Out There

by Chris Townsend

  Backpacking and the weather

  The weather is a pervasive factor in any backpacking trip, especially in Britain where, changeable and fickle, it can affect a walk at a moment’s notice. Even when the forecast is good that doesn’t mean the actual weather will be, at least not all the time. In some places good weather is predictable and reliable. I once spent six weeks hiking in the High Sierra in California. It drizzled once and looked like it might rain twice. Otherwise it was warm and sunny every day. I took a tarp but only pitched it a few times. Mostly I slept under the stars, confident that the weather would stay dry. I rarely do that for even one night in Britain.

  This rapidly changing weather had been even more prominent one spring with a series of storms sweeping over the hills in quick succession. I watched for a weather window that meant my first real backpacking trip of the year (by which I mean one on which I move on every day rather than set up a wild camp and stay there a few nights) wouldn’t be too much of a struggle with the elements. A few days of fine weather were at last forecast. This was predicted to change the afternoon of the third day so I planned a two-night trip that would see me out of the hills by noon on that day. My intention was to do a circular trip through the two great passes of the Cairngorms - the Lairig Ghru and the Lairig an Laoigh.

  All was fine the first day as I crossed below the northern Cairngorm hills - Cairn Gorm itself, Stob Coire an t-Sneachda and Cairn Lochain - then cut through the rocky chasm of the Chalamain Gap and dropped down into the Lairig Ghru. The sun shone and the air was warm. For the first time since the autumn I rolled my sleeves up. The heart of the Lairig Ghru was packed with snow but this was crisp and firm, making for easy walking, easier in fact than when snow free as this area is then a mass of rocks. On the slopes above I could see the debris from many avalanches and at one point the snow was spattered with small stones released by the sliding snow.

  Not wanting to camp on snow or melt snow for cooking I dropped down the south side of the pass and found a dry pitch near the infant River Dee. As soon as the sun dropped below the edge of the mountains the temperature fell rapidly and soon a frost coated my tent. Stars began to appear along with an almost full-moon. The mountains darkened, edged black against the sky, snow fields gleaming eerily in the moonlight. I fell asleep with the tent wide open, my last view the shining mountains and bright stars.

  A shift in the weather came rapidly in the middle of the night. At 1.00am a cool breeze woke me and I closed the tent. The temperature was -2°C. An hour later I woke again, feeling stuffy in the sleeping bag. The temperature was now +6°C. An eight degree rise in one hour at a time you’d expect the temperature to fall. The frost had gone and the sky was thick with grey clouds. The following day I continued to the fine pinewoods of Glen Luibeg and Glen Derry and then up the latter to the Lairig an Laoigh. The mountains stayed mostly hidden with just the occasional partial clearance. Interest lay in the trees and the wildlife - a black grouse on one of the last pines before I was above the trees again, a golden eagle spiralling upwards above a steep snowfield which I watched until it was a tiny dot far, far above. The warmer weather had speeded up the snowmelt and streams were full and deep, making for some cautious knee-deep fords. The River Avon, which had concerned me, still had big snow bridges, one of which I gingerly crossed.

  Not far beyond the river I found a dry camp site that was sheltered from the wind, at least at that time. Tired after a long day and broken sleep the night before I was asleep early, which proved fortuitous as it was to be another disturbed night. The weather originally forecast for the next afternoon arrived in the early hours of the morning, starting with rain, soon joined by a ferocious wind that shook the tent. Unable to sleep I was up in the dark at 4.00am and walking before dawn in a wind that almost knocked me over several times. Without trekking poles I would have fallen.

  These last few hours were the bad weather struggle I’d hoped to avoid and it was with relief that I finally dropped down into the shelter of Glenmore Forest, though even here the wind was roaring in the treetops. By 9.00am I was back at the car, which itself was shaking in the gusts. Half an hour later I was in a cafe watching the rain outside. The trip had been more adventurous but also more memorable than I expected. That’s the beauty of our weather. You never know what to expect.

  Amongst the clouds

  The air was damp and chill and thick with mist. With visibility down to a few metres I wondered whether to go on climbing. Was there any point when I could see nothing? But high above there were hints of brightness and a blue sheen to the greyness, so maybe up there the sun was shining. I climbed on and the mists did indeed begin to dissipate as a cool breeze blew and a watery sun appeared. Soon the mists were gone, the last tattered shreds speeding away on the strengthening wind and dissolving in the now dazzling sunlight. The world exploded outwards from a few hazy boulders and the patch of damp grass at my feet to a startling vista of ranks of mountains fading into the far horizons, mountains that floated in space for below them was the rippling blanket of white cloud that I’d climbed through. I sat on the summit and stared across the land. Everything above 700 metres was sharp and clear, everything below that height hidden. Visibility was superb; the clarity unreal.

  Cloud inversions like this are one of the joys of Britain’s humid climate and a particular pleasure of camping high in the hills. Once when I camped on the snow-covered summit of Ben Nevis there was a lovely sunset with just a little cloud to the west and the night looked like being clear and frosty. However I woke to find the first grey light filtering through thin mist. Out to the east a pale insipid sun was just visible on the horizon. Slowly it rose through the clouds, putting out more heat and power, and the mist faded and sank down the mountain’s flanks, leaving a bright world with tremendous views of the hills all around. Below, the glens were thick with cloud. Above, ranks of cumulus clouds drifted across the sky, covering and then revealing the sun. The world felt fantastically alive, almost unreal in its mobility and sharpness.

  Dawn is often the best time to see such atmospheric delights, before the sun’s heat dispels the clouds; an advantage of high level camps. Sometimes, as on Ben Nevis, the cloud-filled glens are unexpected. Sometimes the mist can be seen forming at sunset. Once I camped just below the summit of Glas Maol above Glen Shee in the Southern Cairngorms on a dull cloudy evening. As I lay in the tent I watched fingers of mist slowly creeping up from the glen below and crawling across the slopes, reaching me just as I was falling asleep. I felt the first touch of dampness on my face and saw the first drops of condensation forming on the tent. I closed my eyes thinking that the next day could be one of compass navigation in the clouds, but was woken by brightness and heat. A newly risen sun was shining straight into the tent door and the mist was shrinking back into the glens, which were still thick with cloud. For a few hours I walked over dew soaked grass watching the clouds gradually thin and fade until the glens too were shining in the sun.

  Against the days of magic and wonder must be set those when the mist doesn’t clear. Particularly frustrating are those times when it feels as though the thin cloud could disappear at any minute and there are tantalising hints of blue and glimpses of sunshine. Often it seems that if only the hill was just a few metres higher you would be in clear air. On other occasions the mist thickens and rain falls and it’s quickly apparent that there will be no clearance. I experienced this on a camp on Beinn Eighe (which has surprisingly large areas of smooth, flat turf for a Torridon hill). The forecast was good and there had been a lovely sunset with a deep red sky. Waking in the dark I found the open tent full of damp mist and drips falling from the roof. By dawn it was raining heavily and the cloud was thick and I abandoned my intended traverse of the mountain and set off down to the glen. By the time I was off the mountain the burns were foaming with water and the rain was lashing down.

  Then there are those days of playing cat and mouse with the cloud, dipping in and out as it hangs on the side of the hills, occasion
ally sneaking across a col or drifting over a summit. I traversed Beinn a’Bheithir above Ballachulish and Loch Leven in conditions like this, sometimes in bright sunshine with views stretching many miles, sometimes in dense cloud with visibility just a few metres. To the south the cloud wall never wavered, thick and white and implacable. Rising up the side of the mountain it broke on the ridge, spiralling into the sky and breaking into ragged tendrils. Each time I was enveloped I wondered if the mist would stay but then I would suddenly walk out of it and the world would be revealed.

  Perhaps the most unusual and magical night above the clouds was on Stob a’Ghrianain above Glen Loy. In the evening I’d watched a huge orange moon rising over the Great Glen and the darkening bulk of Ben Nevis towering above the sparkling lights of Fort William. Dawn arrived with a fiery red sky as the sun lit up thickening clouds. Below this dramatic sky the long lochs to the south and west were totally covered by thick mist, tinted pink by the sunrise, but the dark land was clear with the silhouetted peaks purple in the early light.

  This powerful lighting lasted an hour or so before beginning to weaken along with the clearing mist over the lochs. Only those who spent their night high in the hills would have seen the red sky and the mist-covered lochs. Perhaps I was the only one.

  Rain and storms

  Rain falling gently in soft misty swathes, delicate and ethereal, quietening and blurring the land. Rain driving across the hills, enlivening and invigorating, making the very air alive and full of power. However it comes, rain is an integral part of backpacking and the outdoors. Often it’s so dominant that it is cursed and excoriated. Day after day of rain sodden hills and grey skies, night after night of slowly dampening gear inside a rain-lashed tent can become dispiriting. Every flicker of definition in the blanket of grey, every hint of a hazy sun breaking through the clouds is seized upon with hope and anticipation. Maybe now the rain will ease and dryness and warmth return to the land? Maybe.

  Sometimes rain seems to be the major factor in backpacking trips. This was much in my thoughts after a month of almost constant wet weather on the Pacific Northwest Trail and again after four days of rain followed by ten more of drizzle, clouds and sodden ground on the Southern Upland Way.

  Thinking about the nature of rain and storms I considered the positive experiences they can bring to backpacking. One is that they can be unforgettable. Looking back on trips it’s often the wettest and stormiest days that stand out. Indeed, the least memorable days are those with ‘nice’ weather – hazy sunshine, gentle breezes, light clouds – with nothing spectacular to see and nothing challenging about walking or camping.

  When walking in mist and rain it can be hard to maintain an optimistic outlook. I have had plenty of practice, but after years of feeling fed-up I now try to concentrate on the landscape as it is with rain and clouds, not as I might like it to be in bright sunshine. Misty hills and rainy skies are not less real. They are what the landscape is at that moment and views of them are just as valid as ones bathed in sunshine. Indeed, in areas of high rainfall, like the Scottish hills or the mountains of the Pacific Northwest, they may be more realistic.

  In the Cascade Mountains on the Pacific Northwest Trail I walked past the classic roadside viewpoint of Mount Shuksan, a much-photographed mountain whose image, shining in the sun above flowery meadows and a beautiful blue lake, decorates magazines, postcards, and biscuit tins. My almost monochrome pictures, taken in the rain, show a dramatic grey rock mountain clad in forbidding glaciers appearing out of swirling clouds. I suspect that Shuksan looks like that far more often than the chocolate box image but it wouldn’t sell many products.

  Watching the landscape in the rain reveals a different world from the same place in sunshine. Water is a major factor and not just in the form of the rain itself. Waterfalls and rivers grow in size and power and become visually exciting. If streams have to be forded they can be physically challenging too. Just the day after I walked past Mount Shuksan I had the most terrifying few minutes of the whole walk during the ford of a creek that was thigh deep and flowing very strongly with slippery, rolling stones underfoot.

  In really heavy rain new streams can spring up, covering hillsides with ribbons of white water. On my summer long round of the Munros and Tops I crossed Bidean nam Bian above Glen Coe in heavy rain and low cloud before descending into the Lairig Eilde looking for a camp site. The slopes were laced with white streaks of rushing burns; the Allt Lairig Eilde was a surging torrent. The summits were hidden in the clouds but the landscape was still tremendous and dynamic. The ground was sodden, water bubbling up at every step, and finding a site that wasn’t too wet was difficult. Eventually I camped on a half-dry boggy knoll just big enough for the tent. Once inside in dry clothes and with a hot drink I could look out on the storm and relish its power and energy.

  Camping in rain and storms is, in fact, one of the joys of backpacking. Being warm and dry inside a tiny tent while the rain batters on the flysheet is a simple pleasure that never palls. Snuggle into the sleeping bag, light the stove, wait for the water to boil and take the first few sips of a hot drink, which always taste marvellous as the liquid sends warmth surging through your body. The struggle with the storm – keeping dry, navigating in the mist, finding a camp site, pitching the tent, getting inside without bringing wetness in, is over and I relax and settle into my home for the night.

  In the British hills rainy camps are often windy ones too, exposed sites on open hillsides swept by the weather. A strong, storm resistant tent gives confidence and security. On sheltered sites, especially in forests, it’s calmer and the rain comes downwards rather than horizontally. Sometimes it’s even possible to have a warming camp fire.

  My thousand-mile walk through the remote Yukon Territory in Canada is one of the toughest I have done and took me through some spectacular wilderness landscapes with dramatic camp sites. Yet one of the most unforgettable nights of the trip was spent deep in the forest. The day had been spent meandering up a wooded valley with few views and difficult boggy terrain. Drizzle started to fall and as dusk arrived had become a steady rain. I camped in dense spruce forest near a deep creek.

  Because I was in grizzly bear country I didn’t cook or eat in or near my tent in case the smell of food attracted them. Instead I carried a tarp for use as a cooking shelter in stormy weather. On this occasion I pitched it as a lean-to between two big trees. Huddled under the tarp I felt cold and damp so I lit a small fire just in front of it. As the flames flickered and the warmth reached me my sombre mood changed and I felt contented and relaxed. Just feet away the rain hammered down and, although the dark, dripping forest looked threatening and unfriendly, under my tarp it was cosy and comfortable. I cooked over the fire and stared into the flames. Where else could I possibly want to be?

  That night and many others has given me a delight in camping in the rain. Knowing I can be warm, dry and comfortable is very reassuring when hiking in damp clothes on a stormy day. Backpacking in rain may not be ideal but it is part of the outdoor experience and one that can still give rewards. The sun will come out eventually.

  Other titles by Chris Townsend include:

  Rattlesnakes and Bald Eagles: Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail

  Grizzly Bears and Razor Clams: Walking America's Pacific Northwest Trail

  You may also enjoy:

  The Blind man of Hoy by Red Szell

  The Sunlit Summit: the life of W. H. Murray by Robin Lloyd-Jones