This diversity is one of the delightful features of a natural forest. There may be big areas of similar sized trees but there are never unbroken crammed-together regimented ranks of the same species stretching for miles. Real forests are places of variety with a mix of species, a rich undergrowth of shrubs and flowers, open clearings, rushing streams, slow meandering rivers and hidden pools. Real forests are places of discovery and enchantment. Trails wind and twist through the trees, paths to who knows where and with what delights along the way. Dense thickets open out into flower meadows, distant peaks appear towering over the trees, sudden views open up as the path reaches the edge of a cliff.
Even when the forest is more uniform and the trees seem to go on forever, with little in the way of views or openings, the feeling is one of peacefulness and contentedness and there is time to notice the details of bark and twig, leaf and needle. Walking in deep forest can be contemplative, a form of meditation, as you lose yourself amongst the trees, hypnotised by the regularity of the walking. I love hiking for hour after hour there, rhythmically striding through the trees, and then camping amongst them, secure in their shelter.
Forest sites may seem dull compared with those out in the open, but there is much that is attractive in a woodland camp. The patterns on the forest floor of fallen leaves, pine cones and moss, wild flowers and shrubs, the trees providing shade and shadows and, if you are quiet and patient, the wildlife. Tents make good hides for watching birds and animals and these are far commoner and more likely to appear at a forest camp than one out in the open. I have memories of watching black grouse displaying at a lek in the Eastern Cairngorms, mule deer grazing outside the tent in the Rocky Mountains, a black bear passing a hundred yards from camp in the Sierra Nevada, red deer stags bellowing during the autumn rut in Glen Feshie and a mass of smaller birds and animals going about their lives oblivious to the human watching them.
To fully enjoy these moments and gain the most from a forest camp I prefer to use as little shelter as I can. I am there to be in contact with nature not hide from it. Trees make good supports and I try to set up camp so I can sit with my back against one. Ideally I sleep out with just the trees for shelter. I love lying in my sleeping bag staring up at the patterns of leaves and branches above me and the little patches of sky and stars far above.
Often though the weather makes this unwise or uncomfortable and a tarp or tent is needed. Then I close myself in only if rain or biting insects make it necessary. Otherwise I lie with my head at the door so I can still watch the forest. Rain in the forest is usually softer and less wind driven than on open sites so being totally enclosed is rarely necessary. At night the dark shapes of the trees are silhouetted against the sky, the branches strange twisted forms hanging high above. The rustle of animals crossing the forest floor is louder and sharper. Owl calls echo through the branches. Occasionally the silhouette of a deer drifts through the trees.
The peace and quiet makes for a good sleep too with no roaring wind and shaking tent to keep you awake. Dawn comes with soft light filtering through the trees and colour gradually returning to the woods. A night in a forest is an intense and wonderful experience.
Encounters with wildlife
Towards the end of an overnight trip, my mind more on thoughts of finding a café than on nature, I noticed a rather odd-looking stick on the track ahead of me. Something about it was not quite right. I approached it cautiously, unsure of why I was doing so. Then it moved, only slightly but enough for the missing word that had been lurking on the edge of my mind to surface. Snake! We both paused. The adder, for such it was, raised its head and flicked its tongue, before slowly slithering off the track to disappear into long grass. I admired its beautiful markings and subtle colouration then set off again, all thoughts of the café gone, recalling other encounters with wildlife I’ve had over the years and the great pleasure they bring.
I also considered the importance backpacking played in many of these encounters. Sometimes it was simply that long trips allowed me to reach remote areas rich in wildlife that were too far for day walkers. Often it was because I was out at dawn and dusk when wildlife is more active than in the middle of the day when most walkers are about. When camping, my shelter often acted as a hide. My liking for only closing doors when absolutely necessary helps with this too although even when shut in a tent you can still hear sounds clearly.
Once, during my walk through the Yukon Territory, I was wakened by the sound of splashing and opened the tent Ito see a moose high-stepping through the edge of a lake, the huge ungainly beast silhouetted against the pale dawn sky looking like a prehistoric monster. On another occasion, while camped on the edge of a conifer wood during a TGO Challenge crossing of the Scottish Highlands, I was woken by a strange bubbling call. Two male black grouse were displaying in a clearing not far away. Uninterested in my tent the birds circled each other, spreading their white tail feathers, raising their wings and pushing out the bright red wattles above their eyes while continuing their loud calls.
Going solo makes wildlife encounters more likely too. A single person is quieter and less noticeable than two or more even when they are not talking. Alone there is nothing to distract you from noticing signs of wildlife either. In Britain wildlife observation is for enjoyment. We have no dangerous animals here. In other countries it can be a safety issue. In particular where there are bears it’s wise to keep your eyes open for signs that show they may be around. Even so there can be unexpected meetings when neither you nor the bear are aware of the other’s presence until they come suddenly into view. I have three times rounded a corner on a trail to meet a black bear coming the other way. In each case, after a few interminably long seeming frozen seconds, the bear ran off, once to climb the nearest tree and gaze back down at me.
My closest encounter with a grizzly bear was due to my own carelessness. I was on a trail high in the Canadian Rockies on a grey, drizzly day. My hood was up and I was staring down at the muddy earth in front of me as I trudged along. The wind was in my face – so a bear ahead wouldn’t smell me – and there was a noisy creek not far from the trail, so a bear probably wouldn’t hear me. I should have been looking round and occasionally making a noise. A movement at the corner of my vision caused me to glance round. There, coming towards me, was a huge grizzly, its head down as it snuffled amongst the vegetation. In quick succession I felt elated, excited and terrified. A grizzly bear! Heading towards me! The bear seemed unware of my presence. I knew I needed to let it know I was there before it was too near and thought I was a threat, I clapped my hands, shouted and jumped up and down, feeling very silly. The bear responded, lifting its muzzle and sniffing the air before ambling off beside the creek and away. Feeling relieved I watched it turning over rocks and rooting amongst bushes until it disappeared. I’d never seen a grizzly bear before. It was magnificent.
Other potentially dangerous animals are moose and bison. I’ve encountered several of the former and mostly they have run off, but on one occasion I came upon one in the rutting season that was thrashing a small tree with its huge antlers and stamping on the ground. Fearing it might decide I was more interesting to fight than a tree I made a long detour round it. Bison I have only encountered once, on a ski tour in Yellowstone National Park. On the edge of a thermal area a herd was scraping away the shallow snow to feed on the grasses beneath. Survival in harsh winter conditions is difficult for bison so it’s important they are not disturbed. In this case we were some distance away and were able to watch them through binoculars and take photographs with telephoto lenses.
Whether bears or grouse, snakes or bison, any wildlife encounter is a wonderful experience, a connection with nature that, whilst usually momentary, is also deep and satisfying. As with the adder and the grizzly, meeting an animal can transform an otherwise uninspiring day. The time I felt this most was after a long, and difficult ascent on a cross country section of the Arizona Trail. I had reached a ridgeline in a foul mood, fed up of the heat, the t
horny vegetation and the lack of water. Suddenly, a great bald eagle flew right in front of me and settled in a tree. My mood was transformed by the sight of this magnificent bird. All was right with the world. Wildlife can do that. It’s worth seeking out.
Night hiking
Early one autumn I was camping high in Coire Garbhlach above Glen Feshie in the Cairngorms when I was woken by a powerful gusty wind shaking the tent. Reckoning I would get no more sleep and knowing it would be light in an hour or so I packed and set off into the black night. Slowly the darkness resolved itself into shades of grey. The hills were almost black against the slightly lighter overcast sky, the ground mottled with tussocks of pale grass and clumps of dark heather. Once my eyes had adjusted I could see just enough to walk without my headlamp and I began to enjoy being out in the night, out in a mysterious world that held the promise of innumerable possibilities. The coming of dawn, with flat light and a grey sky, was a disappointment. The world was ordinary again.
Having walked in the night many times I wasn’t concerned at the idea of hiking down the rough corrie though I knew I would need to take care and progress would be slow. Time passes differently when walking in the dark anyway. The concentration required, even on easy terrain, means that the minutes flash by unnoticed. This is when walking without a light. Once you switch on a torch or headlamp you are locked into its beam and all that exists beyond that cone of light is blackness, broken by faint silhouettes of trees or hills. Inside the light the world is familiar but it is so small and restricted that I find it confining. Only on the darkest nights or in the densest forests do I use a light when walking. I always have one handy though, so I can switch it on if I walk into a black space under a tree or boulder and suddenly can’t see. I may need it to check the map too. I find my eyes recover in a few minutes if I only have it on briefly.
When there’s a big bright moon a light may not be needed at all, especially on open terrain where the ground is pale and eerie and you can see faint shadows. Walk into a forest however and the bright moon can be a problem. Where it shines in open glades and meadows the walking is easy but, as with the light from a headlamp, outside the moon’s light all is black and invisible. I sometimes use a light more under a full moon than on a moonless night.
Walking under a bright moon is wonderful though, with the landscape a shadowy reflection of its daytime self. The yellow-white light shines off pale rocks, birch bark, pools of water and anything light–coloured so they shimmer softly. Shadows are solid black with no detail, anything could be in them. Lit areas are cool, bleached of colour and tone. The world is lovely and mysterious.
When there’s no moon and the sky is a brilliant mass of stars, walking is harder, not because you can see less but because that great canopy of the universe is distracting, luring the eyes upwards to gaze out into the infinite. Then I stop frequently to starwatch without risk of falling.
At other times the sky is overcast and holds little of interest unless the wind tears the clouds apart to reveal a solitary star or planet, suddenly bright and sharp in the black sky, or the moon half hidden. Mostly, though, an overcast sky brings the eyes down to the landscape, to the dark columns of trees and the unusual shapes of boulders.
Whilst there is much more to see at night than is imagined by those only used to lit streets, or who always use a headlamp, one of the joys of night hiking lies in the amplification of the other senses. Hearing becomes much more acute. Tread on a stick and the crack as it snaps sounds like a gunshot. The rustle of a mouse in the grass sounds like a deer is crashing through the undergrowth. This loudness makes night hiking in bear country, which I have done quite often on walks in North America, interesting. Concentration and stillness is required to adjust any sounds closer to daytime reality and accept that a bear would actually be making much more noise and it’s a small mouse you’re hearing. The sense of smell is stronger too. I’ve often smelt the rankness of a deer or the sharp stink of a fox without ever seeing the animal. The aromas of trees and vegetation are distinctive and sometimes I can identify what plants are around me by the smell.
Sometimes night hiking is unintended, as it was that time above Glen Feshie. Often though, I set out to walk in the night, especially in the winter months when darkness is long. Rather than cram as much as I can into the seven or eight hours of daylight I set off before dawn and walk long after sunset. Because finding a camp site in the dark can be difficult I usually select an area in advance where I know there will be suitable ground and cast around for the best spot when I arrive. This doesn’t always work in unknown country where I have to guess from the map where good camp sites might be found.
One day on the Pacific Northwest Trail I lingered on a summit to watch a dark red sunset. From the map I thought there should be flattish ground and water not far from the top, but the trail led down a broad ridge with nowhere to camp and no water. An almost half-full waxing moon appeared in the sky followed by a single bright star. I followed the stony trail as it zigzagged down, just able to see it against the darker undisturbed ground either side. A ragged edge of dark forest rose to meet me. In the trees I was in and out of the moonlight and the walk became hypnotic as I descended thousands of feet for several hours before finally reaching a meadow and a creek. It was a glorious descent and, tired though I felt, I was glad I hadn’t found a camp site any earlier.
The colours of autumn
Summer fades, nights grow crisp, nature changes. In autumn the natural world speeds up and there is a strong feeling of flux and impermanence. The slow, almost somnolent, feeling of high summer has gone.
Life changes for backpackers and hikers too. As the nights close in suddenly there’s no longer seemingly endless daylight. Nightfall has to be taken into account again. Dinner is cooked and eaten in the dark. If there’s far to go so is breakfast so you can set off with the dawn. Every year I’m surprised at how quickly the long days of summer disappear. Surely it can’t be dark already? Better check those headlamp batteries.
Visually, autumn is a time of wonders and beauty. The colours of the trees are best known, the gold and yellow of birches, aspens and larches, the red of cherries and rowans, but other vegetation changes too. Hill grasses turn orange and red, giving a bright sheen to the slopes. Bracken, a fly-ridden jungle of dense green in summer, turns orange, then brown as it gradually collapses, opening up areas for walking. Red hips and haws colour hedgerows. The last flowers have gone but fungi appear in subtle shades of fawn and yellow with the occasional burst of a bright red white-spotted fly agaric.
Nature is quieter now with bird song dwindling and summer visitors gone south, but there are other sounds that conjure up the thrill of the wild. Far above long skeins of geese announce themselves with loud rhythmic calls. In the woods and on the hills red deer stags roar and grunt, challenging rivals and laying claim to hinds. Hearing this sound on a dark night when alone in a tiny tent far from other people really tells you that this place is wild.
Autumn weather brings the first snows on the summits, though it often goes fast. Storms are more often wet and windy, tearing the dying leaves from the trees and filling the streams. Then there are the calm days with mists drifting over the landscape and the clear nights when the first frosts decorate the grasses and ice forms on puddles and pools. Spiders’ webs sparkle with frost and dew and hang mysterious in early morning mist.
Autumn is subtle and magical. Gone is the harsh brashness of summer with its sharp vivid colours and hard sunlight. When the sun shines now it’s softer, casting long shadows and sliding through the trees.
For walking and backpacking autumn is a wonderful season. It’s my favourite for forest walking and camping. The colours are glorious and the ground crunches after a frost. I love swishing through fallen leaves too, watching them flutter into the air and settle into intricate patterns of shapes and shades. Sitting on a log watching the trees and the wildlife is now enjoyable again. The midges that keep me moving in summer are gone whilst the pene
trating cold of winter has not yet begun. In sunny spots protected by trees it’s possible to feel quite warm. I have dozed off in autumn sunshine on occasion.
Camping is more pleasurable too, again because of the absence of midges. I now only close the tent to keep out rain. Otherwise the doors stay wide open and I sit in the entrance watching the light fade and the sky darken and the first stars appear. Waking before dawn, I see the process in reverse as the stars fade and the light strengthens and grows. In summer I would be trapped in the tent, hiding from the biting hordes.
There are many places I like to visit in autumn that are especially impressive. In the Cairngorms upper Glen Feshie echoes with the roaring of stags while bright golden flashes of scattered birches light up the crags. For forest glory Glen Affric stands out with tremendous swathes of colour set against the dark green of impassive pines. If the hills above are touched with snow the scene is perfect. Loch Lomond is also beautiful in autumn. Here there is the yellow of oak leaves to add to the mix of colour. When I lived further south I always tried to visit the Lake District in autumn, especially Borrowdale, whose woods I would look down on from a high camp.
Above the glens the hills have lost their brief summer green and are returning to brown and grey and fawn; faded quiet colours that nevertheless are pleasing to the eye. On clear days the light can be sharper than in summer with no heat haze to blur distant views. Rocks are no longer warm to the touch and scrambling can quickly chill the hands. Autumn rains fill the streams and send them crashing down the hillsides. Mountain storms feel more serious than in summer, colder and with the threat (or is it the promise) of snow.
Whilst autumn can feel quiet and still, at the same time there’s a sense of urgency, an awareness that this won’t last, can’t last. Winter is coming. Nights grow longer, temperatures fall, the leaves drift down and the colours fade. All too soon the world will be bleached and pale, waiting for the first blanket of snow to bring it back to life. Until then the autumn is here and to be enjoyed.
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