checked the weather to find out what the wind was meant to do.

Back indoors it felt late and I was tired. The poor dog hadn't moved. She had carried 2 days of food and her own 1st aid kit. I felt a little guilty. I gave her some dry food and offered her water but she stuck her nose away and resumed sleeping.

I could be bothered with cooking. I didn't want the door open so I didn't want to set fire to my new tent yet. I was too busy looking at it. I was also working hard at staying dark and not being picked out by drivers on the road or late evening dog-walkers. The food I packed to "get it used up" would need to wait for another trip. Instead I ate my cold co-op lunch and enjoyed every mouthful. I had carried a bottle of chocolate milk half way across the Peak to make hot chocolate only to be too tired to start the stove.

When I climbed into bed I took off my fleecy layers, slept in my VBL and put all my warm clothes and battery equipment in the bag around me. I played a few games with my dry bag and pillow to try and make camp sleeping more comfy than ever, but gave up.

I realised my brilliant peaked fleece hat (great for bright sun on winter days) was actually shit for sleeping and wished I'd brought a beanie. I gradually closed the vents on the tent door with the dropping temperature.

Through my early light sleep I listened to a few showers hissing on canvas and there was an occasional flap when the breeze blew. When I stepped out for one final wee I popped in a couple more guy ropes just in case and tightened down the rain cover. The tent did not say another word all night.

The dog was spark out and refused a short walk. I considered making some notes but fell asleep hard. In he night I woke up a couple of times to a full bladder and each time had to wait for the rain to stop before stepping outside. There was a thick cloud every time I unzipped, the familiar lights in the bottom of the valley took on another eerie appearance and nature seemed cloaked in the visible cloud of silence. There was no noise except mine, the dog snoring and the stream gurgling behind us.

For the most part I was warm in my neutrino 400 and VBL wearing thin layers and no socks. I could feel the temperature difference when I stepped outside. At one point my feet swelled and toes started to hurt so I put socks on to prevent the skin being damp. It seemed to work. The tent never pissed me off.. Feet and head were always well-away from the walls of the tent and the bags I had dangled from the roof stayed out of the way. A tiny amount of condensation built up in the corner that hung down the slope of my not-perfectly-flat tent pitch. The only things down there were spare clothes in a dry bag. Each time I went outside for a moment, I had a wonderful anticipation of crawling back into a warm cocoon and zipping up the doors.

The second time I came back to the tent I secured my VBL at my chest and wore my synthetic down coat for the rest of the night. The VBL still worked to keep my bag dry but a nice, warm coat kept my upper body happy.

I'd set an alarm for 5 to be awake pre-dawn. The end-of-night shivers had set in so I snuggled down and survived another 30 minutes before making the necessary brew and cereal. I did so with the door open then shut it to eat to stay warm inside but kept the vent patch open so I could see the trees.

The inevitable dawn dog walker passed on the path below. For one awful moment I thought they were coming over but they weren't - or my protective cover of gauze and brambles served its purpose. I had a legitimate boring nerd excuse for big out as the woodland outside exploded into dawn chorus and my inner birder threw open the doorway to let the sounds of nature in.


The dog and human passed without comment but I realised it was well over due time to get moving. I checked the train times deciding whether to walk to Grindleford and get the train and bus home. The alternative was to walk home but I'd need to get a pick-up because I really couldn't bear to do the townie bit again. The first train was at 09:47-there was no way I could kill 2 hours 45 minutes. Was there? I decided to get breakfast at Longshaw or see how I felt about the walk home.

While I had the tent up in a safe space, and wasn't actually planning to use it the next day, I decided to have a play and see how dry I could pack it up. There's a lot of condensation because the outer is VERY waterproof but the inner tent prevents the condensation getting inside. My test was to dry the outer with a cloth to "mostly dry", but inevitably, not completely dry. Then I would pack the tent away fully assembled, walk all day, then see if I'd still like to sleep in it again by the time I get home later. The inner collapsed beautifully so I could wipe the outer tent from underneath with the dog still sleeping. In theory this feature leaves space for me to remove wet kit and dry the dog without getting the inner tent wet. Seemed brilliant. I wiped roughly a pint of water from inside the flysheet.

Outside I removed the pegs then gave the whole thing a shake to knock off the molten sleet which had just dabbed down out of the sky. My wet-pack test was turning into a true test as the weather obliged with continuing the sleet-shower as I folded the poles and fabric and rolled the whole assembly together and into the bag. The dog finally woke up and I had to intersperse my packing with leaping on the lead each time it disappeared into the bushes. For one horror moment I thought she was off to say hi to the passing dog Walker that I had earlier seen striding towards us.

Finally we were ready. We set off down the hill to the stream, stopping where there was better access, to filter some fresh water into my camelbak. The dog's saddlebags acted as a good plug to stop her running through the narrow stiles onto the road.

I decided Longshaw was not somewhere I wanted to go to park the dog and wait in a queue so we did go to Grindleford caf and I parked my dog and walked straight to the till. Second breakfast, tea and enjoying sitting under a brolly at the outside table in fresh air because we were (both) dressed for it.

We really, almost, walked back the way we had come in the night which was nice because it was so much more enjoyable in day light. We diverted over to millstone which I had remembered as a single crag but actually it is a whole network of rocky ledges interspersed with green birchwood pastures. There were people there but we all spread out across different levels.  

When we crossed on to higher ground the view opened up across the Hope Valley, Mam Tor and Kinder being the only places swathed in sunlight.



Lena and I made our way across the moors below Burbage and Higgar Tor, traversing to Calow bank and a new path into the quarries where we found the perfect bomb hole for me to brew up lunch and coffee. The dog howled for a while which was odd but I eventually got her to lie on her mat under her sleeping bag and she passed out for the full hour I spent boiling water, eating Goulash soup (Smash, frozen peas and bacon) and drinking coffee. I watched 2 e-bikers pedalling easily up the road climb from Scotsman's pack and their conversation, carried on the breeze, bounced around the listening chamber that we sat in, 250m away. I made arrangements with TSK to meet us at the pub with the van.



It took me some time to get Lena moving again and I took pity on her and packed her depleted food bags into my (depleted) rucsac. We crossed the road to Stanage North End then clambered past some boulders to consider crossing the Moor. The Edge was bitingly cold. I'd already had to stop to change into my winter gloves covered with a waterproof shell. I wasn't sure our ears could endure the full force of the biting easterly. I checked in with another dog walker who said it was wet. His boots were wetted out but not muddy bt the spaniel was fully soaked. I decided we could make it using the tracks and animal paths that we knew from summer.

By this point we were nearly back and I could cope with wet feet for a while. Through determination and a few detours I managed to stay dry. Lena took a few plunges into armpit-deep post- holes and in the middle I had to stop and wait for her to catch me up as she had lost her way and ended up in deep heather - her least favourite. After that I moved more slowly and she kept on my heels. Following pheasant runs turned into Quadbike tracks then nothing, just tussocks. We reached the drainage ditch which had solid sides and walked along it towards the pole until we found the path from White Edges then had to find one of the leaky dams that have been built to slow the flow. It held my weight. Lena trusted it less and went for an impressive leap between tussocks.

A little bit more tussock-hopping and we were on the White edge path, more sure - footed on the way down to Redmires. As soon as I found a flat rock big enough to support me and my pack I sent a cry for help. My legs were tired and my collarbones were feeling like they were being crushed by the weight of my pack. We set off walking towards the pub in expectation of our ride coming the other way.

People were everywhere: setting out blankets in cars for muddy dogs, standing in the road saying goodbyes, talking with their kids about school friends, delivering drugs, the kind of stuff that goes on at Redmires in the setting sun. We'd almost made it to Wyming Brook by the time the van came to sweep us away. Too early for dinner, we went for cake and coffee instead with a fractious dog who didn't want to sit still on a hard floor.

When we got into the house, Lena went straight to bed. I, on the other hand, set my fatigue to one side for just a little bit longer and went up into our loft to investigate just how well my new tent had fared in the packed-down-wet stakes. Hilleberg recommends suspending it from its guy lines to dry so it was reassembled and I tentatively unzipped the doorways and gave the floor a pat-down. I'd describe its condition as 'mildly damp' absolutely brilliant, given that I'd packed it away in pretty humid (though not chucking it down) "drizzle and sleet". I lay underneath it as it dangled from the ceiling. What I did notice is, despite being tired from walking and an interrupted night's sleep, I wasn't go-straight-to-bed exhausted as I usually am after a lightweight trip.  The tent was generally declared a success, acknowledging that I'd need to get accustomed to carrying it (and more food) for longer trips.

On the surface, I wasn't exactly disappointed with my trip but I wasn't brimming with excitement for it.  Over the next week, however, it grew on me.  I continued to be hit by memories of things which I had filed away for later - the hobby biding its time, the deer at night, the peace of spending a night with a gurgling stream.  Perhaps what was missing was discomfort, pain, the feeling that something nearly went horribly wrong but didn't.  The feeling of edginess that comes from being close to too cold, too under-equipped and y'know what, I didn't miss it.  When I embrace all that was good and recognise what was missing, I'll keep my bombproof tent, the slow pace - even the back-yarded ness of it.  This trip was meant as a training run for something bigger and it delivered.

I can't wait for the next one.