Out There

by Chris Townsend

  The forest was quiet and peaceful, allowing me to unwind slowly from the rush of the previous few days. It was good to be alone. I didn’t go far that first afternoon, camping in a spruce grove above a rushing cool stream called Willow Creek after only a couple of hours. It was enough though. Content to be in the wilderness again, I wanted to walk slowly and quietly through the woods and over the hills, absorbing the wildness all around. Miles travelled were even less relevant than usual.

  Wanting to eat into my load a little before continuing, I stayed at the Willow Creek camp for two nights, spending the intervening day on a walk up Mount Massive, at 4,397 metres the second highest peak in the Colorado Rockies. I’d climbed the highest, 4,400 metres Mount Elbert, just two days previously with a large group. Climbing the two peaks fulfilled a long held ambition. In September 1985 I walked past these peaks on my Continental Divide hike from Canada to Mexico. I’d planned on climbing them then but early season snow and thick clouds, along with the pressures of a long walk, meant I had passed them by. I’d always hoped to return though I never believed I ever would. I was a little surprised, therefore, to find myself standing on Mount Massive’s small rocky summit surveying the grand sweep of wilderness that stretched all around. I shared the summit with a man from Kentucky and met several other walkers on the mountain. There’s plenty of space though as the mountain is aptly named, the summit ridge being three miles long.

  The real pleasure though was in the climb, in leaving the dark confines of the forest to wander up a gradually steepening hillside and marvelling at the mountain vista that slowly unfolded on every side. At one point I passed a yellow tent pitched by a tiny pool and envied the campers, wishing I’d lugged my tent out of the trees. But there would be other nights, other sites, and that night as thunder shook the skies and rain lashed down I valued the security of my deep forest camp.

  Knowing the first cross country section was coming up gave an edge of tension to the next day even though most of it was spent on a dirt road beside pretty Halfmoon Creek. Far up the creek lay the tottering wooden shell of the long abandoned Champion Mine, a reminder that it was prospecting, mostly for silver, that opened up these hills. Aspen is an old mining town. A locked gate topped by a Private sign blocked the road near the mine but I went on anyway, up a steepening track to a high col. The ground dropped away steeply into a forested valley on the far side. The map showed a trail down Lackawanna Gulch, as the valley was called, but warned that it was ‘considered impassable’. Again I went anyway, to find the descent easy though the trail came and went.

  Half the problematic part of my route was now over. After a night spent camped in a willow thicket beside North Fork Lake Creek, I set off to cross the Continental Divide above Blue Lake and make a cross country link between the Mount Massive and Hunter Fryingpan Wilderness Areas. The day began on the trail to Blue Lake, a slippery trail of loose soil and gravel up through the forest. At one point hands were needed as the route went directly up a small crag with precipitous drops to either side. After this the cross country section over a 4,000 metre col and down to the next valley was quite easy, the open grassy hillsides allowing for a myriad of routes.

  The Hunter Fryingpan Wilderness now lay before me, its trails leading eventually to Aspen. (The strange name comes from the names of the two creeks that dominate the area.) This is a gentle land of dense forests and rolling alpine tundra, the peaks lower and less rugged than those of surrounding areas. Lost Man Trail, Midway Trail, Hunter Creek Trail merged into one another, a continuous ribbon of easy walking over grassy passes with views of distant rugged peaks and beside slow quiet creeks in sombre, soothing forests.

  Away from people and moving softly I began to see the inhabitants of the land; fat black and gold marmots scuttling amongst the rocks on the high passes, brown flickers swooping through the trees, red-tailed hawks soaring high above the forest and elk crashing through the undergrowth, their antlers held high. I heard the elk too, their weird bugling call a sign of the coming of autumn. On one steep trail a tiny mouse emerged from a hole in a log to prospect a way across a trickle of stream. A safe way found, the mouse scurried back to reappear with an even tinier baby mouse held gently in its jaws which it then carried across the water.

  I walked on, high above Hunter Creek. Across the valley of the Roaring Fork River, in which lay Aspen, rose the jagged pyramidal summits of the Maroon Bells, perhaps the most distinctive and well-known peaks in Colorado. They looked attractive and, after watching them for a while, I knew where I would go next.

  Aspen was an aberration in the wilderness. The mining days are long gone and it’s now a luxury ski resort, favoured by rich celebrities, especially film stars, hence the average property price of millions of dollars. It is smart, clean, expensive and totally unreal, almost Disneyland like in its purity. I stayed a day and a half, overnighting in a half-closed ski lodge, the cheapest accommodation in town, and marvelling at the prices in the shops.

  The main trailhead for the Maroon Bells Snowmass Wilderness lies ten miles up the Maroon Creek valley. To prevent traffic congestion and pollution the Forest Service bans private vehicles from its single road between 8.30am and 5.30pm. Instead a shuttle bus runs several times an hour from Aspen to the trailhead.

  I took the bus. One nice feature of not being on a through-walk was that I didn’t feel obliged to walk every step of the way. Beyond Maroon Lake the twin peaks of the Maroon Bells, named for the dark red colour of the rock, rose into a cloudy sky. These are steep mountains with loose, rocky slopes and narrow exposed ridges. Walkers with a good head for heights can scramble up but they are not for heavily laden backpackers who, perforce, are channelled up the valleys to each side.

  With no route to follow I could take any of the trails into the mountains. That to the south, beside West Maroon Creek was the least steep, a good enough reason for going that way. I had six days before I needed to be back at the trailhead. The map showed a network of trails, any number of which could be linked to a circular route. Which I’d take I had no idea.

  What decided me was the lakes. Whilst the area is known for its spectacular peaks I remember it best for the beautiful timberline lakes. Geneva, Avalanche, Capitol and Snowmass, all pristine waters that reflect the grandeur of the mountains while lying in calm solitude on the edge of the forest. My route linked them via high mountain passes like West Maroon Pass, a mere notch in a steep castellated red rock ridge; wide green valleys full of dying flower meadows and whitewater creeks tumbling in cascades; and dense forests where I walked in a silence so loud you could almost hear it.

  Ideas of climbing any of the peaks, not very strong to begin with as I preferred to see what was over the next pass, were blown away by the weather. Every day at any time between mid-morning and late afternoon clouds would pile up over the summits to burst in savage thunderstorms. I had no desire to tread high mountain ridges under threat of lightning. I could not swoop away in seconds like the eagle I saw hanging black against an approaching storm. Crossing some of the passes was unnerving enough, with distant flashes and rumbles and tendrils of cloud reaching from the black heart of the storm towards me. Twice I fled in the night from camp-sites chosen for views rather than shelter to cower among the trees as lightning flashed all around.

  Despite these night-time panics the camp-sites were a joy. At Geneva Lake, a lovely deep green tarn backed by pale screes and cliffs, I woke in the night to a sky alive with stars edged by the deep blackness of the forest and the mountains. The next night at Avalanche Lake the last rays of the fading sun lit up the lake and the reflections of the mountains with a golden glow and at dawn I woke to the first rays catching the tip of the highest peak. The lake shone green and grey, reflecting the rocks and trees in the cool clear water.

  Finally though it was time to come down from the mountains. I’d walked over a hundred miles and ascended nearly 30,000 feet. The figures didn’t matter though. I’d lived for a time in the wilderness. That was what mattered.
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  I had one last night out in Minnehaha Gulch under the shadow of North Maroon Peak. A storm raged most of the night and into the morning. As I headed down in heavy rain I could see below the ragged edges of the clouds the white traces of fresh snow high on the mountainsides. Summer was ending.

  The Great Outdoors Challenge, an appreciation

  Lochailort: May 9th, 1980. I greeted a fellow Challenger called Ron Reynolds then set off for Loch Beoraid and Glen Finnan on a hot, humid, hazy day. The first Challenge, (then called the Ultimate Challenge after the sponsor), a coast-to-coast walk across the Scottish Highlands held in May and organised by The Great Outdoors (TGO) magazine, had begun. Twenty days later on May 28 I walked into the Park Hotel in Montrose, my crossing complete.

  Fast forward 27 years to May 24, 2007. Again I walked into the Park Hotel, my eleventh crossing complete (by 2015 I had done fifteen). A Challenger greeted me. It was Ron Reynolds, who I’d first met in Lochailort all those years before on the first day of the first Challenge. He’d just finished his nineteenth.

  The reason we were both still there, after all the years, is that the Challenge is a very special event, one to which many people develop an emotional attachment and to which they are drawn again and again. At the end of the first I wrote some prescient words in my journal: ‘A good trek. Already thinking of next year’. How many others have done the same as they walked the last miles to the east coast I wonder? It won’t be a small number. The Challenge is unique, a non-competitive backpacking event where participants plan their own routes and start and finish in different places before meeting up for celebrations. There really is nothing else like it.

  That it takes place in the finest backpacking country in Britain naturally makes it very attractive, as does the fact that it’s a coast to coast walk, which gives it a clear beginning and end. Crossing a country on foot, even a small one like Scotland, is an appealing idea although, of course, you can do this without taking part in the Challenge, and many do. The secret to its success doesn’t lie in the hills, the wildness, the beauty of the landscape, wonderful though these are, but in the people. The key words are community and involvement, and right from the start a bond was formed between participants. We felt like pioneers, a small handful of people (there were only 60 the first year) testing out a new idea.

  The bond goes right back to the founding of the event when Hamish Brown, the man who first climbed all the Munros in one continuous walk, put his proposal to Roger Smith, then TGO editor, and Bill Wilkins of Ultimate Equipment, now long-gone. (In my imagination this always sounds like one of those deals cooked up in a smoky room by dubious politicians or business men – ‘with this plan we can take over the backpacking world’. No offence meant, Hamish, Roger and Bill!). Since then Hamish has become the father figure of the event, the man who inspired us all, while Roger has became its heart, the motivator, encourager, recorder and, for many years, organiser. However, Bill Wilkins left Ultimate Equipment and vanished from the Challenge story after a few years. Eventually Ultimate Equipment closed and the event was named after TGO, which had promoted and organised it from the beginning.

  Over the years the community of Challengers has grown from a purely UK phenomenon to an international one. In the early days information spread slowly via TGO’s annual Challenge issue. The Internet didn’t exist so there were no websites, blogs, podcasts or forums and often there was little or no contact among Challengers between events, but still the sense of community grew. Gatherings were organised so people could get together and swap experiences. This spread to the event itself with Challengers planning their routes so they could meet others along the way (most notoriously in the Fife Arms in Braemar – there has always been a fair amount of hedonism involved!).

  Communities along the way became involved too and the first Challengers became almost like the first cuckoo – a sign that spring was here. On the 1993 Challenge two of us stopped at a B&B in South Laggan in the Great Glen and the owner greeted us with relief and the words ‘I was beginning to worry I might not be getting any Challengers this year’. She then offered to drive us to the nearest restaurant as she didn’t do evening meals (we accepted gratefully). That hospitality is now found right across Scotland but especially in Tarfside at St Drostan’s Hostel and at Lochcallater Lodge.

  In a sense the Challenge has become part of the fabric of the Highlands in spring. Many Challengers have become involved in helping the event, vetting routes and working at Control in Montrose, and the Park Hotel itself has become an integral part of the event. I never thought back in 1980 as I walked down John Street that over thirty years later I would be taking the same last steps of the Challenge down the same now very familiar street to the same hotel. Back then I wondered what I would find (just Roger in fact – the first Challenge was three weeks long and I finished well after everyone else, since then it’s been two weeks only). Now I take those steps with eager anticipation – who will I meet, what stories will I hear? I’ve never been that involved with the social scene during the Challenge. I’m pleased if I meet people but don’t arrange to do so or plan my route to call in at popular gathering spots. (On the 25th Challenge I met no one else until I was a few yards from the Park Hotel.) However I do look forward to meeting others in Montrose and sharing stories and experiences. This is a major part of the whole Challenge experience.

  The Challenge is an adventure, an exciting journey shared with many others. It is always challenging and completing it is an achievement, especially for the first time but also every time. Crossing the Highlands in May is never to be taken for granted. I have strode out on brilliant sunny days with vast views when the walking was easy, but I have also battled against wind and rain on compass bearings across mist-shrouded boggy hills.

  Perhaps most exciting and intimidating is snow, which is possible in May. 1983 is the snowiest Challenge I remember. Having scared ourselves on a snowy Sgurr na Ciche – Sgurr nan Coireachan traverse in Knoydart, two of us acquired ice axes in Fort William and were grateful later on when we had to cut steps down into Coire Odhar in the Cairngorms. There was snow on the tops the whole way across.

  The Challenge has been part of my life since that first day in 1980 and I am very grateful for the pleasure, inspiration and experiences it has given me. Thank you, Hamish. Thank you, Roger. Thank you Challengers. Long may it long continue.

  Exploring the Grand Canyon

  I wasn’t prepared for the Grand Canyon. I’d read books, gazed at photographs, studied the maps, but I still wasn’t ready for its overwhelming presence.

  After a long drive through flat, wooded country the bus from Flagstaff dumped me outside a rustic building labelled Bright Angel Lodge in Grand Canyon Village. Tourists wandered everywhere and a large car park dominated the place. With darkness less than an hour away my main concern was in finding the campground, but first I thought I’d take a quick glance at the canyon. I ambled towards a low parapet. Suddenly, there it was — beyond the neat wall chaos reigned. The ground fell away into a confusion of multi-coloured rock towers and buttresses , terraces dropped towards dark, hidden depths and rose again towards the far distant rim. To either side the chasm appeared as a contorted slash in the landscape, snaking its way towards a hazy horizon.

  I stared down, unable to comprehend the scale. I was overawed and not a little nervous. Was I really to spend two weeks walking in that alien world? I retreated into the forest for the night.

  The next day I went back. It was still there, only now, in the bright morning light, it seemed even bigger. For the next two days I prepared for my walk, buying food, checking water sources, arranging for a food drop at the bottom of the canyon. Every so often I went back to the rim and stared into the wild world below. Each time the scale seemed vaster than before.

  The Grand Canyon is indeed huge. The statistics are hard to grasp. The length is about 450km while the width varies from 6 to 25km. The South Rim, where I first looked into the Canyon, ranges in height from 1,850 t
o 2,300 metres, the North Rim from 2,300 to 2,600. The Colorado River lies from 1,050 to 1,830 metres below. Inside this massive gorge there are side canyons that would be major landmarks in their own right anywhere else and mountains that soar 1,200-1,500m above the Colorado yet still aren’t as high as the rim. Happily this stupendous wilderness is protected as a national park, though plans for damming the canyon are still regularly submitted.

  The overwhelming nature of the canyon, its incredible presence, inspired one visitor in the nineteenth century, a geologist named Clarence Dutton, to name the many towers and buttes after eastern religious deities. Thus I was to walk below the Tower of Set, Isis Temple, Cheops Pyramid, Buddha Temple and, most impressive of all, Zoroaster Temple. Curiously, these names seemed totally appropriate in their monumental setting.

  Walking in the canyon is like hill walking in reverse. You start in the cool forests of the rims then descend through the steep tiers of rock to the hot desert below. At the end of the trip, whether it’s a day or a month, you climb back up to the flatlands. Deep inside the canyon the topography is just about ideal for long walks as a wide band of gently sloping shale lies about two-thirds of the way down. This forms a terrace known as the Tonto Platform, which you can walk along for miles. Steep red and yellow cliffs rise above while dark, sombre crags lie below, rimming the narrow Inner Gorge. Stream beds and gullies break up the cliffs and it is mostly down these that ways can be found in and out of the canyon and down to the river. Passable sections are often linked by narrow terraces that run dramatically across the cliffs to the next place where a descent or ascent can be made.