Out There

by Chris Townsend

  Studying the formation of the hills, the relationship between meadows and forest, cliffs and ridges, rivers and gorges can enable you to plan ahead. I’ve sat on summits and high passes scanning the land ahead through binoculars to work out a line that doesn’t look too difficult. In the Yukon Territory, when I walked hundreds of miles cross-country through dense forests and swamps, I found that where the rivers were wide and braided it was easier to wade between sandbanks rather than bushwhack through the forest. Where the rivers were too deep and fast, climbing above the trees to wide terraces that ran high above the valleys also made walking easier even when cliffs or ravines eventually forced me back down.

  Hiking this way I learnt how the land worked, how all the different features fitted together, and that made me feel closer and more a part of it. Putting my hands to rocks and trees, wading rivers and get muddy in bogs means physical contact with nature, feeling as well as seeing the wilds. The landscape becomes more than scenery, more than something to look at. You experience it with every sense.

  Leaving the trails behind is to become an explorer, discarding knowledge of what is to come and finding out for yourself.

  I have been lucky, privileged in fact, to hike many trails in their infancy, often when they were trails in name only. The Pacific Crest, Continental Divide, Arizona and Pacific Northwest Trails all had long sections of cross-country travel (the last three still have some). These long trails will never be easy, even when there is a path the whole way, as they run through remote and rugged deserts and mountains, but hiking them so early in their existence did add to the pleasure.

  I learnt the skills needed for cross-country hills in the British hills, in particular the peat groughs and bogs of the Dark Peak. Bleaklow and Kinder Scout are excellent hills for practising route finding and keeping your temper. In the Scottish Highlands I discovered that there were far more ways up and through the hills than those marked on maps and described in guidebooks. Wandering away from the paths I learnt much more than I would have done otherwise.

  Feeling confident about leaving paths brings great rewards and is part of the freedom of the wilds. It can be hard, gruelling even, but being in such direct contact with the land is worth any effort. Paths are good when you need to get somewhere but abandoning them is better when you want to wander and explore. Here are some tales of trips that involved trails ranging from the well-marked to the almost invisible as well as cross-country sections. What they have in common is that they all took me into wild country for many days at a time so there was a feeling of immersion in nature as well as the need for good route-finding skills.

  Backpacking Suilven

  Rising abruptly from an undulating land of bog and loch, Suilven is one of the great mountains of the Scottish Highlands, a massive and distinctive wedge of dark Torridonian sandstone standing alone on a plinth of pale striped metamorphic Lewisian gneiss.

  Suilven looks ancient, a gnarled and battered giant, and it is. At around 3000 million years old Lewisian gneiss is one of the oldest rocks in the world. At just 1,500 million to 850 million years old the Torridonian sandstone is young by comparison, but still much older than many rocks. From the sides this slice of layered stone is an undulating 2.5km ridge with an off-centre low point, a bulging summit at the west end, the highest point, and a split summit at the east end. Viewed from the east Suilven rises as a finely tapered pyramid, the easternmost top, Meall Bheag, being lower than the next one, Meall Mheadhonach, so they appear as one. From the west, steep terraced cliffs rise to the bulky, rounded summit of Caisteal Liath, the Grey Castle. From everywhere Suilven looks striking and imposing, a grand mountain in a grand setting. The name comes from the Norse for ‘pillar’ and probably refers to its appearance from the sea and its use as a landmark by the Vikings as they sailed their longboats along the west coast of Scotland. A mighty mountain indeed, yet it is only 731 metres high, not even reaching Corbett status. So much for categorising mountains by height then, for Suilven is finer and more distinctive than many that rise hundreds of metres higher.

  As Suilven lies in solitary splendour in the district of Assynt, a huge roadless area between the coast and the road north from Ullapool, all approaches are lengthy. It is usually climbed from the path running west from the scattered village of Elphin to the little fishing port of Lochinver, a good through-route. This path passes below the north face of Suilven where a rougher trail leads to the low point on the ridge, the Bealach Mor, a geological fault line. A more interesting route that explores some of the wonderful country surrounding the hill and crosses Suilven from south to north can be walked in one long day. I think it’s more satisfying though, to take two days and spend a night in this vast landscape, really absorbing and sinking into the atmosphere. Waking in such a place greatly enhances the feel of being part of it, of belonging, and deepens the joy and satisfaction of walking in the wilds.

  With this in mind two of us managed to tear ourselves away from the attractions of the Achins tearoom and bookshop at Inverkirkaig Bridge, and set off one late spring afternoon along a path through lovely woodland, a rich mix of alder, rowan and birch with a few pines, beside the River Kirkaig. This path rises to moorland above the ravine and leads to the Falls of Kirkaig, a ferociously powerful cataract that plunges eighteen metres between sheer cliffs into a black rippling pool. Trees frame the cliffs and the situation is one of natural perfection, beautiful and severe at the same time.

  As we climbed onto open, boggy, heather moorland rain began to fall with clouds hiding the hills we knew rose splendidly all around. A typical Lewisian gneiss landscape of pools, bogs and low hummocky, rocky knolls, this terrain is known as ‘cnoc and lochan’. The ragged twisting path led across wet ground to long Fionn Loch where we found a lovely camp site on the north shore near a burn running down from high Coire Mor. Swirling low clouds and grey sky added to the feeling of wildness and remoteness.

  Nothing was visible but cloud and water, bog and rock, heather and grass. A breeze off the loch kept the midges away and I lay in the tent with the doors wide open staring at the wetness. Slowly the world became distinct and I started to notice movement other than that of cloud and water and to hear sounds other than the patter of rain and gentle hiss of wind. On a spit of gravel at the mouth of the burn two little birds ran like clockwork across the shore. I scanned them with my binoculars. Ringed plover, birds of the water’s edge. Out on the loch a dark silhouette rode the wind-rippled water. The streamlined shape and long pointed bill showed it was a diver, though whether red or black-throated I could not tell. A cuckoo called from afar and grouse cackled somewhere. Just water and wind, rain and moor, birds and rocks. It was enough. I dozed off content with the world.

  Later my sleep was disturbed by the wild shriek of a diver and the drumming of a snipe and, at dawn, the more insistent repetitive call of a cuckoo. More noisy cries had me looking out of the tent to see a line of long-necked ducks flying overhead. The clouds slowly began to dissolve and across the loch strange shapes began to materialise in the mists, the splendid peaks of Cul Mor, Cul Beag and Stac Pollaidh and, to the east, Suilven, steep, dark and foreboding. The world brightened as the sun rose through swirling clouds until by 8.00 am the sky was clear and the temperature was already 17°C.

  Not much further along the shores of Fionn Loch we turned towards the mountain, following a rough eroded path across hummocky moorland to the steep southern flanks of Suilven. The path headed straight up these slopes and cut across the face to the Bealach Mor, a stony, steep climb. The views were spacious and exhilarating. Out of the undulating, shining, sparkling, watery landscape rose a series of distinctively shaped and named hills: Cul Mor, Cul Beag and Stac Pollaidh now sharp and clear to the south, Canisp just to the north with Quinag in the distance. Further away other peaks came into view, most clearly the ragged edge of An Teallach to the south and the twisting ridges of Arkle and Foinaven far to the north. Eastwards a long dark line marked Conival and Ben More Assynt.

 
; Turning west we followed the ridge, with some easy scrambling, up to Caisteal Liath, Suilven’s highest summit. From this spacious high vantage point there were superb views across the moorland to the blue island-dotted sea, the distant hazy Western Isles and back east to the soaring eastern spire of Suilven, Meall Mheadhonach. Everywhere lochs and lochs and lochs, water filling every dip and hollow, each one ground out by the glaciers that carved this landscape, including Suilven, itself sculpted by ice grinding past as it flowed from east to west.

  There is no walkers’ way off Caisteal Liath, which is ringed with crags on three sides, except via the Bealach Mor so to this we returned, crossing again the curious, not to say crazy, wall that runs over Suilven just above the low point. Who built it and why? No one seems to know. From the bealach we descended the wide eroded gully of scree, heather and rock (which is rather loose and nasty at the top) that runs north down to Loch na Gainimh. This is the most popular ascent route, as the worn path shows. On the descent the whaleback of Canisp to the east and distant Quinag to the north dominated the view. The summits of these peaks are paler and greyer than the slopes below, with caps of Cambrian Quartzite lying over the dark Torridonian sandstone.

  Once out of the gully the walking became easier before we reached the Elphin to Lochinver path. Turning westwards we headed for the coast, pausing frequently to turn and contemplate the ever-changing, slowly dwindling views of Suilven. The moorland faded too as we passed Glencanisp Lodge and walked through some pleasant quiet woods to reach a road for the last two kilometres into Lochinver and a celebratory meal of the famous pies at Lochinver Larder.

  Wild days on Rum

  Stormy nights in a tent are one of the joys of backpacking. So I told myself as I lay in my tiny shelter listening to the wind lashing the tent with rain and shaking the thin nylon walls. I was camped in Coire Dubh on the island of Rum below the mist-shrouded walls of Barkeval and Hallival on the first night of a four day trip during which I hoped to traverse the Rum Cuillin, the finest Hebridean mountains outside the Cuillin of Skye. Like their larger namesake the Rum Cuillin are the jagged remnants of an ancient volcano.

  Earlier in the day I’d arrived on the ferry from Mallaig after a pleasant trip spent watching birds and staring at the ominous dark cloud hiding Rum. In the little village of Kinloch, the only one on the island, the midges were biting, ending the temptation to camp there rather than start my walk in such, dull misty weather. Instead I passed by the grand Edwardian pile of Kinloch Castle, a rather incongruous feature on this wild island, and climbed a muddy path into the cloud to camp on a breeze-catching knoll in the mouth of the corrie.

  That evening, in the hope of clearing skies and a colourful sunset, I climbed 591 metre Barkeval, a rugged hill built of peridotite, an extremely rough red-brown volcanic rock. I clambered up rock and bog in thick mist and steady drizzle. The summit came and went, barely noticed in the increasingly stormy weather, and a compass bearing led to the Bealach Bairc-mheall from where I dropped back down into Coire Dubh and shelter from the wind. Immediately, clouds of midges swarmed round me and I had to run to escape, producing copious condensation inside my waterproofs. Wet rain jacket, wet windshirt, wet shoes, wet socks, wet trousers, I stripped off and dived into the merely damp confines of the tent and an already clammy sleeping bag. The gusty wind kept the midges at bay, though they sprang up whenever it dropped for more than a few seconds. During the night the strengthening wind woke me several times. By morning the strongest gusts were reaching 30mph. The tent was shrouded in damp mist and the flysheet was soaked inside and out.

  Adopting my wet weather strategy – stay in the tent and hope it clears – I put on another brew and settled down to read my book, the story of Scottish plant collector David Douglas, who put up with far more than wet nights in search of seeds in the Rocky Mountains. Eventually I was rewarded for my sloth with a brief clearance and a sudden view down to the woods in Kinloch Glen. I started packing. The clouds soon closed back in but I went anyway, climbing back up through the dark mist to the Bealach Bairc-mheall where standing was difficult and the anemometer recorded a gust of 57.7 mph. It took only seconds to realise that the traverse of the Cuillin would be foolhardy, if not indeed impossible, in such weather and I was soon descending steep, rough slopes into huge Atlantic Corrie, then on east down Glen Harris, a lovely, wild valley with a noisy river crashing down in a series of waterfalls and water slides, culminating in one big white foamed fall straight into the matching white foamed sea.

  Here, on the south-west coast of Rum, I camped on the beautiful flower-strewn machair above a wild sea, with grey water breaking in ragged white waves, their crests ripped into spinning foam by the wind. A herd of wild goats stared down at me from a ridge, their shaggy coats, curved horns and manic eyes appropriate to this elemental place. Four curlews circled above the camp.

  The crossing of the ridge had taken only half a day. Reluctant to spend more hours than necessary in my damp camp I spent the afternoon exploring the coast and visiting the Greek temple-like mausoleum built by the Bullough family, former owners of the island. The ferry to South Uist bounced past and I was glad I wasn’t on board. Inland the hills were still cloud-shrouded, dark masses looming in the dull air.

  The wind and rain finally eased at dawn, perfectly timed for the midges to come out as I was breakfasting. To the south-west thin lines of blue sky wavered below the steel grey cloud. Gradually the cloud rose, revealing 528 metre Ruinsival with bands of cloud drifting below the summit. By now the sea was gentler and more rhythmic rather than a storm driven staccato crashing, and the world was beginning to look brighter and more colourful.

  As the sky continued to lighten I climbed beside lovely white waterslides to Loch Fiachanis, set in a wonderful corrie backed by the great walls of Trallval and Ainshval. More wild goats watched me from a rocky knoll. Steep slopes led up to Ruinsival and a long ridge to Ainshval, second highest summit on Rum at 781 metres and one of the islands two Corbetts. Good views on the approach faded as the clouds descended again. A walker was just leaving the summit, the first person I’d seen in two days.

  I took a bad line on the descent to the Bealach an Fhuarain and found myself on some very steep, loose, slippery, broken ground that ended in a stubby crag. As I was trying to traverse to easier terrain the clouds lifted again and I had splendid views down Glen Dibidil and across a blue sea to the isle of Eigg. Across the glen the intimidating steep screes of the south-west face of Askival, the highest Rum peak at 812 metres, rose into the cloud. Skirting the base of a rather too loose boulder field I reached a little stream on a grassy sward high on the mountainside, hanging far above Glen Dibidil. It was a magnificent situation and I knew immediately I wanted to camp there. Seeing the bealach away to the left I realised I had descended too far to the east, fortuitously finding this grassy ledge, from which relatively easy ground led back to the ridge.

  Showers and midges between the gusts soon drove me into the tent, where I massaged my toes, now grey and cold after three days in wet shoes and socks. My spare dry merino wool socks felt luxurious and I soon slipped my legs into my sleeping bag to further warm my feet. Outside, the cloud thickened and visibility shrank to barely twenty metres. The sense of space and depth was gone and the world reverted to a patch of wet grass and dense grey mist. The temperature in the tent was 13°C but it felt colder due to the dampness.

  Bursts of rain and a hammering wind woke me during the night. Looking out I could see the distant lights of Mallaig on the mainland, shining below the cloud. As the storm eased briefly I heard strange, throaty shrieks and cries, masses and masses of them. These were the calls of Manx shearwaters, sea birds that nest in burrows high on the hillsides, only coming in to land after dark when they are safe from predation by skuas and gulls. Over 70,000 pairs nest on Rum. The Vikings who ruled these islands 1000 years ago thought that their weird calls were the voices of trolls in the mountains. They named one of the hills Trollaval – mountain of the trolls.
>
  Most of the hill names on Rum are Norse. ‘Val’ comes from ‘fjall’, which became ‘fell’ in Northern England. Askival is hill of the ash spear, Ainshval hill of the rocky ridge, Ruinsival hill of the heap of rocks, Hallival hill of the ledge and Barkeval hill of the precipice. Prosaic but descriptive names all, letting you know just what these hills are like.

  The storm continued at dawn. The Bealach an Fhuarain was very windy and swirling with mist. Having had enough of wet rocky slopes in minimal visibility and with a ferry to catch that afternoon I decided Askival would have to wait for another visit. Turning downhill I descended Glen Dibidil, another lovely valley with a rushing stream and many waterfalls. At its foot a bothy sits in an idyllic situation looking over the sea to Eigg. Fine cliffs surround Dibidil Bay from where I followed a wet and muddy but very scenic path around the coast to Kinloch where the sun shone between showers. From the ferry I looked back at the dark silhouette of Rum, the Cuillin now visible below a clearing sky. I would be back.

  Wandering in the Colorado Rockies

  Mount Massive Wilderness, read the sign. Beyond it the dark line of the trail snaked into the depths of the silent conifer forest. I had only a vague idea of where I would go, a rough route worked out in snatched moments during a hectic weekend.

  Not having a specific trail to walk, a clear destination, worried me at first. Where would I go, and why? The Colorado Rockies are ideal for aimless venture as they are made up of small pockets of wilderness that can be escaped easily when you need to resupply.

  My tentative route involved a couple of cross-country sections that might or might not ‘go’. Although I hoped to reach the town of Aspen within a week, I’d brought along food for ten days or so just in case they didn’t, which seemed quite likely in the circumstances. My pack then was heavy, maybe as much as 60lbs (27kg), as I set off up the trail. Burdensome though it seemed, the load also gave me the freedom of knowing I could live comfortably without needing to visit civilisation for the whole of my trip.