Out There

by Chris Townsend

  On all the tours I led this occurred just once, high in arctic Norway, when avalanche danger during a big storm made it too risky to descend to the hut that was our intended overnight destination. We were carrying two small tents as some of the huts were quite small but these could only squeeze in six of our group of ten so we built a snow dome for the rest of us by heaping up a huge pile of snow and then hollowing it out. That night the temperature fell to -25°C as the storm faded away and the sky cleared and we emerged to sunshine and an easy ski down to the hut for breakfast.

  My enthusiasm for snow shelters was rekindled on a trip to Yellowstone National Park with Ed Huesers, inventor of the Ice Box igloo building tool. With this ingenious device igloos can be built from any type of snow including powder. On our five day trip we built two igloos, which we used as bases for exploring the surrounding wilderness. Night temperatures were all below -20°C yet the coldest temperature in an igloo was -7°C. On the coldest night we stood outside as light snow fell and the moon rose, listening to the crack of branches snapping as the sap in them froze. The temperature was below -30°C. Yet whenever we felt chilly we could nip back in the igloo and warm up. On further trips I’ve explored Yellowstone again and the Wind River Range to its south, using igloos throughout. On none of these trips did we even carry a tent, just the Ice Box and snow shovels.

  Now I always look forward to the first igloo, the first snow shelter in which I might live comfortably even with a blizzard raging outside. I love igloos. I love building my own shelter and knowing that I can be snug and safe inside regardless of the weather. No need to look for a sheltered site or to get up in the dark to shovel snow off the tent. All that’s needed is enough snow and, even when there’s not all that much around, deep drifts can be found that are suitable.

  In Scotland I’ve built igloos on the Moine Mhor in the Cairngorms with members of the Inverness Backcountry Snowsports Club. One January we constructed two igloos on the slopes of Carn Ban Mor. The sun was out and the weather, though cold and with a brisk wind, was pleasant and we were hoping for a good long ski tour the next day. However, after a comfortable night, we woke to a white-out and a strong wind. Instead of swooping across the white expanse of the Moine Mhor we struggled to pack up our gear and then navigate to the edge of Glen Feshie. Only when we were part way down to the glen did we escape the blasting spindrift. Yet in the igloos we had been warm and comfortable. Tents would have been uncomfortable, if indeed they had stayed up.

  On another trip one January, in a winter that was one of the most snow free on record, I set out with two others to build an igloo above Glen Affric. Initially we had to carry our skis as the snow was patchy and soft with too many tussocks and boulders poking through. The walking was difficult, not just because we were carrying skis as well as all our overnight gear, but also because we were constantly plunging through the snow into bogs and stumbling over hidden rocks while the heather tore at our gaiters. In the distance we could see a denser white streak, a thick ribbon of snow in a deep stream gully. We staggered across to it and were relieved to find it wide and solid enough to provide a good line for a ski ascent.

  Above us the bank of snow grew steeper and cornices began to appear above the gully. We climbed a rib of snow onto the top of the bank and found it was deep enough for an igloo. It was a magnificent spot, half way up the hillside with views of cloudy, snowy mountains all around.

  Building an igloo is not something to hurry, unless the weather is really stormy. In between the shovelling and snow block construction we stopped to make hot drinks and revel in the location and the wild surroundings. Night comes early at this time of year and it was a few hours after the sun set before we put in the final horizontal roof blocks and moved into our spacious home to cook dinner. Inside all was peaceful and calm. In an igloo there is no sound of the wind, no rattling of tent fabric, no showers of condensation. We slept well, waking to a cloudy day with poor visibility. We skied a little further up the mountain but turned once we reached the cloud level and skied back down. No one felt a need to reach a summit. The aim of the trip had been the igloo and that had already been a success.

  I’d hoped that igloo would be the first of many that winter, but it was not to be. January’s snow melted and February and March were snow free. By the time it returned in late April it was too late for igloos (they don’t go well with hot sun!) though I did have the best ski tour of the season across the Cairngorm Plateau to Ben Macdui on May Day.

  Every year when the first snow falls I’m excited at the thought of building igloos and the thrill of anticipation is sharp. There are many places in the Scottish hills I’d like to build igloos, some of them where I’d be wary of camping in winter unless the weather was very settled. I plan on snow camps as well, for those times when the snow isn’t deep enough for igloos or I want to move on each day – igloos take so long to build that you want to use them for more than one night.

  Whilst building an igloo takes several hours and requires at least two people, simple snow shelters can be made quite quickly by one person. If there’s much snow on the hills I always carry a snow shovel and have occasionally dug a small slot in a bank for a lunch stop out of the wind. One day I’ll hollow one of these out a bit more and spend the night there.

  8

  ADVENTURES WITH SKIS AND IGLOOS

  Deep snow looks lovely, bringing a sense of freshness and rebirth to the land, but try walking in it and the beauty soon loses its lustre. Once snow is more than ankle deep walking becomes hard work, and when it approaches knee deep progress slows to a crawl with every step an effort. Walking a mile becomes an exhausting marathon. In North America such ‘walking’ has the graphic and appropriate name of post-holing. I love snow. I hate post-holing. The answer of course is to stay on the surface or at least close to it, which means using snowshoes or skis. Suddenly moving becomes much easier and the snow can be enjoyed again.

  I first encountered snow like this many, many years ago in the English Lake District on an astonishingly arduous ascent of Great End. At times we waded through seemingly bottomless thigh-deep snow. Continuing to Scafell Pike was out of the question and it was with relief that we plunged back down our track, still stumbling and falling in the soft snow.

  Soon afterwards, on a December trip in the Highlands, I turned back on an ascent of Stob Coire Easain above Loch Treig due to snow that was thigh-deep in places. These were day walks. If I’d been backpacking I’d probably have never got far uphill because of the weight I was carrying. This was brought home to me later, on the Pacific Crest Trail. There had been heavy snow that winter and spring, and the mountain ranges the trail crosses in Southern California were all deep in snow. Struggling along their crests with a heavy pack was slow and tiring. However, each range could be crossed in a day or so and the lower slopes were snow free, so I never ploughed through snow long enough for it to be too gruelling.

  Up ahead though was the High Sierra, 800 kilometres of snowbound mountains, much of it above 3,000 metres. Post-holing that distance was unthinkable, and probably impossible. A hiker I met was using snowshoes and staying on top of snow that came up to my knees. Impressed, I took a day off from the trail to buy a pair. Two other walkers joined up with us for the High Sierra section, and they were using Nordic skis. Watching them glide across meadows and swoop down steep slopes while I plodded along behind on my functional but slow snowshoes I suddenly understood that real skiing wasn’t being hauled up a slope by a metal contraption in order to slide back down but was a superb way to travel over snow-covered wild country. I vowed to learn how to ski and the very next winter I did so, courtesy of my friend, writer and broadcaster Cameron McNeish, then a ski instructor.

  The freedom of snow-covered forests and hills now opened up. Instead of fearing deep snow and hating the restriction it placed on my outdoor activities I relished it and looked forward to seeing dark clouds piling in and the first thick white flakes falling on the brown land. Now it was a lack of snow tha
t I disliked. My ideal conditions became ones when the snow was deep enough to ski from my front door. One of my favourite ski backpacking trips was when I did just that, skiing from home to the top of a nearby hill where I camped overnight.

  Since learning to ski I have done many ski backpacking trips from such overnights to two and three week long expeditions. For a decade I led trips, taking groups on wilderness skiing and snow camping trips in remote places like Svalbard, Greenland, and the Yukon Territory. Many of these ski trips, whether as group leader, with friends or solo, are amongst my most memorable. The landscape changes dramatically under deep snow. Wild places become wilder. Tamed and half-tamed places shake off some of the controls and revert to wildness, becoming vaster and more magnificent. Being able to travel easily through a snow-covered land means it can be appreciated fully. It’s hard to delight in beauty when you’re soaked in sweat, your legs are throbbing with pain and you’re plunging in knee deep with every step. Gliding over the snow on skis is a totally different experience that feels natural and in tune with the white wilderness.

  The ultimate way to enjoy the snow is to stay out night after night, either in a tent or a snow shelter. Skiing with a big pack may seem challenging but with a stable load (skiing is a good way to find out just how secure a pack is) it’s not as difficult as you might think. However, snow provides a means that is unavailable for much of the year and that is to pull the load on a sled. On reasonably gentle terrain this is much easier than carrying it on your back. Skiing steep slopes with sleds does require some practice. Downhill isn’t too difficult as long as the slope is wide as the sled actually helps with balance – though in trees life can be exciting if the sled decides to wrap itself round one. Steep ascents are the real difficulty as sleds tug you backwards or slip sideways on rising traverses, but it’s still easier than post-holing with a big pack. Much more can be comfortably hauled than carried, two weeks food is a burden in a pack but no problem with a sled.

  A ski tour on Spitsbergen

  Watching two blocks of rock-hard snow-ice sitting in a pan above a roaring paraffin stove and failing to melt is a disturbingly surreal experience. This is especially so when you are the chief cook for a group of ten (as well as the leader) and it’s the first night of a two week expedition. After an interminable wait the snow began to thaw but even with four stoves working full blast it took three hours to melt enough snow to cook dinner and make hot drinks for everyone.

  While I was fretting over how long the snow melting was taking, other members of the group were more concerned about the risk of meeting a polar bear. The previous day I had watched faces grow more and more serious as we were given a lecture on bears and how to use the rifle we were hiring. Concerned that everyone might want to go home immediately I enquired as to how often rental guns had been used to shoot bears. ‘Never,’ came the reply. ‘What’s the real risk?’ I continued. ‘Not much where you’re going at this time of year.’ With that reassurance we had set off to ski down the wide frozen wastes of Adventdalen for ten kilometres before setting up our first camp. We never saw a bear.

  Our plan was to explore the mountains of Nordenskiold Land, which lies to the south of Adventdalen, and ascend some peaks if the weather permitted. This area had been chosen to maximise our skiing time as we could start and finish at Longyearbyen, the capital of Spitsbergen, outside of which is the only international airport.

  Spitsbergen is the largest island of the archipelago known as Svalbard that lies far to the north of Norway in the Arctic Ocean between latitudes 74° and 81° degrees (Longyearbyen is 78° degrees) so it’s not surprising that nearly 60% of Svalbard is permanently covered by snow and ice. It’s 1300 kilometres to the North Pole and 930 kilometres south to Tromsø in northern Norway. Spitsbergen has many large valleys that are snow-free in summer though, including those we skied through, but there are many glaciers and some of these are gently angled and wide with few crevasses, making them excellent highways into the mountains.

  The mountains of Nordenskiold are not very high, rising to 1145 metres on Moysalen, but you do climb them from sea level. The highest summit on Spitsbergen is 1717 metre Newtontoppen, named after Sir Isaac Newton, in the north-east of the island. Skiing on Spitsbergen isn’t difficult. Indeed, much of it is on flat or gently sloping terrain. It’s the cold and the wind that are challenging. The stark landscape can be mentally daunting too. Although it’s inhabited all year round it feels an alien place, a land where human beings can barely survive.

  Our route led for two days down huge Adventdalen, past some of the coal mines that are the reason Longyearbyen exists. Being close to the town Adventdalen is laced with skidoo tracks so, although the scenery is wild and Svalbard reindeer can be seen, there’s no real feeling of remote country. The third day though, we left the valley behind and climbed up the Dronbreen glacier to camp surrounded by fine peaks with steep faces linked by sharp arêtes decorated with pinnacles covered with rime ice.

  To the north of our camp lay Moysalen and we took a day off from hauling pulks (low sleds) to climb this peak. The ascent was quite easy, the only steep section, where it was easier to walk and carry the skis, being near the top. The sun that had shone throughout the trip so far began to fade as we climbed and we reached the summit just in time for some last hazy views before a thin dry mist swept over us. A quick descent, swooping down the snowfields, saw us back at camp just as snow began to fall.

  The light layer of fresh snow made for good skiing the next day as we crossed the gentle col at the head of the glacier and traversed the Rugastonna Icefield on which we met a party of Norwegian skiers, the only other party we saw all trip. A long, straight, fast, exciting run took us down the Kokbreen glacier to Reindalen, a wild valley walled by splendid mountains. We had seen no sign of water and it had been very cold, well below freezing all day every day, so I was startled on reaching the toe of the glacier to go through the ice into ankle deep water. Aware of the dangers of wet feet in such cold conditions I was out of the water very fast, before it could get through my boots and gaiters.

  For camping the water was a boon though, as it meant a break from the long, tedious chore of snow melting, so we camped not far away. Because of the bitter cold the camping was much harder than the skiing. It took a long time to set up and strike camp wearing thick gloves and mitts but if these were removed hands became numb with cold very quickly. Snow melting and cooking took several hours every morning and evening. My admiration for polar explorers increased significantly during this trip. It takes a taste of harsh conditions to gain some understanding of what months on end must be like.

  Our plan was to ski into the mountains to the south of Reindalen. However, the changing weather meant we ran out of time. The first morning in Reindalen we woke to a cloudy day with very poor visibility and a strong, gusty wind so, rather than move camp, we just skied up the valley to Reindalenspasset at its head. Near the pass we found a pingo, which is a small rounded hillock formed by water being forced up under pressure through the permafrost from below, pushing up the topsoil. The water then freezes to leave a curious-looking cracked mound of soil and gravel with ice beneath.

  During the next night the weather worsened with much swirling spindrift that filled the tent porches and showers of heavy wet snow. Moving on in this storm would have been unpleasant and possibly hazardous so we spent the day in camp. Two days of no progress meant we now hadn’t time to safely venture further from Longyearbyen. Improved weather did allow us to move on our third day, when we skied down the valley to camp in the mouth of the side valley of Gangdalen. This was marked as a danger spot on the map due to weak river ice and open water but, for us, it meant having water close to camp again. Above us the mountains shone white with new snow and there were fine thin cornices on east-facing ridges. Gangdalen led to a pass beyond which lay a valley that led back to Adventdalen, a route we thought we could ski in all but the worst weather.

  That belief was put to the test two days later as
we skied over 431 metre Gangskardet pass in an increasingly strong wind and blown snow that quickly transformed into a complete white-out. Moisture from our breath froze almost instantly on hair, beards and exposed skin, and care had to be taken to stay in touch with each other as visibility dropped to just a few metres. The map showed fairly gentle slopes on the descent from the pass into Todalen, which was a relief as we could see nothing. Camp was again in the partial shelter of a corniced bank and again gusts of wind shook the tents and filled the porches with spindrift.

  By morning the wind was dying and the skies clearing. The fleshpots and warmth of Longyearbyen, now only a day’s ski away, were too tempting for three of the party who chose to head back. By doing so they missed the best day of the trip, a day of sunshine, amazing clarity, spectacular views and excellent skiing. With no need to move camp we set off for the summits, climbing a steep narrow gully to an unnamed glacier below the peak of Karl Bayfjellet. After crossing the glacier we abandoned our skis and climbed to a narrow ridge that led to an unnamed top that gave tremendous views.

  Continuing looked difficult so we returned to our skis and traversed to another glacier, Svensenbreen, which we followed to the col at its head, a col through which the wind roared so strongly we were barely able to stand up. Unable to go further we turned and had a wonderful run down a twisting series of bowls and gullies. The snow was so perfect our skis seemed to turn on a twitch of the ankles. We hadn’t come to Spitsbergen for such skiing but it was a joy to find it and it was a satisfied group that plodded back to Longyearbyen the next day.

  A ski tour in the Tombstone Mountains