Rather than haul all our gear over Grants Pass and then build igloos, which would make for a long day, we decided to go up with shovels and the Ice Box igloo building tools on a day trip and start the igloos. The day was hot and sunny and we had the odd experience of building igloos in the heat, sleeves rolled up, ski pant legs unzipped and with shady hats and sunscreen the most important protective items. One igloo complete and the other mostly done we skied back over Grants Pass and down the now icy trail in the dusk.
I took the sled and hurtled down, skidding round corners and using speed to keep the sled stable on traverses where it started to slip sideways. A tree root almost tripped me near the bottom but I managed to stay upright. It was the most exhilarating and exciting descent of the trip, one where being alert and reacting fast were essential and my senses felt sharpened and my mind and body really alive.
Rick and Mike reached the Firehole River igloos first and startled an animal in the igloos. It ran up a tree and they identified it as a pine marten. It had been in both igloos, taking some peanuts from one and nibbling a corner off each one of Dave’s stock of chocolate bars in the other. Now the igloos had been found it was probably good that we were moving on the next day.
Hauling our sleds up the now familiar trail to Grants Pass was less arduous than expected, leaving us plenty of energy to finish the igloo. That evening the sky was dramatic and black with an astonishing array of bright stars. The full moon rose and turned a Mars-like dark red – it was the night of an eclipse. Being outside in the dark cold air under this spectacular sky here in the Yellowstone wilderness was joyous and awe-inspiring, a perfect night in a perfect place. There followed the most perfect day of the trip, beginning with a descent of the lovely, narrow Shoshone Creek valley, winding across steep slopes above the open water sparkling in the sunshine.
This led into the Shoshone Geyser Basin, a fantastic area of steaming pools and vents, bubbling hot springs and erupting geysers. Brightly coloured volcanic rocks set against the bright whiteness of the snow and the dark trees plastered with ice and rime and frost. We wandered on foot through the basin, marvelling at the thermal wonders and the contrasting worlds of ice and fire. Here it felt like the heart of Yellowstone, the mix of forest wilderness and dramatic thermal features that inspired the creation of the national park.
Leaving the smoking basin we skied out onto big Shoshone Lake, a vast expanse of snow beyond which rose the distant peaks of the Absaroka Mountains. While sitting on some bare, sun-warmed rocks on the shore we spoke to the first people we had seen in several days, a party of three ski tourers (unusually on alpine mountaineering skis) on a three-day trip. They would camp in the geyser basin that night then ski out to Old Faithful the next day. We skied back to our igloos, replete with the glories of Yellowstone.
We had no intention of leaving our fine site or building any more igloos but we did want to visit Madison Lake at the head of the Firehole River valley, the furthest point we could now reach on Ed’s original route. From Grants Pass we angled up to the big wooded plateau above and then wove a route through the trees to the Firehole River. This was another snow forest, huge Engelmann spruce and subalpine fir heavy with snow soaring into the sky, their amazingly tall narrow spires silently dominating the landscape.
The forest opened gradually into the vast and wild meadows of the upper Firehole River, stretching for over two miles into the distance, walled by steep wooded slopes. We skied up the meadows in a cold wind as huge clouds built up, edged by the searingly bright sun, a vast skyscape that enhanced the grandeur of the meadows. There were no thermal areas here and the river was hidden under the snow as was Madison Lake, its location only evident in consultation with the map.
The huge clouds and the wind presaged a change in the weather and we woke the next day to light snow and a thick grey sky. We spent the day exploring the upper reaches of Shoshone Creek as it wound through little meadows and narrow canyons and through a small thermal area where Rick was disappointed not to find a hot spring we could bathe in. The snow fell all day and this change in the weather seemed suited to a quiet end to our trip. Heavier snow fell overnight and the last day dawned with the igloos almost buried under the fresh snow. The new soft snow made the descent from Grants Pass with loaded sleds slow and easy. Soon we were passing Lone Star Geyser and skiing the last miles to Old Faithful, a warm cabin, showers and a celebratory beer.
9
NATURE, WEATHER & SEASONS
Backpacking is a year-round activity, there is no ‘season’ and every time of year has its attractions and rewards. However, one time of year is special and that is spring, the months of March, April and May. If there was a season for backpacking this would be it.
Spring is traditionally the time for journeys. The reawakening of nature, the return of life to the woods and hills with fresh greenness, bird song and the first flowers, the strengthening of the sun, the lengthening of the days all stir the desire for adventure and travel.
‘Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages’ (‘then folk long to go on pilgrimages’) as Chaucer wrote in The Canterbury Tales, before his travellers set out in April for Canterbury. My pilgrimage is to go into nature, to watch the spring develop and restore the world to life.
The short days of winter, the blizzards and storms, the bitter cold, the long dark nights, the monochrome landscape are all fading and the prospect of warm sunshine, endless daylight and the bright colours of summer are approaching, soon to arrive. This is an exciting time, full of anticipation for the joys to come, of days spent enjoying the weather rather than fighting it and time in camp spent sitting watching the world rather than huddled in the tent away from the snow and cold, days where an eye no longer has to be kept on the time for fear of being caught in the early dark, days where you can walk for hours over the hills free from fear of avalanche, ice and blizzard.
Spring days can often be wet, windy and cold. Snow may fall and night frosts chill the air, but in my head the winter has gone and there is a feeling of lightness and freedom. I know the dark cold is fading, I know the sun is growing more powerful. The hills may still be snow clad but they shine in the sun brighter and sharper than in the dead of winter. The sun is now high in the sky, rather than creeping along not far above the horizon, and there is warmth in its rays not felt earlier in the year. Winter is retreating even if frost and snow linger on.
Long winter backpacking trips are challenging and arduous. Most people make short forays into the wilds, a night or two here and there, before retreating to the warmth and security of solid walls. Long dark, stormy nights in a tiny tent eventually lose their attraction, while in spring there is always the hope that tomorrow will be sunny and dry and an awareness that the hours of darkness are shrinking day by day. Even snow camping is more enjoyable as winter weakens and spring takes hold.
Once summer is in full possession of the world and the days are so long that darkness is slept through, once the concern is that nights might be too hot rather than too cold, the excitement and anticipation fades. Summer is fulfilment, satiety even. And at the back of the mind is the tiny but growing thought that from now light and warmth will diminish as the year moves towards autumn and winter. Summer is fine but spring is finer. The energy-sapping heat of hot summer days and nights is absent. There is still a sharpness and bite in the air that encourages striding out.
New life is burgeoning, and the fecundity of nature is everywhere to be seen but biting insects are still to come and you can sit outside the tent on calm evenings without head nets, insect repellent, mosquito coils and tightly woven clothing – paraphernalia that usually drives me into the tent. Sunrise and sunset can be viewed in the fresh air rather than hazily through insect mesh or not at all due to the hordes of midges hovering just outside the tent.
Spring is the ideal time for us, like Chaucer’s pilgrims, to undertake a long walk, a pilgrimage to the wilds, to celebrate nature and the eternal turning of the seasons. My first long distance walk was the Pennine Way
in April, a walk that saw every type of weather (though mostly wind and rain) including snow at Tan Hill but which always had that promise of more warmth, more sunshine. A few years later I followed the spring north from Land’s End to John O’Groats, keeping pace with the fresh growth, the first flowers and the increasingly vocal birds from the wild Cornish coast to the even wilder Scottish Highlands.
Others have felt spring is the right time for long walks too. Two of the books that inspired me when I began backpacking tell of spring backpacking trips: John Hillaby’s Journey Through Britain and Hamish Brown’s Hamish’s Mountain Walk. Both started in April and walked through the spring, Hillaby from Land’s End to John O’Groats, Brown over all the Munros. Neither gives a clear reason for choosing spring. I guess it just seemed the natural thing to do. A later inspiration, John Muir, reckoned spring was the best time to visit his beloved Yosemite Valley. And Henry David Thoreau says that one reason he went to Walden Pond was ‘to see the spring come in’. The power of springtime is great.
The real joys of spring can be summed up in two words: warmth and light. In northern countries it’s not surprising that the return of the sun has always been marked with festivities and celebrations. It is a sign that the world is not ending, that the growth of plants and wildlife will begin again, that there will be food. Today we no longer live so close to nature. Winter is not a time for food shortages or fear that crops will never grow again, but it is still a time of darkness and cold and we carry memories stretching back to the dawn of humanity. We still feel the excitement, relief and joy when spring arrives and the power of nature still surges through us.
For walkers this can be celebrated in long backpacking trips, in feeling close to, perhaps part of, the new life and brightness of the soaring sun. Spring is a wonderful time to be in the hills and the woods and to glory in the beauty of life renewed.
Down to the woods
When the UK government proposed selling off the state-owned forests in England there was a huge outraged reaction that not only forced the government to abandon their plans but also showed the deep feelings that many people have for woods. The massive outpouring of concern took everyone by surprise, including those of us for whom forests have been important for many years. We didn’t know there were so many of us.
For me, forests have been an important part of my outdoor life since I was a child. Brought up on the Lancashire coast, the first woods I encountered were the Formby pine woods. Too young to be allowed to venture into them I can remember staring into the dark forest and longing to wander down the sandy paths I could see vanishing beneath the trees into mystery, adventure and the unknown, a secret, hidden world where anything could lie behind the next tree.
When I was finally allowed to enter, I found them just as exciting as I’d imagined. Much of my early route-finding and outdoor skills were begun amongst those pines. I carried no map or compass. I had no waterproof clothing, just wool and cotton garments that soaked up rain (and bog and pond water as I discovered). I often returned home wet to the skin, but I learnt how to find my way in the woods, how to recognise and remember subtle changes in the terrain and understand the landscape.
From the first day I loved walking in the forest, loved the silence, the solitude, the patterns of light and shade, the coolness, the wildlife, the whole ‘other world’ feeling of being in the midst of thousands of trees. Then there were the storms, the winds shaking the tops of the trees so they sounded like the surging sea and bringing down cones and needles and twigs and occasionally branches and even whole trees. Then the woods were stimulating and energising and it seemed as though the whole rain-lashed forest was alive, a single sentient being responding to the gale. When snow lay on the ground and the trees were white I tracked squirrels and foxes and other rarely seen animals, tracing their signs in the snow and working out what they were doing. Bird song was important too, a musical background to the silent trees that came and went as invisible flocks passed through the branches seeking seeds and insects. In the woods only nature existed.
My first camping experiences were in forests too, not backpacking but with the Scouts at Tawd Vale Scout Camp (which I’m pleased to see still exists) where I learnt about camp fires, building shelters and other stuff now called ‘bushcraft’. Mainly though, I learnt to love camping in forests though at Tawd Vale that meant sleeping in a big canvas tent with a dozen and more others. Putting together the camping and the walking made for ‘backpacking’, for moving through forests day after day, waking every morning surrounded by trees and the sounds and smells of the woods.
Many decades later when I hiked the Pacific Northwest Trail I was in forests much of the time, sometimes for weeks without a break. There were clearings, big meadows, views across lakes, and rocky summits but all were contained in the forest and were part of it. It is a glorious feeling to move through vast unbroken forests every day and sleep under the trees every night. The Pacific Northwest forests are not all magnificent old growth forests of giant trees, though some are, such as the western red cedar forests of the Cascades National Park and the lichen-draped Douglas fir rain forests of Olympic National Park. Many are young, the old woods having been felled or burnt by lightning fires. Most are regenerating naturally but a few have been replanted. Yet they still have a ‘presence’, stimulating the same deep emotions that all forests do. I relished being in them.
Only in fresh clear-cuts, where the felling was so recent no new trees had started to grow, and in active logging areas did I feel I would rather be somewhere else.
The pleasure taken in forests is a major part of the public’s positive feelings towards the Forestry Commission, despite all its regimented conifer plantations, which make up most of Britain’s woods. Even these plantations are still forests and bring forth the same feelings. It’s easy to denigrate them, but they can still be pleasant to walk through and camp in. Just being surrounded by tall spruce trees is relaxing and there is a feeling of safety in their dark confines. Hearing people talk of their intense feeling for forests that are not ‘heritage’ or ‘old’ or any other special designation, but just local woods to wander in and connect with the natural world in, has made me rethink my views of conifer plantations and realise that they are better, much better, than no woods at all.
Sadly, there is nowhere in Britain where you can walk for weeks through woods as I did in the Pacific Northwest. Linking forests to create woodland corridors that enable longer backpacking trips would be wonderful. In the meantime there are forests big enough for trips of several days and more, especially if circular routes are taken. The Cairngorms has some of the finest remaining native woods and it is possible to walk through the Abernethy, Glenmore, Rothiemurchus and Glen Feshie forests for several days enjoying many excellent wild camping options along the way. Wild camping is of course a legal right in Scotland so there’s no concern about whether you can camp or not. In many English forests it’s different, though that never stopped me when I lived in England and I was never discovered. It is, after all, easy to hide in a forest!
For the future of forests and wild land and natural places to explore and camp in and enjoy and for the health and sanity of humanity it’s important that children have the same opportunities to visit woods that I had, and to have adventures in them and develop a love for nature. If changing the ownership of forests made it even harder, by restricting access even more, it would be detrimental for all of us now and in the future.
Forests
On days when the wind drives the rain against you and the very air roars and howls, descending from the hills into the shelter of a forest can bring relief and safety. Suddenly there is calm. The air is stilled. The wind may still whistle in the tree tops but once inside the wood only stray breezes drift across the forest floor.
I’ve used woods as shelter many times, sometimes even descending in the dark to escape a storm, as I did when I came down from the Moine Mhor into the pinewoods of Glen Feshie on a wet black autumn night and
pitched behind a gnarled, half-dead, ancient tree that gave a primeval feel to the forest and, more importantly, cut the bitter wind.
Forests have far more to offer the backpacker than just a place to hide from the weather though we have only traces of the old wildwood that once covered much of the land. Mere hints of the glory that once was, these remnants are splendid and inspiring and a joy to walk through and camp amongst, and are expanding where the forests are being restored.
Fragments of the old forests can be found in many places in Britain, adding wildness and a feeling of raw nature. I have memories of wandering through the ancient oaks of Wistman’s Wood high on Dartmoor and the lovely woods along the River Wye on the Offa’s Dyke Path and feeling that within these forests lay an older untamed country. In the Highlands the same emotions are stirred by the Caledonian Pine forest fringing the Cairngorms and the oakwoods of Loch Lomond and the Trossachs. I also take pleasure in the regenerating forest: in seeing the young trees spreading out in Coire Ardair in the Creag Meagaidh National Nature Reserve or up the slopes of Meall a’Bhuachaille above Ryvoan Pass in the Cairngorms, or the Carrifran valley in the Moffat Hills in the Southern Uplands.
Far larger unspoiled forests exist abroad, where you can walk for days amongst mighty trees, beautiful groves and delicate woodland meadows. Among the most glorious I have seen are in the Sierra Nevada in California where a profusion of magnificent trees grow, including the biggest of them all, the giant sequoia. It was in the Sierra Nevada that my pleasure in backpacking in a forested wilderness deepened and became more intense. The high granite mountains of the Sierra are spectacular but my strongest memories are of the trees, of walking through the solemn silence of the dense and dark red fir forest (known as the snow forest as it holds so much snow), across open sunny slopes of ponderosa pine and over the stony terrain of the subalpine forest where the trees grow smaller and slowly fade away to contorted, wind-stunted, timberline thickets of whitebark pine known as krummholz, a German alpine word meaning twisted wood.
Out There Page 21