Then towards the finish the classic Borders country: purple heather, rolling hills, little towns tucked into folds in the hills, winding rivers, woodland groves, the gaunt Gothic ruin of Melrose Abbey.
Eventually the hills slid away and the route reached cliffs above a crashing sea, a mirror image of the start of the walk. Cove Harbour was a final point of interest before the last steps inland to the village of Cockburnspath and the finish. The SUW was a rich experience; a complex, interesting and thought provoking mix of nature, landscape and history. I recommend it.
Trekking to Makalu Base Camp
The path rose through terraced fields fringed with trees to the crest of a broad ridge where, suddenly, the world opened up, expanding beyond cultivated fields and dense forest to the high distant mountains of the Himalaya. And what mountains: the great white wall of 7319 metre Chamlang, over eight kilometres long, the fine pyramid of Peak 6 and the cloud-capped bulk of 8481 metre Makalu itself, the fifth highest mountain in the world rising above green forest-clad ridges and valleys. This was the second day of the TGO Readers’ Trek to Makalu Base Camp and our first view of the mountains at whose feet we would camp for three nights. First though, came nine days of trekking that took us from tropical forests and rich farmland across the deep gorge of the Arun River, over high passes into the wild Barun River valley.
For the first four days we walked along steep hillsides on wide paths linking a series of villages and farms. Millet and rice grew in the fields, banana trees overhung the neat bamboo thatched farmhouses. The paths were busy with local people and we passed through many small villages. At times we went through dark and dense subtropical forest, the gnarled tangled trees laden with mosses and ferns, a constant hum of insects and bird calls echoing from the treetops. Cardamom plantations underlay the forest in places, a valuable crop.
Apart from the view of the high mountains the highlight of this section was the steep sided and forested Arun River gorge where the wild glacial-melt grey river was spanned by a narrow suspension bridge.
Beyond the Arun we climbed steep slopes to the last villages on the route, Sedua and Tashigaon, and entered wilder, more remote country where there was little cultivated land and the paths were rougher. This is high steep country. A few lodges with limited supplies were the only facilities. From Tashigaon a steep 1400 metre rocky climb led to Kauma, the first place flat enough to camp, at 3500 metres.
Kauma is beautifully situated, perched high on the side of a steep ridge. From just above camp we could see snowy mountains, including the distant bulky wedge of Kanchenjunga. These mountains remained in view as the path wound along a rocky ridge through rhododendron forest before climbing to the high Shipton La at around 4100 metres. (Different books and maps give different heights, and my two altimeters disagreed with all of them.) The Shipton La and the slightly lower Keke La passes mark the entry into the remote Barun River valley, which leads to Makalu.
Crossing the high passes marked a welcome change in the weather too. During our first five days there were several big thunderstorms with torrential rain and we’d arrived at Kauma in a hail storm that whitened the ground so much that a short snowball fight was possible. For the next week the weather was more settled, each day starting clear and sunny before gradually clouding over in the afternoon. The nights were frosty, with temperatures down to -9°C, and clear, with brilliant starry skies and a waxing moon hanging over pale snowy mountains which gleamed in the faint light.
For three days we walked up the Barun river valley to the pastures of Sherson, at 4500 metres our highest camp, leaving behind the subalpine silver fir and rhododendron forest for alpine tundra. The valley is initially walled by huge cliffs, some with massive caves high on their faces (Rudra, one of our Sherpa guides, told us that two of these were known as Lord Vishnu’s Washing Rooms). Long thin waterfalls tumbled down the rock walls. As we climbed out of the forest the landscape opened out into broad glacial rocky tundra with big snow mountains: Chamlang, Peak 6 (so named on the map but called Napo according to Rudra), Hongku Chuli and, finally, Makalu.
Two days were spent exploring the area around Sherson. We climbed the steep ridge north of our camp to a broad plateau, at 5100 metres, that gave magnificent views of the steep, rocky, south face of Makalu. From its western edge we also saw the distant pyramids of Everest and Lhotse, rising above the moraines of the Barun glacier, massive pale wedges of rock and snow. Cloud plumes developed over Everest while to the south mist filled the lower valleys and began to slowly rise and spread upwards as other clouds began to pour over high cols and into the upper valleys.
The dark glacier-spattered rock wedge of Makalu towers over the upper Barun valley, which we ascended from Sherson the next day over rough glacial debris, stony moraines, boulder fields and the rubble covered Barun Glacier. A rickety narrow plank bridge led over the swirling silt-filled river to the main Makalu Base Camp area, where there’s a small tea house. Everest and Lhotse came into view again, rising above a tangle of brown ridges, white glaciers and ice falls.
The next day we had to leave. Makalu Base Camp is a there and back again trek and it took a week retracing our steps to Tumlingtar airport for the flight to Kathmandu. The weather deteriorated and we had more thunderstorms, rain most days, snow at Kauma and mist on the Shipton La. The ridge between the pass and Kauma appeared to be floating in the clouds with steep drops into white nothingness either side. Once we’d crossed the Arun river again it felt as though we’d left the wild country behind. We had one more superb view of Makalu and Chamlang, shining in the dawn light, from a campsite in the little village of Gogane, at the start of our last day.
Throughout the trek we were supported ably by our sirdar, Kul, two guides, Rudra and Ramesh, and a superb cook, Amrit. With porters to carry all the camping gear, leaving us with just daysacks, this made for a luxury trek compared with a self-sufficient backpacking walk. This didn’t make it particularly easy though. The altitude had its effect as we were at or above 3500 metres for nine days, reaching a maximum of 5100 metres, and the walking was mostly on steep, rough and rocky trails. In total we walked around 200 kilometres. The amount of ascent and descent is more significant than the distance though. We climbed around 7,000 metres to Sherson and another 1300 metres on day trips.
We met other trekkers most days but far less than on more popular treks. The lack of villages and the few teahouses beyond Tashigaon made for a wilderness feel, especially once we’d crossed the Shipton La. From Tashigaon onwards the land is mostly untouched and unspoiled, the dense forests pristine and prolific with bird life. The trek passes through every climatic zone from tropical forest to alpine tundra, giving a fascinating view of the huge range of environments found in Nepal, climaxing with the dramatic surroundings of the highest mountains on earth. It was one of those walks I feel privileged to have done.
4
THE BIG WALKS
Spending weeks and months in wild places brings a joy and contentment that underpins the whole of my life. I prefer to call the activity backpacking rather than walking because the total experience is what matters, the camping as well as the hiking, the nights as well as the days. This is what distinguishes backpacking from day walking or hiking between accommodation, whether mountain huts or luxury hotels.
The distance doesn’t matter. What is key is time. Time to feel part of nature, time to feel the subtleties and details of a landscape, time to move slowly yet make progress; time, crucially, for backpacking to become a way of life not an escape. Distance is almost a by-product. Walk every day for week after week and you will cover many miles. I’ve never felt that actual distance was important. I’ve never set out to do daily big mileages, although hundreds and thousands of miles accumulate with time. Being in the wilds, absorbing the intricacies of nature, listening to the wind, hearing echoes of the past in the rocks, observing flowers and insects and birds are all important. I need time to pause and look and listen. I don’t want a schedule that says I have to walk
ten or more hours a day with few if any halts and no time to enjoy my campsites. Backpacking is about living in nature not streaking through it.
It takes time to enter backpacking as a way of life. On any trip there are niggles and concerns that dominate the first few days or even weeks. Worries about finding the route or water or a camp site; shaking off the last disturbing traces of the life left behind. Some of these, such as fussing over details of gear and wondering if this is the right stove or sleeping bag, perhaps mask deeper fears, hidden doubts about the walk as a whole and whether it really is feasible or wise to attempt it. Together these distractions act as a barrier to being fully involved, but as the days pass they fade away and become inconsequential. Part of this is a growth of confidence, part a shedding of a psychological state attuned to the unnatural hectic rhythms of the modern world – timetables, schedules, deadlines, appointments, fast track this, pay attention to that – be here, be there, be everywhere, now, at once, do this, do that, don’t stop, don’t relax, pressure, pressure, pressure, go, go, go! Phew!
In the wilds, on foot, this is all put into perspective. Seemingly important concerns become trivial, high pressure essentials seem laughable.
Walks that are too close to what we call civilisation are less satisfying than those that venture into wilderness. I realised this on my first really long backpack, ten weeks walking 2,000km (1,250 miles) from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Apart from a few hours in the Pennines the walk only became really fulfilling in the Scottish Highlands where I was away from roads and buildings for days at a time.
Four years later I hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, 4,160km from Mexico to Canada through deserts and mountains that took five and a half months. This walk was a revelation both of the grandeur and power of nature and wilderness and of the rewards and meaning that came from taking on the commitment of spending six months in the wilds. Day after day I travelled through magnificent forests, jagged mountains, spacious deserts and towering canyons, watching as hot deserts and tree-clad mountains gave way to bigger mountains with glaciers and bare granite peaks. The land unfolded, developed, expanded and was revealed. I grew familiar with plants from desert cacti to mountain conifers, with animals from shy mule deer to rattlesnakes and black bears. I grew to know the noises of the night and the forest and no longer woke, as I had in the first few weeks, to sounds that were unfamiliar and potentially threatening.
This is where time came in again. Time to become used to the land and its inhabitants, to its noises and moods. By the time I finished the PCT I felt at home in the wilderness. I also felt fulfilled and ecstatic, full of the glory and power of nature, of the amazing life of this tiny planet, this speck in the unimaginable vastness of the universe. The experience left me so deeply moved, so thrilled and so shaken that I knew I had to repeat it, and I have done so many times. The pleasures have become more familiar although no less intense.
I also felt I had a new understanding of life, that possessions and a frantic urban lifestyle are imposed on us and mask our place in the natural world; superficialities that are dangerous when they persuade us that we are apart from nature not part of it.
I had a desire to communicate the stories of my walks and to share my joy and contentment through my writing and photography. Also, and most importantly, a desire to inspire others to go into the wilds themselves, whether for a weekend or a year. Not just for pleasure, though that is very important, but also because without wild places we are diminished. We came from the wild and it is still within us and without it we are nothing. Understanding this means understanding that protecting nature is vital, and that walking and sleeping in nature is the best way to reach this understanding.
Long distance backpacking also satisfies our ancient nomadic instincts, relics from the time when all humanity was on the move, hunters and gatherers forever traversing the wilds for food. Back then – which covers most of the time humans have existed – there was no possibility of a separation from nature. There was nothing other than nature.
Of course the challenge of long distance backpacking is significant and I do find satisfaction in successfully overcoming difficulties with terrain, route finding, weather and wildlife, but the challenges are not the prime reason for going. They just make the experience more intense and enjoyable. Concentrating on threading a route through dangerous terrain; finding a camp site in steep, dense forest; protecting food against wild animals; and coping with mountain storms all make contact with nature more immediate and powerful.
The planning of multi-week backpacking trips may seem a massive undertaking in itself but, actually, it’s not really any different to planning a short trip. There’s just more of it. In fact in planning terms a long backpacking venture is simply a series of short trips linked together. Resupply points are the key.
Breaking the walk into sections makes it manageable. I don’t set off to walk hundreds or thousands of miles, only to the first supply point, then the next and the next and the next. Supply points may lie on the route or may require diversions. Deciding whether to use the latter or carry more supplies between two of the former is an important part of the planning process.
On my first long walks I was reluctant to leave my route unless absolutely necessary. This led to my setting off through the snowbound High Sierra with 23 days food and fuel plus crampons, ice axe, snowshoes and extra warm clothing in a pack weighing well over 100lbs (44kg). I’ve never done it again though. Ten days supplies is my absolute maximum (preferably without all the snow gear).
The heaviest weight I’ve carried since that High Sierra overload was due to the need to carry water rather than food. That was on a six day section of the Arizona Trail through the Sonoran Desert where I started with three gallons of water and a total pack weight of 70lbs (32kg). (These weights may seem ridiculous to lightweight backpackers and my basic gear would certainly be a bit lighter now, but water and food still weigh the same.)
Planning a long distance walk is now much, much easier than in the past, thanks to the internet. In the 1980s it took weeks for letters and packages to travel back and forth as I enquired about maps, routes, supply points and more. Today I can find most of that information in less than an hour and send emails requesting anything I can’t locate.
Preparations for hiking an established trail are made easy by almost instant information, although planning your own route for which there are no guidebooks or websites still takes time. This is the part of planning I most enjoy however, spending hours poring over maps, tracing possible routes, working out logistics and getting excited at all the possibilities. I know too that however detailed my planning it won’t all make sense on the ground and that I will have to adapt my route to the terrain, sometimes wondering how I could possibly have thought my original idea made any sort of sense.
On my wildest, remotest walks – the length of the Canadian Rockies (especially the northern half) and the length of the Yukon – I often abandoned the red lines I had so confidently marked on maps back home and took what were more logical routes once I could see the terrain. At other times I’ve deviated from planned routes for aesthetic or emotional reasons – I want to stay high on a mountain ridge or follow a wild river. So I think of my route plans as guides rather than fixed lines. This applies even when I walk named trails. I feel no obligation to stay with the ‘official’ route. In fact, the long trails I have walked have all been in early stages of development with long sections unsigned and often without actual paths.
Long distance trails
Musing on the attractions these paths have I wondered just what it is about these narrow strips of dirt that seems so magical? The names alone conjure up images of wild landscapes and spectacular camps: Pyrenean Haute Route, John Muir Trail, Cape Wrath Trail, Kungsleden, Appalachian Trail, Annapurna Circuit, Pacific Crest Trail and many more. All have their own special qualities. Each presents enough of a challenge to be an achievement, although none are so arduous that the pain and fear outweighs the ple
asure.
The first named recreational long-distance path was the Long Trail, which runs for 440km along the Green Mountains in the state of Vermont in the USA and was built between 1910 and 1930. Of course, such long distance paths are in no way essential for long distance walking. Before they existed there were long distance walkers – those, that is, who hiked for pleasure rather than from necessity. John Muir himself, for whom one of the most beautiful and spectacular trails is named, hiked 1,000 miles (1,600km) from Indiana to Florida in 1867 - choosing the ‘wildest, leafiest, and least trodden way I could find’ – and undertook many long walks in his beloved Sierra Nevada.
Creating your own path like this is very satisfying, but there is a particular delight in following a long distance path, especially if the route has been well-designed. In many areas hiking would be difficult, dangerous or even impossible without long distance paths. Forest routes like the Long Trail would be desperate bushwhacks through dense vegetation while high mountain routes like the GR20 in Corsica would be mountaineering routes requiring technical expertise and equipment. A simple narrow path can open up an amazing wilderness world. Britain’s first long distance path, the Pennine Way, was conceived at a time when the Pennine grouse moors were closed to walkers. Writer and rambler Tom Stephenson’s 1930s vision of a trail from Derbyshire to Scotland along the Pennine hills was one of freedom and access at a time when attempting such a walk would have meant dodging gamekeepers and risking arrest.
Most long distance paths are a few hundred kilometres in length and can be walked in a few weeks. Some, however, are ultra-long distance and take many months to complete, stretching for thousands rather than hundreds of kilometres. The first of these was the Appalachian Trail running for 3,500km (2,180 miles) along the mostly wooded mountains between Maine and Georgia, which was built between 1923 and 1938.
Out There Page 10