Out There

by Chris Townsend

  As grey light slowly crept across the mountains on the morning of the ascent we saw dark clouds capping the mountain ridges; below them a bright white edging of fresh snow. Bundled up against the dawn chill we gulped down a quick breakfast before setting off for a notch known as Gunsight Pass in the ridge above. Beyond the pass huge Painter Basin faded into distant dark forest. King’s Peak, at the head of the basin, rose into the grey cloud.

  The trail led to yet another pass, Anderson, that lay just 300m below the summit. The last climb up the north ridge of the mountain was the slowest and hardest part of the day; clambering over the steep rocks and boulders was halfway between walking and scrambling. On one side the west face fell away steeply in a rocky tangle of crags, towers and buttresses.

  The slowness of the ascent had a benefit though. As we climbed the clouds rose and by the time we reached it the little airy summit was clear, though the sky remained overcast and threatening. The wind was cool too and we didn’t linger, soon heading back to camp, reaching it just before the storm broke. It raged through the evening but faded away with the daylight to leave a calm, dry night with a stunningly bright sky, the thickly-packed stars of the Milky Way seeming surprisingly close.

  Early the following day, while it was still dark, the others returned to the world of flights, cars and cities while I remained in the wilderness for another nine days, a prospect I relished. In a sense the real journey was only now beginning, the previous two days having been no more than a taster, a brief but enjoyable dash into the wilderness in the company of nine others. Now I could slow down, ease more gently into the wilds and notice the wildlife, the rocks, the plants, the details of the landscape.

  The Uinta Mountains are the largest east-west running mountain range in the US outside Alaska. My plan was to head to the eastern end, cross the main ridge and walk to the western end along the Highline Trail, which runs at or above timberline and crosses many high passes.

  I began with a two-day wander through deep conifer woods and huge grassy meadows where the last flowers of summer still gave a touch of colour. Once off the well-worn King’s Peak path I met no one and the trail was often faint. The only tracks were those of elk and mule deer, the only sounds those of squirrels, birds, creeks and the wind in the trees. At night I camped on the edge of meadows, sheltering under big firs and spruces from the rain showers and the night frosts that whitened the grass. Above, big rounded rolling hills added to the sense of quiet and gentleness.

  The walking was peaceful and relaxing and I gradually unwound from the excitement of the storms and King’s Peak and being with so many people. On my third day alone I crossed the crest of the mountains at Divide Pass between Island and Fox Lakes. A party on horseback passed me, the first people I’d seen since setting off by myself.

  The walk’s calm was in danger of becoming soporific as I approached Kidney Lakes, especially as the light remained dull and the sun, if visible at all, was hazy and weak behind the clouds. The hills around me were gentle and soothing too but not overly impressive. I was now so relaxed I needed some stimulation, which was when the wilderness came to life.

  Wait long enough and nature will always reveal something. As I walked through the trees some distance from the shore of one of the Kidney Lakes I caught a glimpse of something moving in the water, something very big. A huge bull moose with a massive rack of antlers was standing in the shallows. Dropping the pack I crept to the edge of the water, binoculars and camera in hand. Two moose cows were also out in the lake, one vigorously plunging her head into the water and emerging with a dripping green veil of waterweeds. For an hour and more I lay on the ground watching these ungainly yet magnificent animals, the largest members of the deer family. The bull barely moved during this time but the cows were quite active, one eventually swimming to shore and trotting into the forest.

  I camped near the lakes and returned at dusk to watch the moose. The clouds cleared: reeds, forest, hill, clouds and sky glowing in the low sun, their reflections shining in the blue water. Moose were everywhere: in the lake, in the meadows, in the forest. One had watched me make camp from a distance of just 15 metres. Six were in the water together with more on the shore. Other animals were about too: elk running through the trees, more nervous than the moose, coyotes yipping and yapping not far away.

  I had my stimulation. I returned to camp in the dark feeling overwhelmed, gratified, exhilarated and excited.

  Shrieking gray jays woke me the next morning. The meadows were white with frost and crunched underfoot. My breath was visible in the air and a brightness in the east suggested the sun was near. The treetops shone with that warm golden-green glow that always enlivens and inspires with the warmth and promise of a perfect day in a perfect place. Dawn light on the lakes was beautiful with gently rippling reflections. The moose were still there.

  For the next five days the sun shone from a deep blue sky, the light sharp and clear, giving a luminous edge to the landscape. The incipient dullness had gone from my mind and I spent the rest of the trip feeling elated. From Kidney Lakes I walked up vast Painter Basin with its wall of rocky peaks, including King’s Peak, shining ahead of me. On Anderson Pass I encountered many people, my first hikers since King’s Peak. With this vast wilderness to explore, most were intent only on the highest peak.

  The descent from the pass was tremendous, an exciting mile-long narrow traverse across steep stony slopes above a line of cliffs. Above me the west face of King’s Peak was banded with red and gold rock, giving a feel of the South-west, a hint of the desert canyons that lay not far away. Like those canyons the Uinta Mountains are composed of sedimentary rocks: sandstone, shale and quartzite. Below the rocks Yellowstone Basin was another great parkland-like sweep of meadows and tree groves. Camp was in a cluster of tall sub-alpine fir with mountains all around, the long wooded Yellowstone valley breaking the undulating ring of stark stony slopes.

  The pattern of the walk was now set. A succession of high steep passes -- Tungsten, Porcupine, Red Knob, Dead Horse, Rocky Sea — led to more huge meadow-filled basins — Garfield, Oweep, Lake Fork, Rocky — with long wooded valleys reaching down to the distant lowlands. I climbed two more summits, 11,884-foot Yellow Peak (3,623m) and 13,080-foot Wilson Peak (3,987m), the first an easy walk, the second a steep scramble up loose rubble that required concentration but rewarded with beautiful and spectacular views from the long flat summit ridge. Below, to the north, lay the dark waters of Red Castle Lakes with the bright shattered rocks of Red Castle rising above.

  Care was needed on the steep loose descent of Porcupine Pass. The narrow trail cut across the stony mountainside above a series of small cliffs before switchbacking down into the meadows below. Above me rose the massive five-mile long ridge of a mountain just called Stone, its long tiers of cliffs flaming red in the setting sun.

  One of the joys of crossing passes is the anticipation as to what lies on the other side, the growing sense of excitement as the moment of discovery approaches. Sometimes the suddenly-revealed vista is breathtaking and you stop to gaze in wonder. This was the case at Red Knob Pass where I was amazed by the soaring pinnacles of Mount Beulah, its steep south face a mass of buttresses and cliffs, towering above the West Fork Blacks Fork valley.

  From Dead Horse Pass, a broad saddle reached by a steep ascent on shattered slopes through a chaos of loose boulders, scree and small crags, I looked down to the brilliant turquoise waters of Dead Horse Lake shimmering on the edge of the long, dark, forested slash of the valley.

  South of the pass Ledge Lake lay at the foot of crumbling cliffs down which cascades of water crashed and tumbled noisily. A bull moose grazed among the lakeside willows. From a camp in the trees I watched the beast as it browsed through the bushes. Across the water the slopes of Squaw and Explorer Peaks turned gold in the evening sun.

  The site was too beautiful to abandon after just one night so I spent a day here, watching the light changing on the mountains and the water, absorbing the depths of t
he landscape and scrambling up a minor summit above the camp. The ascent was on increasingly steep and loose rock where great care was needed not to slip or roll a stone on to a foot. As the climbing became more intense nothing existed beyond the next foot hold: reach the security of the next rock... balance on wobbling stones... pick out the best route... My only concern was staying alive and uninjured, but every time I looked up there was beauty all around and I forgot the precariousness of my situation.

  A slow, awkward descent led to a col. Above me rose Explorer Peak, with a narrow rocky arête leading to its summit. Clouds were building rapidly beyond it and this was no place to be in a thunderstorm, so I cautiously retreated into the Fall Creek valley, picking a way through broken bands of crags and slithering down loose scree gullies. A blast of strong wind and a touch of hail swept over me and then the storm passed and faded into the distance.

  Crossing the head of Rock Creek the next day, a superb walk past a number of beautiful timberline lakes, clouds again built up to the south. This time they failed to dissipate and by the time I reached the last pass of the walk, Rocky Sea, the sky was already darkening. I attempted one of the peaks above the pass but was still far from the top when a crash of thunder shook the air and I found myself running, slipping and skittering over the rocks back to the pass.

  Grabbing my pack I sped towards the shelter of the forest where two hikers were sheltering under the first large tree, waiting for the storm to clear before crossing the pass. They had a long wait. Soon after I entered the trees the rain started and my last camp was deep in the forest, sheltering from the thunder and lightning that rang and flashed all around. It was still raining at dawn and the thunder continued as I walked out to Minor Lake and the highway. I didn’t mind.

  Traversing Corsica on the GR20

  Seven hours after a cool early morning start in Scotland I was sweating uphill with my companion Cameron McNeish in ridiculous temperatures above the burnt orange roofs of Calenzana. We’d already hiked through the maws, a mix of fine scented spiky shrubs and flowers that tore at our legs and arms leaving thin trickles of blood to congeal in the sun. Now we’d ascended into the high rocky mountains and pine forests where our trail would remain until the final day and descent into Conca, far to the south.

  We were just starting out on the Grand Randonneé 20, a long-distance path that runs north-south along the length of the mountainous spine of Corsica, a volcanic island rising steeply over the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea.

  Threading a way through the mountains and staying as close to the watershed as possible the GR20 is an exciting, adventurous, complex, route with much closer contact to steep rock and exposed situations than walkers usually find on waymarked footpaths. Initially the idea of following the red and white painted stripes that mark GR routes may seem a little tame and easy. It’s not on the GR20, especially when you come face to face with some of the terrain where those paint splashes go.

  This route is unrelentingly steep and exacting, a real challenge to the mountain walker. From the first day you’ll find yourself grappling with rock and learning with gratitude just how adhesive rough granite is, and also how easily it strips away skin if you get too close. You can identify GR20 walkers by the scars and abrasions on their arms and legs.

  The upside of this strenuous, difficult and sometimes scary trail is immersion in a complex, rocky wilderness of high peaks, vertical cliffs, spires, pinnacles, slabs and every other form of rock architecture imaginable. The route twists and turns, constantly rises and falls as it contours the way of least resistance through the terrain. I was impressed by the imagination of the creator, the alpinist Michel Fabrikant, and the skill of those who helped plot the route. This is not a trail for those who like to stride out and cover great distances. There are few places where any sort of rhythm is possible for more than a few hundred metres. The descents cannot be rushed; they drop steeply down scree, boulders and slabs and twist around cliffs and gullies. There are sections through gentle valleys and forests that are easier, but these are few.

  Starting in the north means most of the really difficult terrain comes in the first four days, including the exposed Spasimata slabs and the notorious Cirque de la Solitude. But don’t think the southern half is easy or gentle, as is often implied. It’s still harder than most trails, just not as extreme as the terrain to the north.

  Most of the route lies between 1200 and 2000 metres in altitude. The highest point is the Breche de Capitellu at 2225 metres, the lowest (forgetting the start and finish), is at Vizzavona, the half way point that ducks just under 920 metres. For those who care about such things, the loftiest summit in Corsica is Monte Cinto (2706m), which you can climb as a side trip.

  The few easier sections in the forests are enjoyable, a quiet, shady respite from the scrambling and the sun. Many of the tall Laricio pines have their tops blasted by lightning. There are some oversized spruce trees here too, one of which was the biggest tree in Europe until lightning lopped off the top few metres. Above the forest, low juniper, alder and yellow flowered broom spread over what ground they can, adding softness and colour to the hard, harsh terrain.

  The forests and mountains are full of flowers, many of them familiar, some more exotic including the alpine columbine and the orange lily. There is wildlife; lizards dart everywhere and yellow-billed choughs circle over passes waiting to scavenge the scraps left by hikers. Most spectacular are the huge lammergeier, great vultures with a wingspan of almost three metres.

  The crux of the GR 20 — and the rock climbing term is apt — is the crossing of the Cirque de la Solitude on the fourth day. The walls of the cirque plunge steeply down from the Bocca Tumasginesca (a bocca is a col or pass) and then rise equally steeply to the Bocca Minute. The first sight of the cirque filled me with awe and horror, more so when I saw trekkers inching down extremely steep rock over sheer drops. I’d never ventured into such terrain without being roped up.

  Technically, the climbing and scrambling was easy and there are chains bolted in place on the steepest sections. It is sustained though and psychologically I was at my limit, especially on the terrifying descent, and welcomed the patient encouragement and assistance of Cameron, a much more experienced rock climber who relished the scrambling.

  The cirque is magnificently wild, savage and exciting, with tremendous views of huge pinnacles and specatcular cliffs, and it was wonderful to be there, amongst such grandeur, despite the fear and the exposure. That said, I felt great relief on reaching the Bocca Minute with the cirque over and done with. Crossing it is as tough and as challenging a mountaineering adventure as most hikers will ever encounter.

  Appropriately the day ended with a thunderstorm raging in the mountains to the south. A dramatic end to a dramatic day with just the edge of the storm buffeting our camp with a light shower and a gust of wind. The storm brought relief in the form of cooler temperatures and improved views with sharper, clearer light that lasted to the end of the trail.

  The day following the Cirque is one of the easiest on the route with only one steep rocky ascent. Much of the day is spent in cool forest or descending the picturesque Golo valley beside refreshing cascades and deep pools. The end to the day isn’t so scenic - the Castel du Verghio ski resort is a collection of blockhouse style buildings, rusting ski lifts and bare eroded pistes.

  ’Wild pigs ate my sandal!’ begins my journal entry for the morning at Castel du Verghio. Feral pigs roam the resort and will eat anything they can get so campers are corralled in a dusty, shade-less field surrounded by a high mesh fence. A warm breeze rattled across the site, rustling the tents, and it was that wind, I thought, that woke me in the night.

  I sat up to see my food stuffsack being dragged under the flysheet by something small and dark. Hearing me move the creature fled. The stuffsack was slimy with saliva but unharmed. I shone my headlamp around and checked my gear. A sandal was missing. Surely not, I thought. Maybe I’d left it outside. I shone my headlamp round. No sandal.
I searched the whole site and the area round it the next morning. Still no sandal. I assume a piglet small enough to creep under the fence had stolen and probably eaten it. Luckily I had a pair of trail shoes. I slept with them for the rest of the hike.

  The landscape south of Castel du Verghio is more open and spacious than that to the north, less hemmed in by rock walls and mountains, especially at the Lac de Nino near the Refuge de Manganu. This large high level lake (1743 metres) lies in an area of expansive wet meadows cut by small streams and dotted with pools (called pozzi in Corsican). The bright green grass and blue water make for an idyllic pastoral interlude in the island of harsh rock and stone that makes up most of the GR20.

  Manganu marks a return to the scrambling. Above this refuge lies a steep cirque rimmed with peaks up which the GR20 climbs to the highest point on the route, the Breche de Capitellu, a narrow notch below a twisted, towering pinnacle, from where you look down into a vast cirque with the jagged crest of Monte Rotondo, Corsica’s second highest mountain, rising beyond it.

  Two beautiful lakes decorate the cirque, the Lac de Capitellu and the Lac de Melu, the waters deep bright blue add a splash of colour in a rich brown granite landscape. By an optical quirk the two lakes appear to be almost on the same level. In fact Lac de Melu is over 200 metres lower than Lac de Capitellu, as is evidenced later in the walk.

  From the Breche de Capitellu the GR20 stays high, winding across the slopes of Punta Alle Porta over steep scree and boulder fields and along narrow rock ridges above deep cirques, a wonderful high mountain route that is arguably the finest section of the trail. The scrambling is mostly easy and the situations superb. This is walking to relish.

  In complete contrast there follows a forest walk through pines and beech down the Manganella valley and up to l’Onda where there’s a refuge and some bergeries (shepherds’ summer dwellings) and another camping enclosure fenced against pigs.