Snowshoes on Bynack More

All photographs taken with a Pentax MX 35mm camera, Pentax-M 50mm f/1.7 lens, and Ilford XP2 400 black and white film.

On the 2nd of February, I took the long train north and alighted at Aviemore. My mission was simple: to hike into the Cairngorms and get up some hills. Given the quantity of snow on the ground I didn't have any ambitious plans, but two ideas presented themselves: either get to the Hutchison Hut and climb some of the Munros in that area, or use Ryvoan as a base and climb Bynack More. I secretly wanted to do both.

When I arrived in Aviemore it was quite clear that the depth of snow up in the mountains would require either snowshoes or skis. Aviemore was under about six inches of snow, and people were skiing about in the town. The roads were pretty bad.

I made inquiries at all the gear shops in town. Nobody had any snowshoes — every shop I visited had just sold out. Fortunately I already had advance intelligence that the little ski shop at Glenmore had snowshoes in, so I started walking.

The walk to Ryvoan

The hike through Rothiemurchus is pleasant at any time of year and I always enjoy striding between those grand old Scots Pines, hopeful to catch a glimpse of a red squirrel or red deer, maybe even a wildcat. On this occasion I'm sorry to say I saw no wildlife whatsoever. The forest was still and utterly silent under its blanket of snow, which grew deeper as I approached the mountains. There was very much a sense that the forest was asleep for the winter.

I received a friendly welcome at the Glenmore ski shop where, to my surprise and delight, I found that they had adopted a remarkably tame robin who was singing merrily inside the shop. They soon fitted me out with some snowshoes. Although renting them was an option, I decided that buying them would be more economical in the long run. They're not particularly technical but served me very well for this trip.

I began the short walk through the forest to the Ryvoan Bothy.

Ryvoan is not one of the legendary bothies of Scotland. It's pretty close to the nearest road, the walk-in is easy (if scenic), and a stay there cannot be considered essential for the ascent of any mountain. Bynack More is the closest Munro, but I suspect most walkers simply begin their route at Glenmore Lodge. However, Ryvoan does have positive qualities. It's a snug building with a good fireplace and comfortable sleeping platform, plenty of chairs, and hooks on the walls and roof for safeguarding food from rodents (I'll come back to this later!) The only real disappointment was the lack of a bothy book.

Skiers near Ryvoan 

Looking back to the forest

I enjoyed the walk to Ryvoan. The forest is beautiful there, and covered under such a dense carpet of snow it had the feel of a remote Arctic woodland. The snowshoes eased my progress; not many others had walked along the track since the last snowfall, although I could see ski tracks (and later met a pair of skiers).

Home for the next two nights

When I arrived at the bothy, I unpacked and chatted with the other chap who had also just arrived. He was called Pat, and had just come from the other side of the Cairngorms with a heavy pack. It's fair to say that he was utterly knackered after slogging over two hills with a 20kg load. Pat was an interesting man to talk to and it turned out that we had visited many of the same mountain areas over the years.

Keen to get out and see some views before the last of the light, I plodded a little way up adjacent Meall a' Bhuachaille. A loaded and dodgy-looking slope stopped progress at about the 530m mark, though. I returned to the bothy and got a fire going.

That night I was kept awake by the interminable racket of the Ryvoan mice, who liked to use an empty tin on the shelf as a hamster-wheel.

Cooking dinner

Bothy bokeh

The ascent of Bynack More

I began my walk at first light. The access track in the bottom of the glen was very deeply drifted over, and even snowshoes couldn't prevent me from postholing in the softest stuff. They definitely made a difference, allowing me to walk over some surfaces I would have sunk knee-deep in had I been wearing boots, but it was still hard going. Progress was slower than I would have liked.

A sombre day for Bynack More

Views were misty and I didn't see the bulk of Bynack More until reaching the footbridge. The mountain looked completely white.

I kept plodding through the snow. It's a very easy ascent, possibly one of the easiest Munros I've done. The initial ascent follows a gentle path up an easy spur of land, browsed by grouse. I could see black tufts of exposed heather where the grouse had been digging for fresh shoots. Of course, the conditions made the going much more difficult than it would be in summer, and everything was pretty well drifted over. I couldn't see the path for most of the way (not that following the path was at all necessary on that kind of terrain).

I reached the large flat plateau north of the summit ridge. This area undulates gently and has a few spot heights of minimal prominence, but in general it is a featureless area. Visibility was not at all bad (maybe a couple of kilometres, with cloud hovering at 1000-1100 metres) but the lack of contrast, white on white, felt almost as disorienting as being in a proper whiteout. I trudged along through the deep drifts.

A lot of white. This is the last clear shot I got before the summit ridge and the clag set in.

When I finally reached the base of the summit ridge, the wind was getting up a bit and the terrain ahead looked much steeper. I decided to swap my snowshoes for crampons and my trekking poles for an ice axe. This proved to be a good decision because the rocks were coated with rime ice and much of the snow on the crest proved to be iron-hard neve.

The wind increased as I climbed, battering me from the side. It got a lot colder, too, and I swapped my liner gloves for Dachsteins. Navigation was never an issue as the ridge only goes one way, but with the poor visibility and lower temperatures it felt very different to the benign conditions on the plateau below. By the time I reached the summit I couldn't see a thing and my beard was iced up.

I didn't pause on the summit for long. I retraced my steps and descended the ridge swiftly, returning to the place where I had hidden my snowshoes and poles in the lee of a boulder. Back on with the snowshoes and off across the plateau!

Going the other way, without the shark's fin of Bynack More to guide me in the distance, I had to pay a little more attention to navigation. I took several bearings to take me back to the footbridge (it was getting dark by this time) and I have to say it was ideal terrain for that kind of dead reckoning. It felt good to be using map and compass properly for the first time in months.

By the time I returned to the bothy, eleven hours had somehow elapsed — much longer than I expected for a 10.2 mile route. Even with snowshoes, my progress in the deep snow was slow and the going was more tiring than you might expect.

Back at Ryvoan, which has a very handy gear porch.

The Ryvoan mice have their revenge

Now I'm going to tell you a pathetic tale. Before I left for Bynack More, I made sure I hung my food bag from the hook in the middle of the ceiling. The idea is that mice cannot get to your food up there. I thought my stuff was safe, suspended more than two metres above the floor.

When I got back, I found that mice had somehow entered my food bag and devoured a truly astonishing quantity of victuals. They had eaten an entire malt loaf, three packets of dried pasta, and several packets of oatmeal. They'd also shredded the packaging for several other food items and generally made a mess of everything. The only things they hadn't touched were the cereal bars (sealed in plastic tubs) and, bizarrely, the cheese.

I truly have no idea how they managed to get up there. I can only conclude they must have constructed some kind of ladder, or developed flying powers.

To make matters worse, the little devils had left their doings in my sleeping bag and my saucepan, in which I'd left some snow in the hope it might melt while I was out on the hill.

Now, my intention had been to trek out to Hutchison and climb some more Munros, but with a decimated and spoiled food supply — now hardly enough to feed me for a single day — that was no longer a sensible option. Besides, the walk to Hutchison would be hard going, and I had concerns about the snow slope from the Loch A'an Basin up the back of Cairngorm.

I decided to head back to Aviemore the next morning. It's possibly the most ridiculous reason I've had to cut a trip short yet, but after half an hour of moping I must admit I saw the funny side of it. I noticed one of the mice sitting on the table and twitching his nose at me. He looked fat as a barrel.

A new perspective?

As I walked back to Aviemore the next morning, I reflected on the trips to the mountains I've enjoyed over the last few years. I thought about failed objectives and trips that, in one way or another, ended up being a disappointment. It always came down to names of summits on lists. As I passed the frozen lochan, and listened to the snow melting and dripping off the trees, it occurred to me that the actual summits I write down in my logbook are not why I do this at all. The reason I venture into these beautiful and wild places is to be there and enjoy the journey.

Tranquility

It might be obvious — it should have been obvious, really— but it was something of a small epiphany for me. I started to think about all the backpacking routes I'd done without any focus on getting to summits, and I realised that I enjoy the backpacking more than getting to the top these days. I've already written about this return to my old activities in the hills. I think this new/old approach will lead to much enjoyment this year.

The mountains are a constant in my life, and when I'm amongst them I think more clearly and more honestly. I'm a better version of myself when I'm in the hills. They encourage me to be the best I can be, to take every opportunity, to always be thinking about how I can improve my life and make the most of everything. There's simply no other way I can put it. In everyday life a person can be stressed, tired, over-worked, lazy, selfish, and focused on things that don't matter — but it's difficult to be any of those things when you're in the hills.

Every time I visit the mountains, I gain more than I can possibly put into words. That's why I'll keep coming back no matter how many times mice eat my food, or the snow is too deep, or I fail to climb hill after hill. It's good for the spirit.

Until next time.

Lowdown on the Upland of Mar by Joe Dorward: book review

Lowdown on the Upland of Mar

by Joe Dorward

(Kindle and print)

I first came across Joe's excellent website on the history, etymology, and geography of the Cairngorms a couple of years ago. A lifelong stravaiger of the mountains, Joe's area of special interest focuses on the historic Mar Forest which includes many of the highest mountains in the district. His website is a treasure trove of knowledge containing priceless insights into a landscape with a rich and fascinating history.

This book is a distillation of his online resources - a field guide intended for reference while in the hills. The paperback edition is a slim volume, ideally proportioned for stuffing into your rucksack, and is laid out in a very clear and concise fashion with efficient use of typography and emphasis. The good design makes it very readable for at-a-glance reference, which is really what the book is intended for although I read it in two continuous sittings.

Joe places great importance on Gaelic place names, and in the book he takes some trouble to demonstrate how the Ordnance Survey maps frequently get it wrong. I'm as guilty of this as anyone: "Lairig Ghru" has become the accepted version of Làirig Dhrù, for example, and Lowdown on the Upland of Mar has opened my eyes to the far more complex world of Gaelic hill and place names.

Something which I think really boosts this book's appeal, particularly for the historian or the wanderer with an interest in history, is the focus on chronology. Many sections of the book are displayed in chronological order, and dates are often printed in bold type. This will not necessarily be of use to the casual walker but it really helps to instill a sense of the age of this landscape and how dramatically it has changed over time, from the ice age right through to the Highland clearances and the land management strategies of the present day. The book also includes an excellent index and list of references.

Nothing in life is perfect, of course, and it must be said that I thought the map diagrams weren't printed to the same standard of quality as the rest of the book. They looked quite grainy from JPEG compression and I suspect the original files weren't at 300dpi .This certainly isn't a major criticism but was a minor irritation in an otherwise excellent book. I also don't like the Comic Sans font used in the diagrams, but that's down to personal preference and not everyone will agree!

In the introduction it states that the book is a work in progress, and that the author intends to expand and correct the guide periodically. I would like to see sequel volumes, perhaps going into greater detail on individual glens, or maybe companion guides to other mountainous areas.

Lowdown on the Upland Mar really is an excellent reference book for lovers of the Cairngorms and should be in the rucksack of every wanderer of the glens and mountain tops.

~ FIND OUT MORE ~

Joe's website - The Upland of Mar
Order a paperback copy of the book here
Or download on Kindle

The Cairngorms in Winter with Chris Townsend - film review

The Cairngorms in Winter with Chris Townsend

A film by Terry Abraham

Funded by Kickstarter

I have been looking forward to this remarkable film for a long time. I follow Terry on Twitter (@terrybnd) and, although I was not one of the original backers for the project on Kickstarter, I became intrigued by the remarkable lengths he went to in order to shoot this film. Dragging heavy photographic and sound gear deep into the Cairngorms in all weathers, he has succeeded in creating a film unlike any other - a real love letter to the mountains, not just for Terry and Chris, but for all mountain enthusiasts.

As a writer of mountain fiction, I'm well aware that most books, films or stories about mountains are not in fact about the landscape at all, but rather the human dramas played out in the context of the mountains. The Cairngorms in Winter takes a different approach in truly showcasing the landscape above all else. Chris Townsend, the well-known backpacker and author, is our narrator on this journey but his role is dwarfed by the immensity of the landscape throughout which he voyages.

The true stars of the show are the majestic Cairngorm mountains. Vast and desolate, these hills are shown in all their magnificent splendour by Terry's incredible cinematography. We are treated to sublime wild camps, the beauty of a clear winter's day on the plateau, the silence of the forest. 

Very little actually happens in The Cairngorms in Winter. There is no storyline as such; Chris makes several journeys into the mountains, enjoys a couple of wild camps, watches the sun set. In a world where films tend to be dominated by blockbuster plots, the slow pace and contemplative atmosphere of this film are a real treat. I feel this is how films about mountains should be. Mountains are not fast or flashy; they are slow and shy, and they reveal their treasures only to the exceptionally patient.

In my opinion this film reflects the true nature of the landscape better than any other film I have seen about mountaineering. It's more like a painting or a symphony than a film as we understand it - a true work of art.

If this film has a fault, it's simply that the Cairngorms are too huge to show comprehensively in an hour and a half. We see only glimpses of the Northern Corries, of the Braeriach amphitheatre, of the Southern Cairngorms. By definition a single film can only show us a tiny selection of the jewels on offer, and so we come away with a tantalising sense of having been given a glimpse into a room piled to the ceiling with treasures. Perhaps a series of films would do the subject full justice, but such an undertaking would be beyond the abilities of such a small team, however dedicated and skilled!

I enjoyed The Cairngorms in Winter tremendously and look forward to future landscape films from Terry Abraham. He's currently in the process of filming a piece on Scafell Pike.

~ FIND OUT MORE ~

Visit Terry's website at http://terrybnd.blogspot.co.uk/

I watched the film on DVD, but supplies are currently rather limited - email Terry at cairngorms@outlook.com if you would like one. The film is available to download in HD from Steepedge.com.

Character gallery for The Atholl Expedition

The Atholl Expedition, my second novel (or second novella, depending on your definitions) is coming! This book is a slight departure to my existing work. Set in 1847, the story follows an adventure taking place in the Cairngorm mountains of Scotland. Like my existing books it takes strong inspiration from history and many of the characters were real people, but unlike The Only Genuine Jones or Crowley's Rival this is not a mountaineering book. Mountains play a prominent role, but are merely the grand backdrop to a very human set of dramas.

In this post I would like to introduce you to the main players in this new adventure.

(Characters with an asterisk * are imaginary and therefore depicted by artwork found on the Web. The other characters were all real people in 1847.)

James Forbes

James Forbes, Professor of Natural Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh, is the main (and title) character. He is the world's leading authority on glaciers although by late 1847, at the age of 38, he suffers from chronic illness caused by overwork. This doesn't stop him journeying out into the mountains when he is supposed to be convalescing at his summer residence in Perthshire, however. In the story he is obsessed by the notion that a glacier has survived somewhere in the unmapped depths of the mountains.

Duncan McAdie*

Duncan is a young ghillie (deer stalker) who has lived in Glen Tilt all his life and works for the Duke of Atholl. He has two of the required qualities of a Highland gamekeeper: toughness and the ability to move swiftly and silently over the mountains. However, he is restless and yearns to leave the estate to seek his fortune in Edinburgh. This desire brings him into frequent conflict with his father.

Alec McAdie*

Duncan's father, Alec, has worked as a ghillie in Glen Tilt for twenty years and aspires to be head keeper of the Atholl estate. After years of being overlooked in favour of more educated and less abrasive men, he is given one final chance for promotion and will do whatever it takes to make his dream a reality.

George Murray, 6th Duke of Atholl

The Duke is master of the Atholl estate and lord of the surrounding lands. He is looking to make economies in the running of his estate and also boost its profile as a destination for discerning sportsmen. When Queen Victoria and Prince Albert decide to pay a second visit to his castle at Blair, he sees the opportunity he has been looking for.

Prince Albert

Husband of Victoria and an enthusiastic sportsman, Albert is looking forward to a second visit to Blair. He isn't a very good shot but has an ambition to bag himself the greatest stag of the estate, a legendary beast known as Damh-mor.

Queen Victoria

Monarch of the United Kingdom. Victoria is enjoying her Scottish summer holiday but is not best pleased when Albert escapes into the mountains for a marathon hunt.

Ewan Carr*

A former student of Natural Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh, Carr is spending his summer tramping over the Scottish mountains. His over-fondness for the local whisky and reckless personality frequently bring him into conflict with the local landowners, and Carr's foolishness will cause many problems for Professor Forbes as the story unfolds.

Damh-mor*

The oldest and most cunning hart of the Atholl estate. Damh-mor is a beast rumoured to be hundreds of years old by the Highlanders who work the land, but to the Duke of Atholl he is a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder. Many superstitions surround this magnificent creature and he proves more elusive than his pursuers could ever have expected!

So there you have it: a brief overview of the main characters in The Atholl Expedition. The book is expected to be around 50,000 words in length so somewhere between a novella and novel in size, but don't be fooled--this is a far more complex and involved story than my other short piece, Crowley's Rival, and it's proving a lot of fun to write! At the moment I am still on target to release it within two or three months.

The Ascent of Cairn Toul and a crossing of the Braeriach Plateau

Braeriach, at 1,296m, is the third highest peak in the UK and one of special significance for me. My relationship with this enigmatic mountain goes back to November 2008, the date of my first failure to climb it (read an old Glencoe Mountaineer report of my second aborted attempt here). I finally climbed the mountain in May 2010, but it remains a crafty beast, guarded by storms, snow, and the remote inaccessibility of its location.

I climbed it a second time last Wednesday as a detour on my Blair Atholl to Aviemore trek. This time my chosen route took me up the relatively obscure East Ridge of Cairn Toul, a pleasant Grade 1 scramble.

The day's march from Corrour

Cairn Toul 1,291m

Cairn Toul

I followed the well-marked path from Corrour up the hillside into Coire Odhar, then tracked right when the angle relented. It's possible to approach the East Ridge directly but it's far better to use the approach I took, crossing a rocky spur before traversing the basin of Coire an t-Saighdeir. The approach to the ridge itself is obvious from this point and aside from a few snow patches to negotiate there are no difficulties in locating the start of the route.

On the way up

The ridge begins broad, easy-angled, and loose ... mainly walking, although there are some small rocky outcrops to play on if the mood takes you. The ridge is never steep although it does narrow as you climb to provide some great easy scrambling. Overall the route is Grade 1 although more in the order of Striding Edge than Tryfan.

The Plateau

The view from Sgurr an Lochan Uaine, the Angel's Peak

From the summit of Cairn Toul, I walked the short distance to the slightly lower peak of Sgurr an Lochan Uaine - a tremendous viewpoint suspended above the perennial snowfields of Braeriach. Although the snows were not quite as extensive as on my last visit, I spent some time soaking in the novelty of winter and summer coexisting in one baffling location. That's the magic of the Cairngorms; they are always surprising.

When the ice age returns, this is where it will begin. A temperature drop of only a few degrees would result in these icefields turning to permanent glaciers. Already the snow patches are regarded as 'semi permanent', and although they shrink throughout the year, it's very rare that they melt away completely.

Icebergs

Looks awfully like a glacier to me...

If you look closely, you can see crevasses starting to form.

Braeriach 1,296m

After climbing Sgurr an Lochan Uaine, I continued around the rim of the corries and walked up onto the summit plateau of Braeriach itself. This is a wild and desolate place where little grows. The terrain is dominated by slowly melting snowfields, ground made spongy by meltwater, and the fine gravel produced by the rock of the mountain.

Rotting cornices

The summit plateau

The weather looks dramatic in my photos, although in truth the cloud was fleeting and patchy sunshine predominated for most of the day. I'm guilty of increasing the contrast in my pictures to accentuate the detail in the old snow formations.

The actual summit of Braeriach, when I reached it, was a dome of ice with not a single rock visible.

I didn't spend long here. My return was made along the same route, to begin with at least, and thanks to the thickening mist I was obliged to navigate by map and compass. The route back to the Coire Odhar path, which drops back down to Corrour, crosses the peaks of Sgurr an Lochan Uaine and Cairn Toul. Since I had already climbed both of these mountains already that day I had no desire to do so again on my return! I picked a route contouring around both summits to avoid unnecessary re-ascent (see map above).

After flanking Cairn Toul I was treated to this rather fine view of the mountain ridge I had climbed at the start of the day:

I returned to Corrour happy with a great day on the mountain. I had climbed no new Munros, but had been given the opportunity to explore a new scrambly ridge and see the mountains at their best. Any day in the Cairngorms is worthwhile, but one with both sunshine and navigationally-challenging hill fog is perhaps doubly so!