Out There

by Chris Townsend

  As well as size I find naturalness important. The curving, flowing lines of the landscape, unbroken by human straight lines, have a beauty that speaks of space. In Britain it’s rare to have a completely unsullied view. Even from Creag Meagaidh, surrounded by hills, I could see blemishes – a distant wind farm, the white blades catching the eye; the pale slashes of bulldozed roads; the stark War of the Worlds marching metal towers of electricity pylons; blocks of conifer plantations – but these were tiny in the great scale of the landscape. Every new turbine, pylon or road has an effect though, gradually diminishing the beauty and sense of space.

  This sense of space, of a world unconstrained and free, matters. We need to know such places still exist, that there is still somewhere to go that is beautiful and wild and in which we can lose ourselves. Of course glens, forests, corries can all be magnificent and wonderful but they don’t, can’t, have the same feeling of space. I love them for the details of nature, for the protection they offer from storms, for the views up to the summits, but to really see them I think you need to climb high above them and look down. The regenerating woodlands of Coire Ardair are lovely and inspiring and walking through them is a pleasure but to see how extensive they are you need to be on the hills above. From the heights you can see the shape of the land too, the shape of the corries and glens, the shape of the lochs and rivers. I love watching the landscape and seeing how it is constructed, how the parts fit together.

  Backpacking is the ideal way to see the world like this, as long as the world itself is big enough to embrace multi-day journeys. Carve the wild up into little pieces and that will be lost. We need space for freedom and beauty.

  2

  NIGHTS IN THE WILD

  The finest roof when camping is the open sky. Falling asleep watching the stars and the ragged silhouette of mountains, and waking as the first pale light glows in the east is the most thrilling way to spend a night in the wilds.

  In dry areas such nights can be the norm. During both my two month long Arizona Trail walk and a five week hike in the High Sierra I spent more nights under the stars than in shelters. Sleeping out like this means keeping in touch with nature, in touch with the world. Breezes ripple the sleeping bag and brush your face; the sounds of animals scurrying nearby are loud and clear. If you stir in the night you half-awake to stars, trees, rocks, grass and the whole spreading natural world, and when you properly wake at dawn you are already outdoors with no need to unzip the tent to see what’s happening.

  There are nights when the wind blows too hard or the rain starts to fall or biting insects launch an attack, and then you need a shelter. Even those scurrying animals can force you under cover. One night in the Grand Canyon mice running over my sleeping bag kept disturbing my sleep until, in the early hours of the morning, I pitched my tent and sealed myself inside.

  After the open sky the next best shelter is a roomy tarp pitched so you can see all around. Next again, a tent with doors that open wide, again providing a good view and some contact with the outside world. Only when high winds blow and heavy rain or snow falls or insects are biting do I close up a tent. I don’t go outside to be inside. It’s just that I’m not out there to suffer. If it’s more comfortable sealed into my tent then that’s where I’ll be.

  Lying in a warm sleeping bag, listening to the rain rattling on the flysheet and the wind roaring in great gusts can be strangely relaxing. Feeling snug and secure inside a tiny shelter is satisfying, but few such camps are really unforgettable. The lack of contact with the outside reduces them to the simple function of survival in a storm, with nothing distinctive to remember them by.

  Sometimes, though, stormy nights can be surprisingly memorable as well as pleasurable. On my walk over the Munros and Tops I descended from a cloud-wrapped summit on a day of torrential rain and strong winds into a glen that was waterlogged with pools of water on every flattish spot and cascades pouring down the valley sides. I stumbled through the wetness, cursing the rain as I searched for a site. I wanted warmth and shelter, food and rest. Eventually I found a flattish knoll that wasn’t too wet and had just enough room for my little tent. I pitched, tightening the guylines against the wind, stripped off my wet waterproofs, boots and socks and crawled in. Suddenly I had shelter. I donned a dry fleece sweater and slid into my dry sleeping bag. Now I had warmth. Lighting the stove I made a hot drink. Outside lay a saturated world, the rain still hammering down, but now it looked wild and exciting and I was glad to be there.

  More usually wild camps are remembered because of a beautiful or spectacular situation and weather that doesn’t force you into a closed tent. Camps where the tarp or tent function only as a bedroom are ideal. After that I like it when I can look out from my shelter, protected from wind and rain but not cut off from the outside. Whilst sleeping under the stars is not possible that often in Britain (and by sleeping under the stars I mean just in a sleeping bag with the hood open, not sealed in a bivi bag, which I find more confining than a tent), camps where you can sit outside or look out from your shelter occur surprisingly frequently, especially outside of summer. This might seem surprising but the one horror that can force me inside a tent with the doors shut tight are the ravenous hordes of midges that roam the hills searching for campers in the summer months.

  Midges are usually associated with the Highlands but I have memories of midge-ridden nights in the Lake District too. Outside of midge season wild camping in the British hills can be a delight. The number of possible sites is legion. I discover more every year and the list of those I’ve passed by, but intend returning to, would last several lifetimes.

  Taking pleasure in camping means that I rarely walk from dawn until dusk as this allows no time to enjoy a camp site. For me contemplation and slowly absorbing my surroundings are important, and remaining in one place gives the opportunity to notice the sort of subtleties that are easily missed while walking. Wildlife is more likely to be observed from a camp too, another reason not to be closed away from the outside. Tents and tarps make good hides.

  On one TGO Challenge I camped on the edge of a small pinewood and woke at dawn to the strange bubbling calls of black grouse. Lying in the tent I watched these magnificent birds strutting and preening and fanning their wide tails as they competed for mates, a wonderful start to my day. On other walks in other places I have been woken by deer grazing in a meadow just feet from the tent and porcupines shuffling through the grass.

  Having time in camp means being able to watch how the passage of the sun and the fading and strengthening of the light changes the landscape, altering how it looks and feels. In the evening the shadows grow and colours fade, hills turn dark and lose detail, sunset turns clouds pink and orange before the sky blackens and the first stars appear. The world becomes mysterious and hidden until, at dawn, the darkness fades as the sun lightens the sky and the flat, black, featureless hills gradually reveal themselves as ridges, cliffs and gullies appear. The first sharp rays of the sun touch a hill top, turning it red and gold. Slowly the sunshine creeps down the mountainside and across the land, approaching camp and bringing the promise of warmth and life.

  Just a few days before I wrote this I lay in my sleeping bag on a frosty morning in the Highlands watching the sun turning the white, shivering land a warm, sumptuous golden brown. Gradually, oh so gradually, the sunshine slipped towards my frosted tent. I relished the anticipation of its warmth then revelled in the sudden heat and light. I never tire of those moments, the return of light and life to the world, which make wild camping an incomparable joy.

  Stealth Camping

  As the name suggests, stealth camping is camping where you are unlikely to be seen. I’ve practised it since I began backpacking, long before I heard the term itself. I like it though; it suggests quietness and a lack of disturbance. It comes to mind particularly on routes that pass through more developed areas and where wild sites are hard to find - as was the case one spring when I hiked the Southern Upland and the Annandale Ways.
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br />   Scotland’s enlightened access legislation, which gives a right to camp wild, meant I didn’t have to hide my camps but, nonetheless, as both paths run through farmland and lowland woods in places, there were times when I preferred to be out of sight. South of the border, in England, stealth camping is rather more of a necessity as wild camping isn’t a legal right. High in the hills it’s usually accepted but in many lowland areas it’s wise to be invisible.

  I learnt much on a Land’s End to John o’Groats walk, including making camp late and leaving early. At the same time I also found that passing by a prospective site because I wanted to walk a few more miles could mean difficulties in actually finding somewhere, so sometimes I stopped early but didn’t pitch until it grew dark.

  A stealth camp is one where you are unlikely to be seen by others because you are out of sight not only of roads, buildings and footpaths but also bothies, huts and popular wild sites. If there are signs that people camp there regularly then it’s not a stealth camp site.

  Along most long distance paths and in popular walking areas there are wild sites that are used almost every night in the summer. Yet by only venturing a short distance it’s usually possible to camp in solitude. Finding a stealth site means a combination of studying the map and studying the terrain. In lowland areas, woods are excellent, just wander away from the path and find a flat area. This doesn’t necessarily mean being surrounded by trees with no views either.

  Towards the end of one of my TGO Challenge cross-Scotland routes there is a spot beside a fine rushing river with a lovely view back up the glen that is hidden from the nearby road by a steep wooded bank. I’ve camped there four times and have never seen another person. (And no, I’m not going to tell you where it is!). In open hill country stealth camping can be more difficult. I look for wrinkles and dips in the terrain, and have found that sometimes such spots can lie surprisingly close to footpaths.

  In my view the main reason for stealth camping isn’t to hide from other people (I’m not that anti-social!) but to be in closer contact with nature. I’m out in the wilds to experience the landscape, the wild life, the trees, the flowers and the whole magnificent natural world and I want that to be part of the camping as well as the walking.

  I don’t want the wildlife to be disturbed by people walking by, as can happen when camping near a footpath, or by other people talking, as can happen at popular wild sites. I don’t want to look at other tents either or hear vehicles on a road or tractors in a field, so if I see another tent I give it a wide berth, assuming those campers are also seeking solitude. Not everyone does this. Once in a big corrie I deliberately went well away from the path and the used camp sites and camped out of sight behind some boulders. The next morning I went for a stroll up a nearby hill and, when I returned, there was another tent only fifty feet or so away from mine. In all that vast area, which could have held a dozen or more tents all hidden from each other, they had chosen to camp next to the only other tent there. I packed up and left, as intended, hoping that the other campers didn’t think I’d taken offence and moved because of them. Mind you, if I’d been staying a second night I might have moved for that very reason!

  Stealth sites are usually undisturbed and pristine. They don’t look like camp sites and ideally there is nothing human left visible. They certainly don’t have rings of stones, flattened vegetation, bare patches of earth, stone windbreak walls or camp fire scars. Sites with these are the opposite of stealth ones, showing overuse. I pass them by or, if I do use one, restore it a little by breaking up the stone rings and demolishing structures. When leaving a stealth site it should look as though no-one has ever camped there. Perhaps there’s some flattened grass, but this will quickly recover if it was used for one night only. The idea is that if someone else does camp in that area they probably won’t choose exactly the same spot so a new visible site doesn’t appear.

  For these reasons stealth camps should be for one night only and new paths shouldn’t be trampled from the nearest footpath or to the nearest water (something more likely with groups). Indeed, stealth camps may not be near water at all. I’ve often carried enough water for camp for the last hour or two to a fine but waterless site. I carried water for camps twice on the Annandale Way and each time found a lovely, quiet and relaxing woodland site.

  No special equipment is required for stealth camping but a dull green or brown-coloured shelter is useful, especially when camping in open country. There’s nothing like vivid red or orange nylon for attracting the eye. That said, I used a quite bright gold-coloured tent on the Pacific Northwest Trail and made several stealth camps by simply heading off into dense forest and thick undergrowth. Despite the colour of the tent anyone would have had to be fairly close to spot it.

  I think stealth camping is in fact the natural form of backpacking camping. It’s what wild camping should be.

  Summit Camps

  Ideally a wild camp should be in a spectacular location and the weather should be fine so you don’t have to be cooped up inside. The most dramatic and stunning locations for wild camps are mountain tops and it is on these that I have had some of my most memorable nights. They also have the wildest weather and are not places it’s easy to escape from in the dark. That in itself makes summit camps special and gives them an edge and sense of uncertainty that is rarely felt in low level camps.

  Sometimes mountain top camps are unwise or impossible and lower sites have to be sought. On many occasions I’ve turned away from planned summit camps to look for somewhere sheltered. At other times I’ve not intended to camp on summits but fortuitous circumstances have led me to do so. Such was the case on one TGO Challenge when I camped on the summit of Ben Nevis. This had not been planned and only grew as an idea as I approached the snow-capped mountain from the west. When snow free the big summit plateau is a vast rock field with nowhere for a comfortable camp and no water, but snow makes a comfortable bed and can be melted.

  The forecast was for a calm clear night so I left Fort William on a sunny evening and climbed to the summit, passing many walkers descending, most of whom looked puzzled at seeing someone heading up that late in the day. Many warned me of the time and the snow on the summit. (Heading up late for a high camp does disturb some people – many years ago I was stopped by a walker in the Lake District who was furious that I was going up in the evening despite my big pack, informing me that I was both inexperienced and irresponsible). On Ben Nevis I think the fact that I was wearing sandals shocked some people too.

  By the time I reached the summit plateau I was alone. I pitched the tent on deep snow near the trig point and wandered round, watching the hills slowly sinking into night. Across Glen Nevis the long rippling ridge of the Mamores turned a rich red and gold. Beyond the dark cliffs of the Ben’s North Face Loch Eil glowed gold beneath the last pink of thin clouds far to the west. A raven wheeled overhead and a snow bunting hopped about, hoping for crumbs. A half-moon rose and the first stars glittered. All was calm and silent and I felt both excited and peaceful in such perfect conditions. The snow made for the softest and least bumpy pitch of the whole walk and I slept well. Dawn came with wet mist and a gusty wind but the sun soon burned the dampness away for me to look down on cloud-filled glens with peaks rising out of them, sharp and clear.

  After fourteen hours alone on the summit, which is usually crowded during the day, I departed, still marvelling at my wondrous night. After crossing the Carn Mor Dearg arête I looked back at the vast magnificent North Face of Ben Nevis, amazed that I’d camped on the summit. It was the high point of the walk, both literally and emotionally.

  Sleeping on a mountain can mean waking to a storm, perhaps in the middle of the night. On Coinnich Mhor, one of the subsidiary summits of Beinn Eighe in Torridon (and whose name means ‘big moss’, a hint that it might make a good camp site) I was woken at 4.30 a.m. by heavy rain lashing the tent. Everything was damp with condensation running down the walls (a situation made worse by the fact that I was testing a s
mall not very well-ventilated single skin tent – gear testing isn’t always fun!). I unzipped the door and looked out only for my head lamp beam to bounce back at me from the thick mist surrounding the tent. I felt disappointed, as I’d climbed Coinnich Mhor on a fine evening with a forecast for a clear night and sunny weather. There’d been a red sky at dusk too, with lovely colours over the hills of Fisherfield and Ruadh-stac Mor, the highest peak on Beinn Eighe. The rain didn’t ease despite the forecast and the next day was one of low cloud and downpours. The evening light had made the high camp worthwhile though (and I now knew a great deal about that tent!).

  However there’s no need to climb the highest peaks for wonderful summit camps. Lower peaks can offer just as splendid views and just as remote and wild a feel. North-west of Ben Nevis, across the Great Glen, lies a long flat-topped hill called Druim Fada (which means long ridge). The high point of only 744 metres, called Stob a’Grianain, is at the east end and here I camped, a few yards from the summit cairn, one early autumn evening after a long day. The weather was sunny but there was a cold west wind that kept the air sharp and clear. Below I could see Corpach and Fort William with Ben Nevis and the Mamores rising above them.

  In daylight the towns looked rather mundane. Looking away from them to the west all I could see was hills and glens. The feeling was of being situated on the edge of the wild, between civilisation and nature. As the sun set and the light dimmed, the landscape became more mysterious and atmospheric. Ben Nevis glowed in the low late rays of the sun and a full moon, huge and orange, rose over the misty pale landscape of the Great Glen. The towns became daubs of bright lights, decorations rather than real places even though I could hear traffic whenever the wind paused. By dawn the towns were in grey shadow and Ben Nevis was cloud-capped, but out west the sky was red and golden and pale mist filled the glens below the purple shaded hills. The day was hazy and dull but again it was the night and dusk and dawn that had worked magic.