The Armchair Adventurer

Reflections: Sombrio Point, Vancouver Island

2011-10-22T22:51:00.000+02:00

Sombrio Point, Juan De Fuca Provincial Park, Vancouver Island , August 2006 (Pentax Optio S)

The trail was a wet, slippery slimy mess. Based at China Beach Campground we'd intended to day walk several sections but quickly learned that this kind of walking wasn't for us. Too much time spent working out how to stay upright and keep moving forwards, too little time spent looking up and around. The Juan De Fuca Marine Trail was originally devised to save lives; to provide passage for sailors stranded on this wild coast with it's impenetrable forest. The line between survival and oblivion is apparently a fine one.

The beaches were at the other end of the scale. Stepping out onto the black pebbles was a moment of pure magic. A magic concocted from a mix of ocean, forest, low hanging mist and silvered driftwood. Something for all the senses. Adding to the magic was the knowledge that the water to our left is home to Orca and Sea Otter and the forest to our right to black bear, wolf and cougar. Something for the imagination to boot. I'd never experienced anything like this place. Is there anywhere else like this place?

Somewhere along the line I'd got hung up on the idea that the way to experience a landscape was to move through it. Perhaps it's a kind of greed? So little time, move along and get some more! On this day I learned that it sometimes makes more sense to sit still and let the landscape come to you. Realising the beach was where we wanted to be we gave up on the walking, set up a tarp against the rain and just sat down. We passed the day reading, brewing up and soaking up what we'd really come to see. It's easy to think of landscape as something static but stay put for half a day and each time you look up you'll see the view reframed. The movement of cloud, the change of light, the dilation of shadow each contributing to a complete re-rendering of the image. Landscape is anything but static. The highlight of our day at Sombrio beach came early in the evening when a family of sea Otter came to play in the surf in front of our temporary home.

This simple image is far from technically perfect. Taken with a tiny compact camera it was never going to be. Cast your eye in the corners and you'll see the distortion. Look harder and you'll see fringing. It doesn't matter to me it's still an image I keep going back to simply because it captures something of the magic that place on that day. Perhaps you had to be there to appreciate it?

Eleventy one

2011-10-05T14:10:00.001+02:00

It's the lowest positive integer requiring seven syllables to pronounce in British English, a perfect totient number, the second repunit, a magic constant, a nonagonal number in base 10, a prime number in base 2 and a harshad number. It's also the number you should dial if you get into real trouble in New Zeeland. Apart from those things, one hundred and eleven is the number of posts that have appeared in this raggle-taggle blog since I set those first nervous postings loose on the World Wild Web back in March of 2009. Not being one for Birthday celebrations I let the one and two year milestones slip by unnoticed. My century also went by without either song or dance. A Nelson however, just has to be acknowledged!

Way back then I promised a mix of Gear and MYOG with a few trips thrown in for good measure. But, as this place has developed it's taken on a different shape; it's become, very much, about the trips. There's been much consternation in blogland of late. In particular with respect to gear reviews there's been a call for a raising of standards, greater professionalism and transparency. There have also been, astonishingly, accusations of dishonesty. I'm confused by this. The blogs I follow I follow because things done and said inspire me, because things done and said touch me, because things done and said challenge me to look at my world, mostly the outdoors world, in a different way and because I feel and affinity with the person behind the words; friends, of sorts, in this strange virtual world.. This medium, I think, lets the person shine through in a way that other's don't. It's the rough edged, (mostly) non-commercial, untouched by the the hand of editor or reviewer, warts n' all format that makes it what it is and that should be applauded. The medium, free of editorial bias, is surely the most transparent there is? I am, as are I suspect most others, perfectly capable of deciding what to take on board.

The fact that I personally don't post much on gear isn't born out of some deep seated ethical standpoint but rather out of practicality; I don't get enough time on the hill to review gear properly. Simply put, by the time I've formulated an opinion worth sharing I'm normally too late to join the party. Others do it better than me and should certainly continue to do so.

So what does the future hold for this place? Well, there'll certainly be some gear posts but those will mainly be reflections on gear in the context of specific trips and the conditions they served up. Such insights have some value I think. The main focus will continue to be the trips. Writing about my experience in and love of the outdoors is what I get the most pleasure from. It's a way of squeezing the last drizzle of sweet sap out of my too few days outdoors. About creating a place to come back to and relive experiences. About creating a window which, when I'm old and grey, I'll be able to press my nose up against and look on a previous self and the things he does. Sound selfish? Yes it is. It's all about me. Anybody who wants to come along for the ride is, however, very welcome.

There'll be no changes then? Well I do intend to explore something new. My love of the outdoors has always been paralleled by a love of photography. The medium punches much heavier than its weight. Photographs are far more than the sum of their parts. Though made from light alone they somehow capture a heady mix of emotion, smells, sounds, pleasure and discomfort, and solitude and companionship. They convey a message even more effectively that the written word. I revisit my photo's often and intend to mine that seam here. Expect, between trips, more but shorter posts focussed on a single image. More personal feelings and emotional drivel but thankfully shorter end most likely easier to read.

A Nelson! Who'd have though it? I'll now be standing on one leg until 112 appears.

The Grey Corries Day 3: Highs and Lows

2011-09-30T23:22:00.000+02:00

It had been the perfect bivvy. Perfect isn't a word I use often. Sometimes I think to use it but I mostly stop short. There always seems to be something, some small detail, that lowers the score. Right now, no matter how hard I try, I just have to award full marks. The contrast with the night before couldn't be starker. Wet had been swapped for dry, cold for warm, lumpy for plush and, best of all, oppressive view obscuring mist for moonlit long views over tiers of mountain. Mountains rendered in monochrome, majestic and unworldly. Breathtaking. Everybody should see this at least once. Nights like these, though few, are the hard earned payback for every bitter second of the wet cold discomfort that bivvying so often brings. On nights like these tents and tarps, shelters in whatever format, are more than just superfluous, they kill the joy. Yes, I've heard all of the arguments, tents doors can be left open so on and so forth, but a three-sixty view, a front row seat in the theatre of the heavens, the feel of the breeze across your face, the smell of the earth, a sense of what we are; apes in pants, just can't be got any other way. I do this to be out and no matter how you look at it a night in a tent, or even a tarp is, albeit in a small measure, a night in.

I'd spent the first part of the night just lying and looking around. Warm and comfortable. Drinking it all in. The moon full, round and gleaming silver, had tried her best to get me out of my bag taking photo's but I'd resisted. This was the ultimate in me time. The clutter of 21st century technology wasn't welcome. Then came the pondering: how much of Scotland is now above me? Are we now the highest people in the whole of the British isles? Aonach Beag is the seventh highest surely the odds are good..... I can't say how long this lasted but at some stage sleep must have clubbed me from behind. Ultra awareness had been replaced by a deep black nothing and the next thing I knew it was early morning and I was awake. All at once fully awake.

The morning brought mist. Gone were the views and back was an awareness of the task in hand. Over the Aonachs on to Carn Mor Dearg and then the Ben. Would we be able to find that problematic descent to Coire Giubhsachan in mist? Is my compass work and pace counting good enough to get us past five finger gully in bad visibility? Sweet muesli, strong coffee, pack up, one last glance at what might be the finest bivvy in all Scotland and then we're off to find out.

The day starts with a climb, up the last few metres of Stob Coire Bhealaich. Then, instead of following the North East Edge we walk on autopilot, following a use track, allowing it to pull us South of where we really want to be. Then comes the realisation, a few moments effort to relocate and finally a long gradual climb to the ramshackle cairn on the summit of today's first Aonach and back onto the planned route. If this is the only error we make today I'll be a happy man.

Some more down, in places scrambly, is followed by a wide saddle and then a shallow climb up onto the shoulder of Aonach number two. En route we pass tiny remnants of Scotland's permanent snow. Once on the top there's a temptation to keep on over the wide grassy plateau and bag another summit but at worst I'm a bagger in denial and in any case I want to avoid any potential view of the ironmongery of the ski centre. Instead, I take a rough bearing and head off in search of the little cairn marking the way off. We head too far North of West but as we walk we see a figure heading our way. A lone walker, travelling with a day pack and odds are he's doing our route in reverse. We stop to chat. The way off is steep but doable, the jumping off point is more that way than that, our new found friend has been over the Ben and CMD and later in the day intends to cycle over to Aviemore in his pursuit of all the four thousanders.

Luck wished we follow the welcome redirect, pass the little cairn then step off exposing ourselves in an instant to the forty three degree slope that will keep us occupied to the next bealach. There's a path of sorts but it's heavily eroded and diffuse in parts where, to avoid the worst of the looseness underfoot, alternatives have been sought. All points of contact, hands feet and arse cheeks are put to use. In places resorting to a summer glissade over short stretches with neither foot, hand nor arse holds, short on style but long on effect. Down we must and down we go.

The steepness is relentless and holds right down to the bealach but once at the bottom we're in another world. Grassy, sheltered, marked by mans hand. Who would come here to build a wall? This would've made an excellent camp had we had the steam to carry us over the Aonachs the evening before. As promised by Townsend, it's pleasant here and there's a water source to boot. Right now though, as we sit down to refuel, soaking up the first rays of sun to bake through the drifting mist, we agree that it would've been a poor substitute for last nights room with a view.

After a brief pause we turn our faces to the toe of Carn Mor Deargs lovely East Ridge. The bit in front of us is steep and scrambly. We decide to go through the back door and walk a little way North before attacking a shallower line up the Northern side. Shallower but still steep. All things are relative. Hands and feet carry us from boulder to boulder, block to block until at last we can turn west and follow the line of the ridge. Our timing is one again just right and we are rewarded with views.

The ridge is a fne one providing a sense of exposure but nowhere scary. Walkable stretches are seperated by easy scrambles and the whole is technical enough to keep you occupied and strenuous enough to excuse a pause to catch breath and take in the view. We pause often. The view back across to Aonach Mor catches my eye more than once. From nowhere on the ridge does the line we followed off the top look doable.

As we climb the whole curving length of the CMD arette comes gradually into view. It's awesome. Inviting and intimidating all at the same time. Then comes the Cairn and another excuse for a break. We sit next to the little pile of red stones atop the big red pile of stones break out the stove, brew up and just sit gawping open mouthed over Coire Leis, at the huge East face of Ben Nevis. I've never thought Ben Nevis a befitting mountain to hold the title of Britains highest but then I've never seen it from this side before. This is a special place indeed and at once I feel genuine shame for having doubted the pedigree of this mountain.

For the most part, on this trip, our timing has been uncannily good. Now though, we've reverted to form. It's now two in the afternoon and instead of having the arrette to ouselves, as would have been the case had we started the day at the foot of Carn Mor Dearg, we're passed by a string of walkers heading up form Coire Leis, all intent on invading our ridge. Nothings ever free. Our perfect bivvy is now costing us dear.

Now to make the last decision of the whole trip and one I never thought I'd hesitate to make. Start out on the ridge and there's only one way off; over the Ben. The conditions are great. Close to perfect. A kilometre and half of what may be the most beautifully situated ridge in all of the UK stands before us and a hundred and fifty metres of down followed by just shy of three hundred back up will put us on the Ben. But do we want to stand in the queue? I'm not sure. The pull of the arette is strong but, to my surprise, great surprise even, I wonder if I should save it for another day. Start out early and get it for myself? Do it fresh heading out the other way? I never relished the idea of thirteen hundred metres of knee beating down over the tourist track but that was always just going to be the price to pay. Iain doesn't like the idea of the three hundred metres back up onto the Ben on tiered legs. We take a moment more to talk through the alternatives pack up one last time and turn North. North not South.

The rest of the afternoon is spent shambling over Carn Dearg Meadhonach and Carn Beag Dearg looking left over Coire Leis and right over the endless West face of Aonach Mor, then picking our way down over rough ground to the Allt a' Mhuilinn. We then pick up the track around the back to Loachan Meall an t-Suidhe and slump down the half Ben. The path down very nearly takes all the fun out of our last hour on the hill. Nearly but not quite; the promise of beer hot food and a bed at the bottom does much to make good.

The Grey Corries Day 2: Get High Stay High

2011-09-04T23:22:00.000+02:00

The night was rough. Already, before it'd really begun, when we were still lying around in waterproofs, a shift in the wind had forced us to run out and re-pitch. Even then, even with the low end facing the action and catching much of the driven rain, the wind had had free passage under the roof. With two under the Grace a full-on bivvy bag doesn't fall under the category "unnecessary luxury". Fortunately we'd both packed one. My event cocoon kept me nice and dry but I'd still been surprisingly cold. I appeared to have found the lower comfort level of my lightest bag again and had spent half the night in half sleep deliberating whether or not to do something about my too cold legs. Only when forced to make my first morning call had I found the motivation to reach for my little down shirt and shove it into my bag around my legs. In comparative warmth I'd then been able to find some real sleep.

The plan had been to rise early and get onto the tops before the first of the day folk but we'd lain long, peering through the triangle at our feet, watching subtle variations of shimmering grey. The shade of grey that doesn't inspire action. Now having packed up and returned to breakfast in the shelter of our betabled bluff, sitting with a strong cup of via, we nod an unwashed acknowledgement to a fast moving hillwalker on his way up to take our prize.

Tea we may be missing but coffee we most definitely aren't and our hill day starts in earnest at around eleven with a caffeinefuelleded, steep assent onto Stob Coire Claurigh. The MWIS had promised clear skies and good views in the afternoon. Right now I'm thinking that might turn out to be another of their habitual lies. The climb is interesting, first over grass, then over bands of quartzite boulders, big lumps of geometric perfection, and then a little rock hopping over smaller debris. My soggy shoe of the day before is, to my surprise, dry. I realise I feel good under a light pack with light footwear.

As we climb the view of last nights pitch opens up, on a drier, clearer night it would've been a very special place with views East and West. As nice as the view back down is what I really want right now is a view up but that's still awaiting shipment.

Without a single false horizon we find ourselves suddenly at the summit and take a break at the cairn. As we sit we're rewarded with the view east but the centre point of our chosen route, the Grey Corrries ridge appears to terminate abruptly at a wall of cloud just fifty or so meters to the West.

A muesli bar fatter I swing my pack onto to my back and as I do so witness a real life, 21st century miracle. Something, the sun, the wind, my fiercely determined look as I sight off to confirm the direction we need to head off on, has given the cloud cause to run off in fright. In the time it takes to draw three breaths almost the whole length of the ridge comes into focus. Well, it has now gone twelve and the MWIS had said afternoon after all.

What follows is pure joy. Seven kilometres of ridge, virtually all of it above a thousand meters, nowhere frighteningly exposed, nowhere calling for teeth and nails, almost everywhere walkable and where every step provides a new perspective on the sublime highland landscape. To our North the big scoops of the Scree filled corries from which the range gets it's name and further on the broad inhabited Glen Spean forms a mid ground to bands of hills, stacked one on top of the other, in long succession. It feels strangely good to be reminded of my insignificance again. To our South and West run Coire Rath and Glen Nevis, each dissected by a thin, shimmering silver ribbons, the latter defining the Northern edge of the Mamores. Big, spectacular looking hills concealing a ridge walk which would give this one more than a run for it's money. It seems I could reach out and touch them from where I stand. Trace the line of alternative routes mulled over these last weeks but locked away for safe keeping. I already know I`ll be back. To our West, beyond the dog-legged line of the Corries, first the massive wall of the Aonachs, the smaller big one and the in fact bigger little one, and then the Ben. The highest point of ground in Scotland, in the whole of the British isles, and a goal of sorts of this route.

The plan would have us on other side of the Aonachs by nightfall but all that lies somewhere in the future. We may have started late but schedules are for another day. Now we take our time, stopping to look, stopping to snack, stopping to lunch and between the breaks reeling in the peaks; Stob a' Choire Leith, Stob Coire Cath na Sine, Caisteal, Stob Coire and Laoigh and Stob Coire Easain glide by under our boots. Then comes the steepest and deepest descent of the day so far, at times with hands and feet,that puts us momentarily under the 1000m line and then back up. Somewhere we cross a transition, grey becomes green, and we're climbing on steep wet grass up to the top of the bigger Sgurr Choinnich.

As we drop to the saddle we appear to be flagging and the future snaps back into focus. Once we're over the next top we'll have reached the end of the ridge and be forced to loose a lot of height only to have regain those metres, and more on top, to get onto the Aonachs. The days goal is starting to look like a big ask. The first contingency, a bivvy at the next saddle, the bealach under Sgurr Choinich Beagis not a preferred option; it'll leave too much over for tomorroww andalthoughh we may not have the whole pitch in our legs we have more than this. We think, confer and decide to save some of the climb still in us by contouring around the peak, going straight from bealach to bealach. Neither of us baggers the decision is painless.

The traverse starts easy, just follow the sheep-blazed trail around the Northern side, but later, on the North West slope, gets steep and requires care. Still, we make the bealach and, perhaps, with greater reserves. Iain follows me in and as he crosses the level ground towards me it seems his head's down. It's time to break. Break properly, fuel up! Out comes the stove for soup. Soup gets followed up by a helping of apple and apricot compote, the the latter freeze died happiness, both guaranteed to suppress negative thoughts and put the smile back on your face.

Daylight's plentiful and we rest a while, then and only then do we spread out the map to discuss options. Right now we've covered about two thirds of the distance but just over half of the climb. Our intended bivvy is just 4km to the west but between us and it there's 600m of ascent and then a wickedly steep 400m down off Aonach Beag. Tallied up that amounts to another three hours of toil. The call isn't that difficult to make. We're not staying here, it's too soon to lie down. We choose to carry on and see how far we get.

On paper the climb in facing us now always looked like the crux. We look up at the slope in front of us and we can't see a line. There's no obvious use track and there, off to the right, is a big vertical wall I don't want to be on the edge of. Turnbull had written of an easy way off the Aonachs which must be over there off to the left but that's a half a kilometre out of way. We set off not sure what where we're going to head up hoping for a clearer view of two Gullies that look possible but as we traverse South I think I see a line. I talk Iain in to following me up a rock-hop running roughly North under a high wall in the hope that we can find a way around its back, the contours suggest it might be doable, and off we head. It's sweaty work, I feel good but Iain follows at a distance. As I get higher I become less certain of the route we've (I've?) chosen. I push on hard hoping that I can reccie the route and, if I can't see a way up beyond what's in view, save Iain some unnecessary climb. I reach the top of the steep and poke my head over to see a mess of crags and no clear line to follow further. I'm not sure, so I make the call and wave Iain back down in the understanding that I've probably just burnt any chance we had of making the other side of the Aonachs.

Another fifteen minutes of backing down and I'm standing with Iain scanning the hillside again. This time further over towards Sgurr a Bhuic. There are two gulleys above us. One looks nasty the other, to me at least, looks doable. I again set off ahead of Ian to have first go. It's steep and underfoot is a mix of wet muddy scree, wet grass and wet moss, but I find enough purchase and climb. Comfortably enough, first in the open and then under an impressive overhang. The last few meters are a bit airy but there are good holds and, popping my head over the crest for the second time I get an eye full of the wide Southern slope of Stob Choire Bhealaich. A moment later I'm sat on the edge looking back down, king of the apes.

As Iain approaches I can see he's not happy. The climb demands effort and back slipping on tiered legs is sapping nerve. There's an exchange of words centred for the most part on my route finding ability but also on the disadvantage of short legs. It's time for another break already. This time curry is called for. We sit on our high perch. Long views illuminated by the rich light of early evening accompanied first with the raw of burning gas then with the burn of chilli. Little gets said. Little needs to be said.

Curry wolfed and drink drunk thoughts turn to what now. We won't make the planned camp, that's a given but what to do? Bivvy here? Drop down or carry on up? Our luck with the weather looks set to hold. Down looks to present lots of bivvy potential but possibly with insects thrown in and certainly with a stretch of back up to start the next day. Up is the right way but how far before we find a lie? Either way we need water so I drop down to find a source. Looking around, regardless of the promise, I see no dry flats. Up it is.

We pack up the mealtime paraphernalia and saunter off up the slope planning to lie down at the next opportunity. Passing by the top of our ascended gully I get an eyeful of impossibly steep. Impossible it can't be, after all we're stood here, but from this perspective I have to agree with Iain, It looks fiercely steep. Perspective is, as ever, everything.

We continue Northwards until we hit the path coming down of Aonach Beag. Passing a small cairn, presumably marking the drop off for the normal descent to the Corries, and presumably sited a few meters away from where I popped my head up on the first aborted attempt to get here, we turn West and are once again heading in the general direction of our end goal. A few steps further I spy a small shelf, well sheltered and a comfortable lie for one. I offer Iain first dibs and head on further to find a second one. I end up walking a half kilometre or so further and all the time the only suitable place to stretch out appears to be in the trough of the deeply eroded path. The thought of being woken by an early birds boot doesn't appeal so I bite down and persevere. Not for long though. A few strides further and there it is. Sometimes, rarely but it does happen, you cast your eye over something and you just know its right. Right there, just a few metres shy of the top of Stob Coire Bhealaich, is the bivvy of the gods. Right there, with a shear drop to the North and an endless view South is a flat patch of cushion soft grass, plenty big enough for two, complete with shelves and bedside tables. On another night with weather coming in from the North or South this would be a bad idea but tonight it's perfect. It might not be where we'd planned to be but right here is where I want to be. Dumping my stuff I head back down and tell Iain the good news: that he's got another half a kilometre to cover before bedtime.

'nother Nomination

2011-08-26T23:01:00.000+02:00

Another image, another chance in the Oppad photo of the year competition. This one's in the category that I thought I had a chance in; Outdoor. This time it's an image I like myself. Perhaps that's just because I was there? After all I can still smell the woodsmoke and pancakes. The nice judge said some nice things and chose the image even though the pancake is not in view (I promise to try better next time!). Randulf is now officially "stoer" in Holland to!

The Grey Corries: Day 1. The Walk in.

2011-08-22T23:05:00.002+02:00

As the train pulls away the realisation that it's started pulls into the space between my ears. One day I'll stand and watch as a float plane shrinks to a dot and disappears, listen as the angry buzz of its engine fades away to silence, and learn how it feels to be alone, small, vulnerable and exposed in a true wilderness. Today, I watch the dirty yellow and blue of the Mallaig train chatter off along the line, the stinking diesel cloud drift away on the breeze and a mix of tourists and hill folk disperse. Most turn right heading, presumably, for the station cafe or the hostel along the way at Loch Ossian. Two chaps, one with the biggest pack I've ever seen, one in shorts carrying a tiny day pack and clearly built of sterner stuff, walk off the platform and turn left. There'll be no wilderness for me today. But, when I follow and make that left turn, I'll be taking the first step into some fine wild country. It feels good to be back!

Start as you mean to go on I always say. As soon as we've left the platform we pause for lunch. By my reckoning we need to cover just shy of fifteen kilometres before bedtime, but, although it's already afternoon, this being Scotland in July, we've got daylight to burn. Besides, I need to de-flight my rucksack and shared gear needs to be divvied up. A multifunctional lunch stop. Sausage and sorting stuff.

South of West, standing proud, is Leum Uilleim. Townsend says it's the best reason to come to Corrour. It'd be easy enough to to put a match under the plan head on over it's top and keep going West. That way lie the Mamores. That way lies another whole range I've been visiting in my head since I bought my first OS map of this place. As we head off according to plan I bury the thought. We follow the line a while. A little up and a little down. Movement enough to warm up, stretch travel-weary legs and find a rhythm. For a while it's wet underfoot and there's much dancing around trying to find a dry line through bog. A kilometre or more in it gets drier until finally we find ourselves on a better well prepared path. This one takes us down to Loch Trieg, around its South Western end , past the dire warnings of the Scottish rights of way society and onto the Creaguiaineach lodge from whence begins the climb up the ever so gentle incline into the Lairig Lecach.

It's a gentle start. We shamble along next to a slow moving Allt na Lairige across grazed grass under scattered, small oaks. Chewing the fat. Catching up. Swapping news. The weather is holding. Grey cloud is rolling up behind but here and now it's fine. We break, sitting on packs to drink and snack. Off again, the path narrows, the ground underfoot gets rougher and the grazing meaner. As we climb the cloud moves down to meet us and as we pass the knobbly tops of the Mealls we're ducking under a low ceiling.

We cut off early. Aiming across the slope to cut the corner and hit the Allt a Chuil Choirean with a couple of hundred meters under our belt but as we climb the Bothy swings into view. We've come further than I'd thought. I need to pay more attention. Stop bending the ground to fit where I'd like to be on the map. Brush the rust of my navigation skills. Still, if I'm going to make mistakes then sooner now than on the days to come.

We climb more steeply on the south side of the stream. The path runs on the North side but it's good to be on the wrong side, picking our own untrodden route. The climb takes us up a series of short, sharp slopes and across flat wet terraces. The mass of Stob Ban is slowly swinging into view but my focus is down not up.

Determined to get fit for this trip I'd been running. Instead of getting fit I got injured. Too much too soon? Too little too late? Too much too late? Whatever. For the last two weeks I've been limping through the days and resting in the evenings. Cold packs, hot packs, foot up on a cushion. As we climb this hill I'm getting the measure of things half expecting my achilles to go pop and having to back track and spend a night in the bothy and then catch the train home. But it doesn't and I keep climbing.

It's wet underfoot but pick the right line and you can avoid the worst of it. I pick the wrong line and find myself with my right leg in up to the knee. My Gore-tex lined boot runneth over. Cold brown peaty water; great in Lagavulin but less nice in my boot. I curse. I'll more than likely have a wet foot for the duration now. As we get level with the dog leg in the Allt a Chuil Choirean we stop to ponder the best line up. Squinting through the now grey light a feint use path comes into focus. The day is almost done. Just a couple of switchbacks and a little light rock hopping and we're up on the shoulder.

Turning North, showing our backs to the scree strewn slope of Stob Ban and our faces to the first climb of tomorrow, we cross the saddle looking for the lochan, looking for what the map suggests will be a fine bivvy. Quartzite slabs and outcrops decorate the way. As do pools of standing water. Level and dry appear to be mutually exclusive terms on this here hill. Zig-zagging we find nowhere suitable before we reach the lochan and the inviting green swath on the shores of the lochan, on close inspection, is saturated. A forrest of green stalks growing through mirror glass.

What to do? By now, there's a chill wind and it's carrying rain. Things always seem better on a full stomach so we decide to avoid the decision and set about filling the two we've brought with us. We find a spot under a high bluff, out of the wind, complete with a table sized flat slab, pull on waterproofs, tops and bottoms, confirm that Iain's cannisters fit my stove, and boil up water for a dinner and a brew.

We eat, in light rain, but nevertheless eat well and, each having assumed the other would have tea bags, wash it down with a mug of hot water. Only then do we consider options. We could carry on, use up some of tomorrows route looking for drier ground higher on the hill, but we'll have to carry water and I guess that'll expose us to more wind and soon enough bring us into the cloud carrying this rain. Deciding to take a last look I double back, climb around the bluff and scour the saddle looking for a bed. Ten minutes of to and fro turns up a a patch of gently sloping grass, big enough for two, behind a rock step that'll serve well to block one end of the tarp. We set up, crawl under a low pitch, and settle down for a long, wet night.

Normal Service Will be Resumed Shortly

2011-08-13T23:04:00.002+02:00

The pen may well be mighty but, in my hand at least, it's not going to break any speed records. It's been a while since the last post. The Corries are now a distant memory buried, as they are, under the debris of an intense week at work and eclipsed by the family holiday that came right on their heels. My Summer, if you can call the season we've had a Summer, is almost done. Next week will see me back in t' Mill.

The family holiday was something special. Unconventional would seem an apt description. A road trip of sorts, up through Denmark and onwards to Norway. A last minute arrangement born out of the desire to welcome friends to their new home and help them on their way. Those friends were, however, too gracious to put us to work and went out of their way to keep us, especially the kids, entertained. Young kids try the patience. It's written in their job description. Our kids are good at it. Since we've become four, we don't so much visit as descend upon those innocents unfortunate enough to get in the way. The mood swings, bodily fluids and general paraphernalia associated with young kids, is for some, I fear, too much. Our newly Norwegian hosts seemed to take it all in their stride. Norway is at least the ideal place to convalesce after a traumatic experience.

A wet week, in a tent, in a garden in suburban Stavanger is, in reality, far better than it reads. The parents got time with friends, prawns straight from the quay and their Norway fix. Dad got to look at some boats. The kids got to play with the big boys and girls, touched their first trig point, scrambled over their first granite (dad is pleased to report that both the boy and the girl move well on rock) and dipped their toes in the crystal clear waters of the Lysefjord. Blend all that up and you get a smoothie of the Scandinavian magic that, if they've inherited something other than my flat feet and my bad temper, will keep them visiting the North for years to come.

This time out, the younger half of the Hanlons behaved reasonably well by their standards. No really, they did! There are, it would seem, two consequences to using a visit to Legoland as a bargaining chip. The first is better than average behaviour. The second is, in the interest of parental consistency, that Legoland actually has to be visited. As it happens, our stay in Billund on the way back down also held something for everyone. I'm pretty sure Emily got her first adrenaline rush. Mum and dad got to enjoy Emily's response to the place and Benjamin, though he didn't really get the point, did get mainly ice cream and hot dogs. The weather was very summer of 2011. For the most part wet. For the remainder wetter than wet. The point of the wet rides was lost in the noise there somewhere. That said water gun shoot outs on the pirate boats were still fun. There's something deliciously wrong about giving other peoples kids a soaking while you and yours are dressed head to toe in Gore-Tex.

The Grey Corries: The Plan

2011-07-17T00:27:00.002+02:00

"You don't have to be a theologian to see that in our cushioned world, a little bit of physical discomfort isn't necessarily a bad thing. Dawn is fine from between two boulders at the top of kirk fell; but better by far when the new sun is not just brightness to the eye but also the drying out of the sleeping bag after a night of shivering misery. And the day when you park at Pen-y-Pas, walk gently up Glyder Fawr without any blisters, and eat a sandwich in the sun-this is not the day that burns afterwards in the memory."

R. Turnbull

Toddy mailed to say he was getting religion. I reached for my copy. One of the better aspects of turning forty, at least in my case, has been the onset of forgetfulness. I can now read books a second time and not quite know what's coming. My wife dislikes Ronald Turnbull's The Book of the Bivvy. Not because of it's content but rather because she's had to sit and listen to me chuckle as a read it. Twice. It's a great book, Quirky, but great. Turnbull's writing resonates with me. Retrospective delight in discomfort and misery is a recurring theme I can somehow relate to. On Tuesday I'm heading off to Scotland to get me some of that. In what is surely the holiest of scriptures to those who follow the cult of the bag, my trip appears to have been prophesied:

"There's no better way of walking eastwards than off Ben Nevis over all the Grey Corries"

R. Turnbull (after I Waller)

Corrour to Fort-William via the Grey Corries, The Aonachs, Carn Mor Dearg and Ben Nevis. That's the plan. Not an epic (wouldn't dare claim it was an epic even if it was, some folk take a very dim view of that sort of thing you know) but an old standard. All being well, Tuesday afternoon will see me stepping out of the train at Corrour, and the evening of the same day setting up at the eastern end of what's billed as one of the finest high level routes in Scotland. In Scotland and therefore in the UK. After years of running my finger over the cartographers representation I'm now going to walk the real thing. For two days and nights, weather and legs permitting, I'll ride the dragons back, fuelled by thoughts of pies and warm beer, all the way to the glitz of Britains self-proclaimed outdoor capital. The Glasgow train train stops at Corrour and also at Fort William making a linear route possible. I like linear routes. There's something fine about heading somewhere rather than walking around a bit. A nobler goal? More travel than tourism? You'll notice that we're heading in the opposite direction to the quote. I guess if it's good West to East it's good East to West to and I like the idea of walking out of the wilds and towards the showers, bunks, hot food and beer that are all to be had at the Nevis Inn. Besides, this way Ben Nevis, visibility permitting, will be in my sights the whole way.

"When it's too wet for the bag, the bothy: when the bothy's burnt down, back into the bag"

R. Turnbull

In a bivvy bag you're never far from wet. In a bivvy bag in Scotland closer still. Bag alone isn't an option. Down sleeping bags and wet don't mix and, given that I get out so little, I'd prefer to postpone bailing out to the very last. Holding the wet at arms length with a sheet of spinnaker is a better tactic by far. I like the bivvy tarp combo. Bivvy when it's fine. Pitch the tarp when its not. Somewhere to cook, shelter enough to get out of wet clothes and into the bag dry. Shelter minimalist enough to maintain the illusion. Bivvying with a safety net. If it really goes wrong then bail out. This time out Glen Nevis, with a cluster of bothies at it's eastern end and Fort William at the other, provides the low level alternative.

"When I set out over the hills of Southern Scotland, I was chasing a record of Colin Donnelly. Donnelly is one of the fastest hill men in Scotland and roughly twice as fast as me. Each day he ran - very fast - from 9am till 5pm. Each day I ran - rather slowly - from 5am till 9pm and I ended up two days ahead. You don't go far by going fast. Going fast just gets your tired. You go far by going for a long time."

R. Turnbull

The route isn't that long. In total 40km with around 2600m of ascent and 3000m of descent. For the very fit and determined doable in a day? For many I think, doable in two? For a couple of desk bound forty some-thingss though, after the easy 14km walk in from Corrour what'ss left is two big hill days. We'll be going slowly, stopping to refuel and using the long Scottish Summer evenings cover a few kilometres more before laying down to sleep. Slowly, not because it delivers tactical advantage but because we've no choice. It's nice to to know however, that what we are forced to do is the right thing to do.

"A sack below 14kg is the one luxury that matters"

R. Turnbull

If a pack weighing less than 14kg is a luxury then one under 10kg must be bordering on hedonistic. For a trip of this duration, demanding just three days and nights worth of food, I'm expecting to be starting out with under 10kg on my back. For me 10kg is a magic boundary under which the weight I'm carrying doesn't seem to matter any more. The Golite Jam, carries well enough at these low weights and will get a run out because I like the low weight, the bag and the big front pocket. In it will be an MLD Grace Du, MLD event Alpine Bivvy and for once a cannister top gas burner (the Go Systems Fly Ti). They say a kilogram saved of the feet is worth five in the bag. It's been a couple of decades since I wore anything other than boots on a hill. This time the Hanwags will stay in the garage and instead I'll be wearing Inov8 Roclites. Trail shoes of sorts: Roclite 288's or in other words trail shoes masquerading as boots. Whatever you call them they shave just shy of 900g off the weight on my feet. At a 5:1 advantage that should make a difference. I let you know how it goes.

"It's not what you eat it's where you eat it"

R. Turnbull

I like my food. Much better is if it's both what you eat AND where you eat it. How about a spicy chicken Jalfrezi to go with that hill top view of the sunset? Anything's possible in this day and age. Just-add-water freeze dried food, once a necessary evil to keep the pack weight down, has got much, much better. So much so that I'm inclined use it even on these relatively short trips where the weight saving isn't so critical. The man from Fuizion has made another delivery to the low lands.

"It's about the charms of dispossession, about having a lovely light rucksack during the day and an austere and funless evening"

R. Turnbull

That sums it up really. The light pack and lack of clutter and distraction should help me focus on the landscape and enhance the joy of moving through some wonderful country. The relative difference between day time fun and evening austerity as well as the absolute measure of both will depend largely on the weather card we get dealt. Right now, in the period when the forecasts cross the line between pure fantasy and just inaccurate, it's all looking decidedly Scottish! At least the evenings will be spent in good company.

A Quick Run Out

2011-07-02T23:05:00.001+02:00

It was twenty years ago today. Well, if I could be bothered to work it out it'd be twenty years and some days but who's counting. Besides, Lennon wrote better opening lines than I ever will (how does that one from Across the Universe go again?). Getting back to the point, it was twenty years ago, in a brief interlude between finals and vivas, that I first went multi day backpacking with my old pal Iain. Iain's the bloke looking small against a backdrop of Great Gable above (well the finest hill to fall short of 900m is just over 570 times taller than him!). That first trip was in the Cairngorms and was my first trip without a "proper shelter". I average one trip in ten years with Iain. Sunspot activity, as it turns out, can be used to predict, with reasonable accuracy, which summers will see me on the hill with him.

This month we plan to do a route I've long wanted to do: a traverse of the Grey Corries with the Ben via the CMD Arrette tagged on the end for good measure. The plan, is to cram all of that hill into just two full hill days. The plan is to cover all that hill on forty something year old, desk-bound legs. Oh, and did I mention we'll be doing it without a "proper shelter" to? I sense that It's a good thing that my attitude towards plans has always been flexible.

Nomination!

2011-07-02T21:47:00.001+02:00

I've had some luck. The above photo has been nominated by a nice man for the Oppad Readers Photo of The Year competition. Some nice things were said about it to. Later in the year Oppad readers will vote. This, and 53 others, will be in the running. It's funny, I entered a handful of photo's in each of three categories: Landscape, Outdoor and Culture. At first I intended to enter only one in each but impulse got the better of me. I'm now glad I did. This Oyer landscape wouldn't have made my final selection. That brings a smile to my face now. I guess a core skill of the professional is understanding what appeals to others. Even if I wanted to I couldn't make a living out of photography since the former is clearly not a skill I posses. That and the fact that I'm not good enough: chance plays too big a role in my photography. This is only my second published image. Both have been taken in Norway. To my eye Norway looks good through the lens. Apparently it looks good to others to.

Huldreheimen Gear Round Up:Hits Misses and Maybes

2011-05-05T23:55:00.003+02:00

Well then, that’s another one done and dusted. At this time of year I normally find myself holed up inside, tucked away from the grey, wet shit going on outside, wrapping up my reflections on the winter gone and, when all is neatly boxed up, turning my face towards the summer and putting together plans. This year, it’s been hard to find the motivation to write up the winter trip in a way that does it justice. Spending long days in the garden wearing shorts and short sleeves, in the driest warmest spring in recent history isn’t the best mental preparation for evenings spent attempting to put into words my experiences in the wind-sculpted, Norwegian Fjells. As I write this the Huldreheimen are nine degrees of latitude, thrity degrees centigrade and a meteorological season to my rear. Still, there remain just a few things to be said before punching in the last full stop. Mostly they’re about gear but to be of value those comments need to be seen in the context of the terrain and the conditions so that’s where I’ll start.

The Area

I’d love to know how others plan trips in Norway. There’s so much of it that I seem to spend half my life procrastinating about where to go and only laying down the detailed plans in the last minute before midnight So why the Huldreheimen this time out? Before setting out we saw this area as a step up from Oyer. Marked trails rather than pulled tracks but still providing some security and easily navigable bail outs should things go tits up. Likewise huts a plenty. Steeper than Oyer, with the option of much more aggressive terrain should we want to take it on, but comparatively gentle through the valleys and passes. In retrospect much of that fits the reality. I think it’s a good place for those with intermediate Nordic skills to tour, maybe even find a challenge and improve. For the rest, it’s a lovely area that provides long views of some of the big guns of the Jotunheimen. That’s a big positive since it brings with it a feeling of being in the mountains in a way that the softer terrain on the other side of the Gudbrandsdal doesn’t. The negative side, if you’re wired up like me at least, is that you may find yourself wishing you were in the Jotunheimen instead. An observation which brings me neatly back to the start of a long period of procrastination about where to go next but that's a subject for another post.

The Conditions

The character of any trip, summers included, is forged by a mix of terrain, physical and mental state and weather. I learnt this time out that, in winter, the equilibrium is more precariously balanced. Some of my lasting memories of this trip will be of icy snow and wind. In the Huldreheimen we experienced strong, often local, winds that played a major role in determining snow quality, where we spent our nights and the routes we followed. I’m sure, in better conditions a reasonable skier could really get around in the Huldreheimen. I’m also sure that a veteran would consider what we did a gentle warm up and the conditions beer garden conducive. Daytime temperatures were comparatively mild. At a guess the winds we experienced where around 6-7 with gusts of 8 perhaps 9 at the extreme. For those who like their winds in pictures that’s somewhere between “Umbrella use becomes difficult” and “effort needed to walk against wind” with a few intermittent seconds of “Some branches break off trees”. In everyday life just about the worst thing that’s going to happen is that your bin gets blown over, but even that’s not likely to happen if your bastard local authority only empties your bins once a fortnight. That we were dealt winds just shy of two thirds of the way up Beauforts scale is a sobering thought and, bare with me a little longer, that sobering thought is why I am blabbering on about wind speeds so much. Simply put, the knowledge that Mr Beaufort still has the most spectacular gradations of wind induced misery up his sleeve will very likely influence my gear selections for future trips.

The Skis

I used two sets this time out. Waxless, Salamon XADV88’s and Fischer S-Bounds. Although the intention was to take waxing S-bounds the ski hire Mafiosi offered us, on the evening before departure, the Waxless version and, not in a position to refuse, that’s what we took. Wide, and wider still waisted skis which attempt to find an acceptable compromise between tracking and turning ability. They do seem to achieve the latter. Willem-Maarten, a learner on free heel skis, could Telemark on both when conditions allowed. Theo, a good piste skier, could transfer those skills, again when conditions allowed. Me, probably the worst living skier who regularly finds himself in the backcountry on skis, could also make them turn albeit using some sort of mongrel stemming technique the likes of which most of you wouldn’t want to be seen doing in public. I don’t think any of us could have turned as effectively, if at all, on classic double cambered Nordic tourers like the Fischer E99’s.

But what about tracking? Harder to say. Conditions where, for me, often not conducive to effective kick-n-glide. A comparison spanning a year and a world of difference in terrain and snow conditions suggest not as good as Fischer E99’s but that’s a dodgy comparison. Of the two, the XADV 88’s where, as you’d expect, the better all-rounders. But who are we kidding anyway? Throw a rucksack weighing 15kg or more into the mix and the truth is you’re not going to be gliding along like one of the Aukland brothers. At least I’m not. Right now, if I were going to spend my own money on skis, I’d probably buy a pair of XADV88’s. Most would consider them overkill for Nordic touring on comparatively gentle terrain but I genuinely think they provide me with better downhill control than I’ve experienced on other skis. Perhaps that’s just in my head, but even if it is bag it up I’ll take it thanks very much.

Waxed or waxless? I didn’t get the chance to put my newly acquired waxing skills into practice so the truth is any opinion I have on this subject is still shrouded in a mist of ignorance. I have to say though that I’m with the English and against the Irish on this one (by the way, that’s not prejudice, take a look at my surname, it could’ve gone either way). Also notice that I’ve left all Scandinavian nationalities out of the argument. Such discussions are much more fruitful when all parties have no idea what they’re talking about. Although fishscales weren’t doing it for me in the Huldreheimen, given the conditions, when there was snow at all it was patchy frozen old snow and at lower elevations softened up in the afternoons, I don’t think even the best prepared wax wizard would’ve had a spell to suit. My waxless bases where at least ineffective for zero effort. I’ll now retract my head safely below the parapet.

Oh. And one last thing, in case you didn’t already know, full length steel edges are a must. Skiing in the Huldreheimen was all about those things I learnt on my first day of piste skiing and never used again ever. Skiing in the Huldreheimen was hardly ever anything like the fun things I learnt later. Sidestepping, Herringboning, kick turns, falling over and getting up again etc where the most commonly used techniques. Edges. All of it uses edges. Buy more steel!

The Bindings

I’m for 75mm. Probably for 75mm with cables. Why? Again ignorance may be leading me here, but Rotefella Chillies are what I’ve been able to hire here in NL, they’re consequently what I’ve used, they work fine and I’m reluctant to change. That reluctance stems from the tick of the clock. A quick beermat calculation reveals, assuming I’m going to tour six hours a day, five days a year until I’m seventy (and believe me, given my family history that’s aiming high) that I’ve got another 870hrs of quality Nordic time left in me. Screw up one trip with gear that doesn’t work (for me) and I’ve screwed up just shy of 4% of my skiing this side of St Peters gates. Those numbers mean two things. One, There’s limited opportunity for improvement (even if you don’t include arthritis, Alzheimer’s and motor neurone disease in the analysis) and two I’m always going to be pretty conservative about gear choices for these trips.

I think, although in the eyes of most certainly too heavily gunned for the work I put them to, light 75mm cables offer me control (all things are relative) and more stability with a heavy pack. I had more fun with chillies paired with XADV’s than I’ve ever had on Nordic skis before. I’d try NNN’s, especially Magnums, if I didn’t have to commit to them for a whole trip before even clipping in, but that’s not likely to happen. I live in the Netherlands remember! I might not even get a chance to look at them in a glass case before finding myself looking down a steep icy slope with the things under my feet.

What would I spend my own money on? Again don’t listen to me I have no idea what I’m talking about, but if you must know I’d be tempted to go with Voile Hardwire 3-Pin. The bombproof reliability of 3 pins without taking away the cables (and thus without killing dead my fantasy that one day will see me making elegant turns down powder strewn hillsides)?

The Boots

Last time, leather coffins. This time, boot/bucket hybrids in the form of Garmont Excursions. A LOT of deliberation and mail traffic with Breamar Mountain sports and Telemark Pyranees (both of whom coincidently provided impeccable service) lead me to this choice. For the born and bred Nordic Skiers out there, the ones that could telemark turn in rubber boots loosely sellotaped to two 3m lengths of rough hewn douglass fir, if you thought my skis and bindings were overkill you should take a look at these! Overpowered for touring on rolling terrain? Overpowered for XADV88’s? I don’t know. I went with them because a) I hate leather 75mm boots. b) I guessed they would provide better control and was prepared to take the hit in terms of tourability and c) I expected they would be warm and that removable inners would be great around camp/in the huts.

The Garmonts are the lightest plastic Nordic touring shoes (currently) available. Since Willem-Maarten went with Scarpas I had the opportunity to compare T4’s and Excursions. In principle they’re very similar differing in a few details: excursions use a Velcro “power band” to provide extra support in descent and the Excursions are definitely more flexible in the forefoot and slightly lighter. Although I could swap skis with Willem-Maarten our shoe sizes are too different to allow swapping footwear so I couldn’t compare the two in anger but they do differ in fit. The Scarpas are a narrower fitting than the Excursions.

Theory and practice more or less matched up. I came closer to really skiing the down hills in these things than with any other set up I’ve tried (skiing forestry roads down to the valley was just like piste skiing on this stuff, On the whole they were warm, except for one morning after I’d slept with the inners outside of my bag (stupidity should be bagged up and safely locked in the cellar before undertaking any outdoor activity in winter). It was great to have the inner shoes in the tent/around the huts. Even the trade off in tourability wasn’t too bad (remember my technique isn’t great in the first place and, in my opinion kick n’glide with 15kg on your back should be renamed stomp n’ stomp).

The one, huge and hairy, negative is that they caused me pain. Two key words: Prolapsed and arches. My feet are flatter than piss on a plate. If I choose carefully most footwear will conform to some degree to my extra terrestrial feet. Hard plastic shoes mail ordered, sight unseen, from Andora will expect my feet to conform to them. My feet are stubborn (well they’ve been doing it like this for over forty years you understand). The long and the short of it is that the Excursions chewed up my, already deformed, feet. I got nasty blisters at the top of the arch/bottom of the instep on both feet. I also had, inexplicably since they I never experienced pain there, two blackened toe nails. After two days of skiing just putting the shells on was enough to make me wince. Before leaving I posted something along the lines of “there’s no surer way to ruin a trip than by wearing ill-fitting footwear”. I still stand by that statement. When I took them off in the car park in Gausdal it was, without any question, for the last time. The anaesthetic of time now having kicked in, I wonder if I can do something to remedy the problem. Cut off thermofit inners? Good money after bad? Unless I can modify them in a way that ensures they won’t screw up another trip they’ll be up for sale. Any takers? Size 11.5 UK. Only used once. Promise to wash the blood off! If not leather and not plastic then what's it to be? There’s not much left over other than this sort of stuff. Advice welcome!

The Shelter

Big n’light. That’s how I like my shelters. The Golite Shangrila 5 didn’t disappoint. Which ever way you look at it a shade over 1.2kg (outer and pole) for a four man shelter (Golite, playing the manufacturers hand, claim it’s a five man but unless you’re heading out with the Baka People don’t kid yourself) is a superb kg/man ratio. At a little under €250 they’re comparatively affordable too! I wasn’t without reservations regarding wind stability and robustness of construction. The thing is 1m 85cm at the apex so I figured there’s potentially a lot of surface to catch the wind. The 15d ripstop used in the new model also seemed a little light to me. Again a LOT of e-mail back and forth reassured me of the viability of this shelter. Uncle CT in particular very kindly shared his experiences with other models of the Shangrila (3 and 1) and his positive feedback swung it.

How was it in practice? Though we didn’t do so, preferring instead to commune and eat outside, there’s bags of space for four to sit cook and eat and it’s “big enough” to sleep four with winter gear. Frosting up of the single skin, even when containing four breathing, sweating men, was no worse than I’d experienced in my two skin in Oyer.

Practice pitching in high wind before leaving revealed some deflection on the windward side if not guyed up fully. Even with guys strong wind could eat up some living space. In Norway we were careful to choose a low level pitch with some natural shelter and to use all available guying points (corner mid panel and ventilation beak tie outs). We managed to locate a really sheltered pitch so I don’t know how the tent would have faired if exposed to very strong wind. I don’t consider this to be a high alpine tent though and would avoid pitching it in exposed mountain top situations. For winter use I would always construct snow walls or dig the tent in to provide additional security against wind. Since it’s an outer only tent, unless I’d taken the measure of sewing on snow valances, I’d want to dig it in anyway in order to prevent blowing snow coming under the sides. On this trip I’d taken a 70cm pole extension with the intention of digging out more living space. Snow cover was however too light to enable this. The extra construction and guy work means that, although the tent itself pitches in no time, establishing a secure pitch takes some time and effort. My opinion was and still is that, in winter, this is a base camp tent. It is however a good winter base camp tent.

The Snow Shoes

MSR EVO Ascent with flotation tails. I used them in Scandinavia. There. I’ve admitted it. Shoot me down. I originally didn’t want to but there were two pairs in the group and I tried them out for the return from Storkvelvbua for a section I knew would take us over very patchy snow/ice and bare rock. They’re better than skis for that kind of work. Yes, I said that to. Even in Norway. The fact is, at least for someone with my skill level, even on skis, under those conditions, you’re just walking. A kilo or so of close fitting snow shoe takes less energy to move around than a kilo or so of ski where much of the weight is a metre or more from the point of contact with your foot. For those of us not born on skis, skis remain unwieldy, long and awkward when moving through intricate terrain.

One big surprise to me was that snow shoes weren’t vastly slower over ground. That’s of course going to be dependent on the conditions and competence of the skier but in our hands (on our feet?) a mixed group of skiers and snowshoers could, more or less, keep together. Snow shoes are inevitably slower over long easy descents but on steep ground, up or down, which required herringboning or kick-turn traverses, snow shoes claw back some of the difference. I think I still dare to do more on snow shoes. If it wasn’t for the foot thing, in the Huldreheimen, snow shoes would’ve opened up the door for me to bag a couple of those scantily snow clad tops. If it wasn’t for the weight penalty I’d really be inclined to take both. Part of that weight penalty at least could be offset by leaving full-length skins at home. Neither a hit nor a miss but definitely a maybe for future trips?

The Skins

I used skins a lot. I used them on slopes that I wouldn't expect to need skins for. There were times when skinning was the only way I could keep moving forwards. There where times when I kept skinning because I couldn't be arsed to stop to take the damn things off again. Skins are miraculous and provide traction on almost everything. Nevertheless It wouldn't bother me if I never saw a skin again so long as I live they kill almost all your glide and should only have to be used on real steeps. Could kicker skins be the answer for the conditions we encountered. Could these be better still?

The Food

Adeventure foods expedition breakfast continues to be a big hit. It’s good enough to eat! Main meals were courtesy of Fuizion Foods. There have been a lot of posts on these meals. Believe the hype. They’re very, very good. On winter trips, more so than any other trip, food becomes central, at times an obsession. Several times on this trip I felt my mood and outlook swing through 180° after eating a meal. Of course food, more than anything, is highly subjective, but the Chicken Jalfrezi was a highlight of my trip.

The Clothing

There’s too much to give everything a mention. Much of what I used was standard fare anyway. The full breakdown is in the gear list which will follow some time but some notable items follow.

For once I can’t fault my glove system. Montane e-vent outers and heavy pile inners (Resolute), a pair of cheap Decathlon silk liners and a pair of Extremities thinnies. While skiing I used either the silk liners or the thinnies swapping them out as they got wet or conditions required. When the wind picked up I would use either as inners in combination with the shells. Around camp I used the pile mitts. All components got used and it all works more or less. Skiing trashed the silk liners but they provide such dexterity, great when using the camera, that I’d consider treating them as consumables and buy a new pair each winter. Alternatively, in future, I may pack a second pair of thinnies which I can’t fault.

The shells were great, I didn’t get clammy sweaty hands at all and they cut the wind completely. Shock chord idiot loops attached to the shell mitts worked great. I could let them hang loose while operating the camera and when I was finished they were right there. The pile inners were great around camp. They’re a little tight in a large but they’re warmer than Buffalo’s and a more pleasant hand–shaped, shape. They turned out to be great for keeping my balls warm.

This time I swapped out two items, a vapour rise smock and a goretex shell, for a Finisterre Humbolt smock. A Paramoesque item with brushed inner layer and breathable DWR ripstop outer it’s a shell and midlayer rolled into one. I like smocks. I own, erm….several. Apart from the fact that there hangs an air of expedition about them they’re really practical. I don’t need a full zip. If conditions permit fully opening up the zip they probably permit taking the jacket off and stowing it away. I like big chest pockets, they don’t get fouled up under hip belts etc.

Unlike Paramo the Humbolt is close fitting. I went with a size up so as to enable me to use more insulation under it. It’s a soft feeling supple garment that’s pleasant to wear, moves with the body and provides complete freedom of movement. It’s well vented with long side zips, nice for venting but maintaining protection from the weather you're moving through and the cuffs are wide enough to enable sleeves to be pushed up beyond the elbows. Except for during the climb out of Espadalen on the first afternoon it never got overwhelmed and I never had to take it off when on the move. I love the hood! It’s helmet compatible (do surfers need a helmet?), perhaps excessively so, which means that since I never use a helmet, when cinched in there remains a half yard of material left and right to form huge comedy hamster cheeks. It’s not a look I’m particularly keen on but it all functions very well indeed so who cares?

One minor niggle: someone saw fit to work some press studs into the design so that the hood can be folded away into a collar sort of thingy. When testing it out on a foul wet weekend in Zeeland in February, after prolonged exposure, rain penetrated the neck area soaking the the light down insulation underneath. I think the press studs were to blame. I wish designers would stop trying to hide hoods. It doesn’t work, people can still see you’ve got one and the argument that a hanging hood impairs breathability is somewhat mute if, like me, you always have a rucksack on your back. For use in dry cold it’s not an issue. I run too hot to use a garment like this in all but winter conditions but otherwise the leaky neck would rule it out as my rain shell. If I was in charge I’d bin the press studs.

In the Huldreheimen I wore the Humbolt over a base layer (200g merino) and sometimes over a base layer plus fleece gillette (100g). It was mostly just right for activity at my burn rate but the ability to add or take away a light fleece gave me enough room to tune the setup to the conditions. In strong winds, when I, literally almost froze my balls off in vapour rise, the Humbolt stood its ground. I love it, it’s become my go to winter top and I want something just like it for my legs. I can’t recommend it highly enough! Want one? Tough! It’s so good they don’t seem to sell ‘em anymore (Correcton: Maz is right. They still have some on offer for 97 uk pounds. Only in black and only in M and L. Remember you might wan to go a size up?)

My main down insulation for stops and evenings comprised two layers. A MontBell down inner and a PHD Ultra Pully (drishell). When I paired them up for the first time in Oyer it was motivated by a reluctance to spend more yet more money an yet another down jacket to take me down to lower temperatures. I soon learnt that doubling up made a lot of sense. More flexibility. A light jacket to wear for short bursts of activity or for boosting your sleeping system. A heavier jacket for stops in the day time. Two jackets layered up for deeper cold in the evenings. It's good and the MontBell Inner combines well with the PHD Ultra. I'm not the only one who thinks this way. Jorgen does something very similar.

The Sleeping System

Cumulus prime 700 rated to -18°c with two mats a thermarest Z-rest paired with a POE Ether Thermo 6. My sleeping system was, next to the boots, perhaps the biggest miss of the trip. I spent two nights out and on one of them got very cold indeed. I don't understand what went wrong. We weren't expecting night time temperatures below around -5 to -10 °C. We camped in a dip figuring keeping out of the wind had higher priority than avoiding cold air. It may have been considerably colder where we slept but I'm not sure by how much. What I do know is that my bag got wet. Very wet at the foot end. Concern about blisters lead me to break a golden rule: I doubled up my socks pressing my dry camp socks into daytime service. On the first night I kept them on my feet. Was the moisture in those damp socks enough to collapse my bag? I didn't notice undue frost formation on the tent or lots of frost falling on my bag. There will have been some but I don't think any more than the year before in Oyer. On the second night out I fared better. I dried my socks against my torso. My bag was still damp but I slept quite warm. Still, things were damp enough that another night out may have been significantly more unpleasant. Right now I don't have a system that will deal with multiple consecutive nights out and that dissapoints me. Next time I'll be trying something different. VBL or synthetics top quilt that's the question. I suppose the right choice would depend on whether the moisture came from the inside or the outside. Unfortunately I don't have the answer to that question.

All photo’s courtesy Willem-Maarten van Haaften

Huldreheimen: Days 4 and 5

2011-04-29T22:56:00.659+02:00

For some time I lie awake listening to the wind. Hard and unrelenting, moaning through the stove pipe, beating on the windows. The evening before, as I'd turned in, slipping into my warm bag dried over one of those turbo charged Norwegian wood stoves, all had been still and I was hoping for a crisp, blue-sky-day to follow. Here and now, that seems to have been false hope but it always sounds worse when you're inside. It does always sound worse when you're inside right?

When I wake again the wind is still raging. I think briefly of the tent, is this a local wind or has the camp been getting a beating while we've been away? The morning ritual demands an exchange of down cocoon for down jackets and woolen hat in preparation for the walk to the chapel. As I step outside and wrestle the hut door shut I realise the “always worse outside” rule doesn't always hold. At least not in Norway. Done with worship, I head back to the hut to prepare for the day. I wonder what this day will bring. One certainty, we'll be going out in this. This is our last full day and we have to get back to camp.

Breakfast, pack up and suit up. Just another day at the office. The routine, as always, is fluid and effortless after a couple of days. In the course of the first three days everything has shaken down until the order of the roll call has been settled and there's a parking space reserved for all items. I deliberate on what to wear and decide to don everything but my down insulation and my big pile mitts. Well, almost everything. Deciding to keep my long johns on I grant my merino shorts, faithful companions of the last three days, a rest day. There's nothing else in my spare clothes dry bag when I shove it deep into my rucksack. Even the few semi-permanant residents will get a run out today. Today is a buff and goggles kind of day. I look across at my compatriots, three suited and booted extra terrestrials, and see we' re ready to go. I pull those bastard boots onto my feet again and step outside.

We exit the hut and strap on snow tools. Today two pairs of skis and two pairs of snow shoes. I've decided to give snow shoes a go. It means walking with skis strapped on my pack but they seem to make more sense over the rough, snow-poor ground that we encountered the day before and will have to cross again today. As we head off, the thermometer nailed over the door of the hut is reading minus seventeen.Willem-Maarten shouts through his buff and over the bluster of the wind, that every man should take care of his nose.

We climb back up through the little valley that will take us up to the wind beaten top of the day before. Yesterday this had been a sunlit haven sheltered from the wind. What a difference a day makes! Today it's a wind tunnel and a taste of things to come. As I climb over the crest and the cairn comes into view I´m at once exposed to the full force of the wind. A mear gale rather than a storm but the strongest gusts are enough to knock me a little off balance. Skis strapped onto my pack in a high A don´t help. As I keep nosing forwards I become entranced by this place again. The few hundred square meters of exposed rock and ice under my feet may not add up to a dramatic peak but the view is quite special. Perhaps just this day? There's movement of snow and cloud. There's bright blue in the distant sky and softer blue in the ice patches. There's stark black and white of rock and snow. There's drama, in my eyes at least, in the movement of men through this alien landscape. I snatch as many photos as wind chilled fingers will allow.

As I pause to take another image, mitts hanging from idiots cords, I become aware that my legs are cold. I suppose the result of dawdling to take photos. I set off again at a good pace intent on getting blood pumping. It works, but not completely. Today is an experiment in winter clothing and whilst my jacket appears up to the task my trousers aren't. As I move, face into the wind I feel the wind ripping through the cloth and heat being stripped from my thighs. As I move further I become aware of a stinging pain in a place where, those of the avaerage sexual persuasion, would least want such a pain. As I drop over the edge and start the descent into the long North West valley back to the brennhoa I do so with my sticks in one hand and the other hand clutching my crotch. The associated facial expression is at least hidden under my buff. Half a kilometre further, though lower on the hill, things havn't improved and I need to rememdy the problem. That's not as straight forward as is shoud be given that I left my shell trousers in the tent. The boys form a wall to windward while I strip off boots and trousers, pull my spare underpants on over my long johns and stuff my big pile mitts down the front. As I move off with a crotch full of improvised insulation I promise myself I'll think twice and then twice more before stripping down my kit so ruthlessly in future.

Before setting out we'd discussed our options. We figured that somewhere along this valley we could leave the track and, rather than doggedly repeat yesterdays route in reverse, head North somwhere East of the high ground to cut our own tracks for a change. The subject is raised again. I cast a no vote. The thought of battling through this and navigating through untracked snow doesn't appeal. The thought that there's a chance that this could get worse is rattling around in my head. Perhaps I'm letting my dick do the thinking again?

Further along we stop for snacks. Uncommonly we do so standing on skis and snow shoes, backs to the wind. It's clear to all that this will be a short break. The best state to be in is in motion. I raid the snacks stuffed into my chest pocket and take a slug of hot water out of my flask. No sooner have we stopped, or so it seems, than we're on the move again. The option to go cross country seems to have passed us by.

We cut a corner and start the climb to brennhoa. As I stomp past the little slope we played on the day before it occurs to me that the wind has eased a little. I loosen my hood a little and drop my buff from my nose and mouth. Looking back momentarility I realise we now have the wind on our backs. It doesn't seem to make sense since we've turned just nintey degrees. Winds in these places, funnelled as they are through the gaps, are local and unpredicatble.

I top out by the big route sign, clearly built for deep snow but now an oversized tripod with waymakers pinned high up where the text is hard to read, and decide it's time to switch back to skis. The snow shoes have served me well. Moving through the patchy unveven snow was easier than on skis n' skins. Something I find surprising is that I've been able to keep up with the skiers. Every tool seemingly has its place. Now though I want to profit from the long downhill that in know from yesterdays outward trip is just around the corner. There's a little up and down before the descent. The ups are still difficult on these skis on this snow. Energy is wasted backsliding every second step and I have to check my stride in an attempt to firmly plant my fishscales before delivering a reined in kick. In contrast even the slightest down hill has me gliding with ease. Wind from behind is always nicer but never more so that on skis. Soon enough I'm making a long, wind assisted glide down the hill.

All of a sudden, in what seems like no time, we're leaving the main track and crossing the flat before the steep climb to svarttjonnholet. We decide to pause for lunch. Theo heads off into a sheltered dell to scout out a spot. He calls us down but I refuse, point blank, to join him. I'm buggered if I'm going to expend the energy to climb back out of the thing on this crusty shit. Theo, of course, has to do just that. Feeling mean as hell, and guessing that a bite to eat will make me a nicer person, I move a little further along the track until I find a more accessible, if less sheltered, spot. We sit on packs, backs to the wind, and eat lunch. The sun shines and, with a cup of hot soup in me, I start to take in the scene. Between gusts it's actualy warm under the sun. Our lunch spot is sandwiched somewhere between winter and spring.

I switch back to snow shoes for the steep climb up to the huts at svarttjonnholet. First there's just the small issue of that long stretch of wind ridged snow. The going is immeasurably better on snow shoes. Somewhere between my ears hangs an image of me gliding effortlessly over scandinavian snow. It's hard, when plodding along on snow shoes, not to feel a twinge of disspointment. Reality and fantasy, however, seldom coincide. Skis on this rubbish are, I think, just long, heavy and inefficient snow shoes. On the steepest section I even engage the heel lift wires. At once I understand why they're there.

As I reach the crest and make a line for the huts I see people. Not my people but other people. Two men on skis heading in the direction of Espedalen. At first we don't approach them but it seems expedient to assertain where they intend to overnight. If they're heading for the Tonabu then we have one less option. Willem-Maarten starts up the conversation. Two words into the first sentence it's clear that they are Dutchmen. Willem-Maarten keeps speaking English regardless. They indeed intend to sleep at the Tonabu. While chatting four more people appear, two men two women, heading from Espedalen. We assertain that this German party are intent of overnighting in the Storkvelvbua. Willem-Maarten passes on some information about the route. It's now two in the afternoon, they're on skinny skis and are carrying light packs. I don't envy them. Under my breath I wish them luck with daylight and wind. They head off down the slope and, a minute later, there are Germans lying all over the slope and skis making a break for freedom. Having been treated to a glimpse of ourselves we let the Dutchmen make some ground and then leave this rush hour corner behind us.

The tent is still standing. Like a rock! The snow-sofa is bathed in sun and I sit a while, wondering just what all the fuss was about. Here and now the natural violence of this morning seems a million miles away. I feel a sudden pang of deep dissapointment. Why hadn't we made a day of it and gone off-track? Why had I advocated such conservatism? Would I have made another call had I have carried and extra couple of hundred grams of windproof clothing? Instead of sunning myself here I could have been experiencing the real Gausdal Westfjel. I could have been getting some more of those late-evening-in-Oyer sensatations. As it is I've now got several hours to brood on another uncomfortable night in the tent.

To keep my mind off things I get on with melting snow and sorting out my gear. The others get on with finishing the igloo. The structure, although it's clearly wilted a little under the sun, is still standing. Two or three courses and a cap-block should deliver a warm dining room and sleeping space for two. I watch quary master Thim cut blocks and the structure grow. Then, as I'm milling around and looking the other way, I hear three men shout in surprise. I look back just in time to see, for a split second, a compeleted igloo. Reality then dawns. While passing over the cap-block Theo has fallen through the wall. As a result we now have an open plan igloo. A space closed in by a precarious overhanging wall with a gaping hole in the front. Open plan living is better suiteded to warm climates. At best it'll be a sheltered place to eat. Our fate is sealed. We'll be four men in a tent again.

We pass the evening in camp. I don't find the energy or enthusiam to make a trip, to explore the area, to climb one of the minor tops adjacent to the camp. Instead I sit around moping and allowing my excrutiating footwear to take charge again. We sit in the demigloo and eat. I set a fire with air dried wood. Cunningly placed infront of the opeing to the half standing snow shelter so that heat is reflected by the back wall, all I achieve is to smoke the inhabitents out of their burrow. With tears in our eyes we head off to the tent. In the full knowledge that I'm heading full steam into a wall of misery I trudge through the cut in the snow to the tent and wait my turn to climb in. It feels like a bad day. A day in my beloved Norway the highlight of which was a chicken jalfrezi. I tell myself that, often, the best days turn out to be the ones we didn't enjoy at the time. As I crawl into my bag I force myself to make a mental image of that wind swept top with the 360° view and tell myself that right there I got a big fat dose of the very cure I need to keep me going and that the spoonful of curry was just to help the medicine go down.

To my great surprise I awake to the realisation that my night has been warm and comparatively dry. There's still some moisture on the outer and especialy the foot end of my bag but this time it's not collapsed. Perhaps I've learnt a lesson? Unfortunately, right now, I'm unsure what that lesson may have been. I havn't done much else than switch around the order of my sleeping mats.

So this is it. The last day has dawned. Eat, fill flasks pack up and set off just like yesterday. This time though there's the small matter of breaking camp. Thim does most of the work and digging out snow anchors realy does involve some work. His efforts deliver a tent bundled into it's stuff sack and all pegs and parachutes are accounted for. The latter is a small wonder.

We set off, cover the couple of hundred metres to the marked trail and get straight into a nasty section that needs to be herringboned. Out of the shelter of the camp it seems that there may be less wind today. Some ups and downs bring us back to the Angsjobua but not without incident. A short, steep, off-camber traverse has three of us, all those on skis, practicing recovery after a fall. I enjoyed it so much I did it twice. At the hut, Thim decides to switch back to skis for the easy section, mostly on pulled tracks, that will follow. We set off again into what now decidedly feels like the last leg of the trip.

The first stretch is gentle down hill on use track. For me it goes well and instills confidence for the steep fast descent into the valley that I know awaits. This run brings us back to the tracks pulled by the fjellhotel. The first machine made tracks we've seen since shortly after leaving the Tonabu on the morning of the first day. As we wait to regroup, as if from nowhere, the wind picks up again. Thim arives, snow shoe shod and carrying skis. He announces that his skiing carrier is over.

As we set off down the track, for the skiers at least, the difference is remarkable. I kick, and as long as my kick zones bight, the tracks take care of the rest. Even on the shallowest of down hills I barely have to work. If I stand in the tracks the wind keeps me moving forwards. First the tracks then the forrestry road. Things as always go faster in reverse. The road is nothing less than a narrow, twisting, bullied piste. Billiard table flat by comparison with the surfaces of the last few days. We again wait to regroup and then it's every man for himself and the long awaited fast run home. Gliding down I pass a string of day folk heading up out of the valley. None with packs. All presumably intent on doing a circuit of the tracks. If it wasn't for my cautious, perhaps overcautious, partly ploughed decent I would feel superior. As it is I guess I again just look like an Englishman away from home.

All too soon, I arrive at the bottom. Red faced and exhilerated. I'm greated by Theo and Willem-Maarten both wearing wide smiles. Despite the urge to climb back up and do it all again I stay put. It's a long sweaty climb and I've had enough of those for the time being. Only Thim is missing but he duly arives, also smiling, a couple of minutes later. Skis, of course, are faster downhill but the difference, even over a couple of kilometres of fast descent, is smaller than I would have imagined.

There follows the usual process of trying to shoehorn the gear back into the bags and holdalls it came in. Flight ready we leave the carpark and head back down Gausdal to Lillehammer and after recharging with grille polser, hit the main road to Oslo. I'm not sure what the cause is, perhaps the extra day, the cold night or the wind, or my cruel shoes but this time I'm ready to go home.

Huldreheimen: Day 3

2011-04-18T21:43:00.629+02:00

I'd been cold in the night. In fact it was one of the coldest nights outdoors I could remember. Colder even than that bone chiller under the shelter stone in 1991. I'd been out for a piss in the small hours. Though pre-armed with a piss bottle I'd not been able to find it and after fumbling around in the dark for several minutes I'd resorted to taking a trip. Cold before I left I was much colder afterwards. The trip had sucked all the heat out of me, my feet in particular, and my down. After that I'd spent hours, eyes screwed shut but fully conscious, balanced on my side trying to keep as much flesh out of contact with my mat as possible. Sleep had been, needless to say, fitful.

As others start to move I'm still reluctant to get out of my bag. It doesn't make sense. It would be better by far to get up and get moving. To get blood pumping back around my body and into my feet but discomfort and cold don't make for clinical application of logic. Instead I lie watching the others rise, order their kit and one by one leave the tent. Only when Willem-Maarten shouts an offer to put hot water on my freeze dried breakfast do I find the motivation to move. Some say that swearing is unnecessary. Personally I find that there are times when it really helps. Like when putting cold feet into frozen , ill-fitting boots.

As I order my kit and pack the things I think I'm going to need for the day the explanation for my cold feet swings into sharp focus. Dark, wet clumps of down are visible through the outer. The foot of my bag is wet. Not damp but wet through. The rest of my bag has faired better but the foot end now has the insulatory capacity of two sheets of wet yellow pertex. I feel the need to swear for the second time today. As I prepare to leave the tent I find the missing piss bottle under my sleeping mats. I've apparently done a Jorgen, but thankfully before I'd filled the thing up. We're up to three bouts of swearing and I'm yet to eat breakfast. I exit the tent to find Willem-Maarten running laps round the unfinished igloo. Clearly I'm not the only one feeling the cold. I begin to realise that setting up this sleepy hollow, though keeping the wind at bay, has perhaps invited deep cold into our temporary home.

A quick conference reveals that only Theo has had a comfortable night. Both Thim and Willem-Maarten have had a similar experience to mine. Over breakfast we discuss the plan for the day. We have two choices; make a circuit and return to the camp for night three or head for a hut. Though the former promises to deliver some fine off track experiences we choose to head for a hut. It's the only sure fire way of drying out boots and breathing life back into down bags. Storkvelbu, can be reached over a dog-legged ten kilometres or so of staked route. Storkvelbu becomes todays objective. It feels a bit like failure but I tell myself it's a success of planning that Storkvelbu is an easy pitch away.

We fill flasks and go about packing up. With a hut as our goal we can pare down our loads and leave some gear and food at camp. Thim, the least comfortable on skis, chooses to leave them behind in favour of snow shoes. I'm undecided. I want at some stage to try snow shoeing but I'm reluctant to rule out skiing for the next two days. Thim graciously offers to carry the second pair of snow shoes to keep options open. As I rub blister cream into the yesterdays hot spots on my insteps I think things through. Thoughts of ice and steep sections in the first few kilometres of the day has me reaching for skins. I'd sooner fix them on now than after I've warmed up and found my rhythm. Packed up, and happy that the tent is locked down we head out.

The first kilometres up to the Svarttjonholet take us over the rise and fall of a used but unprepared track. It makes for easy navigation if not for ultrafast progress. The snow is irregular wind-sculpted hard pack. The tracks left by those who've skied through before us are now in negative, the soft unworked snow around them having been stripped away by the wind to leave them protruding. At the crests we encounter sastrugi, in the dips deeper snow. The deeper snow, though it tempts me away from the track, is full of false promise and each time I succumb to temptation find myself calf deep with skis submarining under a hard crust.

As the hut at the Svarttjonholet comes into the view my attention turns to my feet. Numbing cold has now been replaced by burning pain. Yesterdays hot spots are back with a vengeance and every heel lift, left and right, has me wincing. I toy with the idea of stopping to put on blister plasters but my stupidity gets the better of me once again. Rather than break the groups freshly found rhythm I bight down and do my best to enjoy the view.

I arrive last at the hut to find that Willem-Maarten has already checked it out. Another hut we'd earmarked as possible shelter in a storm is locked. Still it's nicely situated and the view of the little group of 1400m tops just to the North is free for all to enjoy. I add Storhopiggen to my ever growing list of peaks to be climbed another day and head off in the other direction. I descend the steep hill granny-style with skins still fixed and so, uncharacteristically unpreocupied with falling, can look around. The little tops I'm intent on putting behind me were photogenic but it's the view west and North West that steel this particular show. In the foreground a birch studded flat extends into the distance. In the summer most likely a marshy hell now the perfect charcoal drawn winter scene. Criss crossed by swathes of woodland the view is so long that the furthest trees are just suggestions. Barely discernible black lines on white paper. Behind the furthest trees rises the forecourt of the Joutenheimen. In one turn of the head my list of unclaimed peaks increases ten fold. Long evenings studying the map had promised this view. Now all of Norway is at my feet, the promise has been kept.

Half way down I pause to watch Theo and Willem-Maarten negotiate the slope. We're apparently back on form. In no time there are casualties all over the hill. Neither can execute more than half a turn on the irregular crusted surface. I watch intently as they rise, pick up speed, initiate a turn, promptly bury the outer ski under the crust and collapse once more in a tangle of rucksack and man. They nevertheless pass me and in two or three goes are schussing down the run out. I'm slower, but am glad not to have had to recover from so many falls. Rising from the dead costs more energy than I'd care to burn so early in the day.

There's a kilometre and a half of that winter scene to cross before we pick up the DNT route and swing Southwards for the long gradual climb to the pass through the Brennhoa. It turns out to be close to a kilometre and a half of sastrugi. I keep moving, trying to maintain a rhythm but the lumpy shit under my skis requires that I keep checking my stride and correcting my balance. What should be a wonderful traverse of a picture postcard landscape becomes unpleasant toil. Apart from the few occasions when I force myself to stop, to look up and take in the view and to take a photograph, I just look at my feet and keep moving. As I finally catch up to the group they're already preparing a snow bench for a break I'm dipping and in danger of letting my foot discomfort become the focus of all of my attention. I sit down, pull off my cruel shoes and set about taping up my feet and bending my head back into shape with hot soup, cold sausage and muesli bars.

The DNT route makes for easier skiing. Still no pulled tracks but it's been run over with a snow scooter and has seen more traffic. Before starting out I'd moved to strip my skins but Theo and Willem-Maarten had encouraged me to wait. Their scales haven't been biting and we now face a couple of hundred metres of climb. As a result I find myself still shuffling forwards on skins. My feet are still bothering me but my mood is better. We climb with the long westward view on our right hand and the higher we get the clearer my head gets and the more I start to enjoy myself. The top of the Brenahoa is a nice place to be. For the first time this trip I feel like I'm back in the mountains I strip my skins with a smile and prepare myself for a a long easy descent.

It's with an ear-to-ear smile that I finally catch Willem-Maarten. He spys a smooth wind hardened slope to the right of the track, climb it and descends with a telemark turn. It's a short slope but seeing the opportunity to have some fun we dump the packs and practice some turns while we wait for the others to catch up. Then they catch us up and we just keep playing. This is a chance to enjoy the place, warm up cold skills and to try each others skis out.

Although we've not long since had a break we choose to lunch here and, despite it being on the exposed side, climb the small knoll to take lunch looking west. I'm not likely to get tired of this view in a hurry. The light is long and a bronze tint is draped over the icy foreground. Distant peaks look hard and jagged. There's not a lot of snow here, rocks stud the snow field before us and the tops are a patchwork of white and brown. I guess the skiing up there won't be so great either. As we enjoy the view and our lunch the wind suddenly picks up. There follows a sort of communal knee jerk as, without saying a word, the group rises packs up and gets moving.

Before long we're turning the corner and heading round the back of the Brennhoa and starting the long South Easterly climb that willll take us past the northern shoulder of Nordre Langsua and up to the Storkvelbu. The climb begins with a sharp shock and I find myself herringboning up a steep icy bank. Thankfully it's short. Above the bank the climb is gradual. As we climb we pass over ground increasingly beaten up by the wind which here is funnelled between the surrounding high ground. We cross ice hard snow and patches of grey blue ice in turn. Theo stops to fix skins. I join him. Loosing glide has to be better than wasting energy propelling skis backwards with every other kick.

The higher we get the stronger the wind, the more snow there is in the air and the less snow there is on the ground. Drifting snow dances over the tops of my skis but at times there's precious little under them. On the final steepening climb I find myself skinning over a mix of ice, rock and twigs. I look up and see Willem-Maarten walk and then scramble, skis slung over his shoulder, through rocks ahead. I zigzag taking a longer route around the same rocks and then at once I'm topping out on a wide flat, high and exposed. The wind here is strong and violent but in our backs. Today this is no place to dally but I do nevertheless. I can't help it. These places, so often described as barren are far from it. They're full. Full of texture, full of light, full of energy. Full of something that keep pulling me back.

We pass a large well built cairn and it's obvious we're back into the land of the DNT. A few meters further and we drop into a v-shaped valley and just like that the wind stops and I feel sun on my face. As I drop through the little valley a collection of neat huts appears in the route of the V. A few meters further and I'm amongst them. Thim, who's covered the whole distance on snow shoes has arrived before me.

We're spoilt for choice. We have one key but it opens two huts. After some debate we choose the smaller of the two. Then, all at once, the great outdoors is safely shut away outdoors.

Huldreheimen: Day 2

2011-04-10T23:04:00.002+02:00

I wake early but roll over intent on staying horizontal for a while longer. Although I'd opted for a bench (only fair since I'd made Thim sleep on my sofa the night before) it's comfortable and even the inside temperature doesn't invite activity. Willem-Maarten is up and about, setting a kettle of water on the stove for breakfast and flasks, already preparing for what's to come. After a few more moments of contemplation I find myself pulling on cold down in preparation for the morning ritual. My bowels must surely be my number one inspiration.

Outside of the hut the day hits me in the face like the slap of a wet cloth. All at once I'm on a Norwegian Fjell in winter, the wind is blowing, intermittently but hard, and brings with it flurries of snow. Falling or drifting? It's hard to tell but there's a light covering of powder in the tracks we left the evening before.

Regardless of the less than adventurous surroundings breakfast is a pouch of expedition oatmeal. Packing follows and, a night in the hut requiring little to be unpacked, it's with uncharacteristic speed that we're heading out of the door to bind on skis and get moving. Stripping off layers and getting started is never pleasant but the contrast between the hut and the great wide open adds several levels of reluctance to the whole. For the second time today reality slaps me up. With little hesitation we're off. At first backtracking the route of the night before but we soon leave the wide, prepared trail for a birch twig marked, snow-scooter trail. From here on in this is the most we can expect. No more piste-bullied snow and ruler straight ski-breadth grooves in which to plug-n-play. Now just hard pack and use tracks requiring at least some concentration and control of the skis. It feels good to be heading in the right direction, both metaphorically and physically, for the first time since since six yesterday evening.

Going is surprisingly difficult on this stuff. Use and wind have made for an uneven surface and my fish-scales aren't bighting down on the cold morning snow. As we pass through the scrub the wind rises and ebbs. One minute just a background noise the next a solid shove in the back. Each gust carries before it a tide of spin-drift snake-dancing through the trees following the contours of the snow covered ground. The wind is at once visible, it's nature, chaotic raw energy, betrayed by tracer bullets of powder snow. The lower legs and feet of my companions dissapear intermittently into the ground hugging white out. I'm thankful that the wind isn't stronger and that it's my heels and lower legs that are taking the beating instead of my face.

We ski at a steady pace for an hour and half and on reaching the Northernmost tip of Nedre Angsjoen, break for a drink and a snack. From the map I'd expected just a single hut but there's actually a whole complex of buildings on the ground. Although the map suggests there's an open hut here none of the buildings saving a two-by-two outhouse is open. We'd looked into the possibility of using the marked hut for our first night but had been advised that it wasn't “suitable for spending the night in”. Apparently that's the Norwegian way of saying “It's locked and you would have to sleep in the dunny”. Although expressed in a strangely roundabout way we are now very happy we heeded the advice. Using one of the huts as a wind break we sit, munch and sip in the sun. It's realy quite comfortable this land of fairies. Sat here I'm again overwhelmed by a sense that the trip is yet to start in earnest.

We move on following the undulations of the marked trail along the western flank of the frozen lake, sheltered in the dips and buffeted at the crests. Another kilometre and a half of the same puts us in the area where we'd intended to make camp on the first night. We're still intent on making camp here the plan being to dump a fair portion of our carried kit and to make trips from a static base. A change in that plan isn't a happy option. By engineering a base camp into the arrangement we've opened the door to packing in more gear; two pairs of snow shoes to experiment with, an igloo building tool, a snow saw, an extra burner and some other bits and bobs will come this far and no further.

We scout around to the South of the track but find no inspiration. I'm taken by surprise, again, at just how difficult it is to move off trail. Sometimes irregular hard pack, sometimes crust covered powder, more often than not containing an abundance of twigs and branches the snow never instils confidence in fish-scales or edges. Crossing back to the North of the track we drop into a birch-flanked re-entrant running South-South-West up to the Northern side of the little lake Vardtjonna. The aspect just right and the dip just deep enough to put us out of the wind, and although there's a risk that we'll be pitching in a cold trap, the wind is viscous and we are seriously tempted. We decide to make our home here. Its midday and if we get a move on with setting up we may yet get chance to do a circuit before dark. Setting up however, will involve more than just putting up a tent this time. We have a five man tent which is, at a pinch, big enough for four with gear but our aim is to build a snow shelter to accommodate half the group. With one shelter in the bag we can play around developing winter skills with a safety net. We stamp down two platforms, extract the necessary gear and promptly sit on our asses and wait for the platforms to harden up.

The sight is a pleasant one. It offers a good view of the high ground to the South and West and complete shelter from the wind that is clearly still playing around the tops. Setting up the big mid is straight forward but takes me longer than I'd anticipated. Given that the tent will be standing for three days I want as many pegging points and guys tied down as possible and we're so surprisingly short of snow that getting snow anchors set proves to be tricky. Factor in the additional effort required to cut down the home made pole extension, again due to the shallow snow depth, and for walling in the periphery of the single skin and the whole things takes me over an hour. I really need to get quicker just in case I ever really need to be quicker.

Finished with the tent I go and take a look how the others are progressing with the Igloo. The first few blocks are down already and Thim is shovelling snow into the home-made Igloo tool as Willem-Maarten packs it down. It appears that, the powdery Huldreheimen snow is less than ideal for the task in hand. That, or as reported by so many others, there's a skill to this that needs to be developed. Still it looks to be coming together. Surely if slowly.

Before long we're all involved in the build. The Igloo tool is set aside in favour of sawn blocks quarried from the wind hardened flat stretching out in front of the Igloo sight. The structure grows more quickly but it's still difficult. Some blocks stick, others don't. Snow, it seams, is a many faceted substance.

Afternoon turns into early evening, breaks are taken to snack, melt water, and construct a sheltered kitchen area. I mill around taking photo's, watching the change of light and the lengthening of birch cast shadows as the sun begins to dip. We all enjoy the last warming rays of sun as we add some more courses to the Igloo and then, with the realisation that we won't get done this day, eat our eveing meal under a cold dark sky and prepare ourselves for a night in a tent just big enough for four.

Huldreheimen: Day 1

2011-04-08T22:44:00.000+02:00

Some idiot had checked in and then hadn't boarded the plane. Offloading the bags together with the interminable taxi to the furthest Schiphol runway added an extra hour to the journey North. The loss of two of our bags, thankfully temporarily, at Gardemoen another 30 minutes. Looking at the same problem from the other end we now have an hour and a half less daylight to get where we want to be: up the hill, onto the fell and beyond the tree line to a likely looking camp sight. Here, in the car park next to the Espedalen Fjellhotel, out of the wind and under a warming sun, the plan still seems doable. Here in the car park, cradled as it is between the steep sides of the Espedal, the severe weather described in the Norwegian meteorological office bulletin doesn't appear to have made an appearance. I know, however, with some certainty, that up on the tops things are very different. I've just spent the last ten minutes gorping up at the long ridge of the Leppkampen from the passenger seat, jaw dropped open, watching a long shimmering plume of snow being stripped from the hill and carried hence. In an earlier mutation of the plan we'd have been heading right into that maelstrom. Thankfully not today. Hopefully not today!

Twenty minutes of faff sees us on skis with packs on our backs. We move off through the car park heading for the steep bank which will take us to the tracked route across the lake. I know I can get down the bank in one. This time out I've got skis and boots that afford more control in descent. Armed with that knowledge and the confidence it instils I push off down the hill checking my speed with a light plough, make a nice controlled turn to my right and a fraction of a second later find myself sprawled flat out on the frozen lake. At least this way I get to practice returning to vertical carrying a full pack. That's apparently a skill I can't do without.

We cross the lake, herringbone up the opposite bank and proceed to faff around for another few minutes trying to identify the right track out of the valley. After a short up and back down on the wrong track we hit the forestry road that should serve to make our lives easy for a good portion of this afternoons route. Steep but machine-prepared, compacted snow should make for an easy enough climb.

We cover a half a kilometre or so of not so steep and then the climb out of the valley starts in earnest. In parts it's steep and slick enough to require real effort and concentration and before long two of the group are fixing on skins. I choose instead to walk the steepest sections with skis slung over my shoulder. The compacted snow makes for easy walking and I'm glad to keep the my skins safely in the bag for now.

The climb is uneventful. A long drawn out affair through tall pines. Sheltered but in shadow we get no indication of what's in store. No sneak preview of the planned route. No long view to hold the eye, draw attention away from the toil and pull us up the hill with the power of promise. The work rate is high enough to force a sweat but the effort not enough to keep me focussed on what I'm doing. My mood isn't good. The euphoric buzz of the first few kilometres of past trips hasn't shown up. My head is still too full of life, the journey and luggage incidents and as we climb further, and the light quickly fades, positive thoughts are few. If we stick to the plan we'll be skiing and setting up camp in the dark. Not ideal. Not as intended.

We reach what, at first sight, appears to be the end of the road and start out along a narrow trail leading off into the trees. Realising this isn't the right trail we backtrack, find that the road continues further into the gloom, and carry on as before. A little later conifer gives way to birch, the slope shallows out and we get our first view of Megrundskampen. With the view comes the wind. A little later still we pause, layer up and take on calories. Chewing snacks and weighing up options we decide to fall back on our contingency plan. Tonight will see us, instead of setting up camp above the Ovre Agnsjoen, in the Tonabu. The Tonabu, though marked on the Tuurkaart as a simple emergency shelter, according to local knowldege, is in fact a well equipped and comfortable open hut. The detour North will take us three kilometers or so further from where we want to be but will keep us below the treeline, negate the need for setting up the tent and put a roof over our heads on what seems to be shaping up to be a blowy night. Deal done, and aware of the ever fading light, we pack up and move along.

The route to the Tonobu is prepered but a combination of use, freeze-thaw and wind has made it less than well prepared. Nevertheless it's well signed and easy to follow. The shelter offered by the leafless stands of birch is intermittent and the route offers enough exposure to the wind to suppress any feeling of disappointment. Tonight, it seems, is a hut a night.

The last kilometre offers some interest in the form of a short steep section of track and a descent in the dark but it's short lived. The rest of the evening, saving a short trip outside to stand and stare at the stars, is spent in the comfort of the hut with full bellies, hot tea and a crackling wood stove. As I ready myself for bed it's with a strong sense that the trip is yet to begin in earnest. Still, I'm in Norway, and experience tells me that that means there's real potential for improvement right on my doorstep.

Back on the Flat

2011-03-26T21:49:00.007+01:00

I've now put a week at work between myself and two weeks of winter fun in Norway. Two distinct flavours of fun; first a week of Nordic touring (fun in an alternative sometimes non-fun kind of way) and then, hard on it's heels, a week of downhill skiing with family in tow (fun in a more conventional, fun-fun kind of way). As I write my feet have stopped hurting, the holes in my heels have filled up nicely and two angry purple toe nails are about all that's left to bear testament to my foot nightmare. A pointed reminder of earlier lessons that plastic boots made on a last of the average (no doubt average Italian) foot don't work for my far from average (non-Italian) feet. Feet aside, from the ankle upwards, everything worked just fine and saw me admirably through the whole arrangement.

That there was any skiing at all in the second week was a small miracle: this is the first holiday we've taken AK (for the uninitiated that's Anno Kid) that's actually been anything like a holiday! Both mum and dad got to put in a couple of hours a day on the boards. In turn rather than in company but expectations were nevertheless hugely surpassed. Not that the kids didn't try their best to scupper things, although they've not been sick for months, both were either sick before leaving or sick during the holiday. I'm sure they conspired to be so: “Okay Benjamin, we leave for Norway next week, I'll contract an inner ear infection three days before we're due to fly if you do your impressive diarrhoea trick when they get you in your new ski suite. Deal?”. Lay folk think that kids start from scratch and learn as they develop. I now know otherwise. Kids know as much as we do from birth and just gradually admit to knowing more so we don't get suspicious. If they sense an opportunity to throw a spanner in the works they'll be reaching for a Cr-V-Mo drop forged adjustable the moment you look away.

It turns out that kids and skiing are a better combination than I'd dared to imagine. I have to admit that I was a little concerned about Emily's reaction to lessons. She's not started school yet and taking instruction is something she's niether well practised in nor well suited to. Mix that in with a few spoonfuls of reserved character and caution when confronted by all things concerning speed (bicycles etc.) and an expectation of obstinate refusal to take part was hard to suppress. To my surprise, apart from the occasional up-welling of a three year olds DON'T-WANT-TOs (foot stamping is at least made somewhat more difficult when wearing boots and skis) it all went swimmingly. So much so in fact that after three days she was ploughing down the nursery slopes whilst eating chocolate biscuits with a look of nonchalant aplomb. Relaxed skiing by anybodies standards! Benjamin, though too young for lessons, and although we, being pushy parents, tried him on skis anyway, found diversion rolling around in the snow like a dog and in his amazing all-singing-all-dancing, hitech sledge. (my steadfast opinion that the traditional wooden sledge is the only real sledge was severely put to the test!).We already fear the worst for Benjamin's first ski lesson. Stretcher bearers at the ready!

On the amongst-the-outdoor-fraternity-much-maligned subject of lift-served skiing I'm also changing my opinion. I saw its good side in Skeikampen in mid May. In these days of inactivity and creeping obesity seeing young and old, often as not whole families, toddlers to grandpas, spending long days active in the outdoors is a heart warming sight. Yes it's commercialisation of the outdoors but so is the ugly monster that the gear industry has become is it not? Yes it puts a bunch of unsightly ironmongery in places where we should least want it to be but I wonder, can the books be made to balance? Perhaps some level of infrastructure is acceptable in the light of creating safe, accessible environments for young and old to enjoy mountain air, and to sow a seed of enthusiasm for mountain sports in the next next generation? I can't help but feel that Norway has come close to striking a balance with it's modest developments, family oriented attitudes and bring-your-own-sandwiches-nothing-to-do-in-the-evenings approach. Whatever it is it's a million miles from the huge interlinked, apres-ski-hell of the Alps.

Whatever the ethics I expect a winter holiday in Norway will become a Hanlon Family standard from now on. There's something for everyone. New skills and snow fun for the kids, a chance for parents to charge batteries and, in time, great potential for doing stuff together as a family. For my part, I thought I'd got piste skiing out of my system but the truth is it's still great fun: I can ski harder and more aggressively on-piste than I would ever dare to in the backcountry and that's got to be good for my technique and improve my competence and enjoyment of my backcountry trips. Besides, watching my kids master, at under four, a skill I'm still wrestling with is an addictive pleasure. I'm expecting more tears in my eyes and lumps in my throat for years to come! For now though, we're all skied out.

Huldreheimen: Back in from the cold

2011-03-10T23:16:00.001+01:00

Five days. Four nights. Brutal, cutting winds. Collapsed bags and chilled to the bone sleeplessness. Chewed up blistered feet. Icy crust, windblown hardpack, kilometers of sastrugi, falls and frustration. Lots of "why do I do this". On the other hand, more than a fair share of sunshine, long, oh so long, views, long, oh so long, light and landscapes that drop your jaw and take away your ability to speak. Can't wait to go back! In fact, as luck would have it, I am going back. I'm heading North on Saturday morning for a week of lift served skiing in, of all places, Gausdal (I could save myself a lot of money by moving to Norway!). "Tut, tut," I hear you say, "earn your turns". I reckon, after last week, I've got some turns in the bank. Besides, Emily's only three and it'll be a few years before she's dragging her dad off to cold camp in the backcountry. More on the Huldreheimen trip when I get back.

Huldreheimen: Ready for the off....

2011-03-02T12:00:00.002+01:00

Winters hanging on for grim life here in NL but the first signs of spring are starting to show. Time to get outa here! Head North and enjoy the ice Queens cold embrace one more time before it's too late I say! All being well an alpine start on Friday morning should see me on the hill in the early afternoon. Hopefully with daylight enough to put up the tent and construct the outbuildings. Am I ready? Well, unless I've forgotten something, which is quite possible, everything I need is piled up in a heap in the bat cave. Now I just need to make a final selection based on the forecast and see if it fits in my rucksack. The forecast suggests temperatures will be hovering a few degrees above and below zero. Truth be told, even after subtracting a couple of degrees for the altitude, I find these temperatures more challenging than deep cold. It's all going to be about managing the moisture!

On the subject of that pile, there's a lot of new and untested kit on it. Amongst the newbies are a shelter (a mid so I'm finally going to find out what all the fuss is about), new sleeping mats (a new mat combo, born out of the need to retire my downmat, that may be just a little light on insulation), a new jacket (mid layer and shell in one?), new ski boots (plastic buckets this time!) paired with very different skis (wider and waisted) and a new make of freeze dried food. I'm wondering how this is going to go? I'm most curious about the ski and boot combination. Chosen for it's potential to ward off face plants it could go either way. I'm generally conservative about footwear. In my experience the equation reads: Sore feet = Misery = Ruined Trip. I'm also quite curios about the shelter. I've had little opportunity to try it out here but recent storms have at least taught me that it can deal with strong winds. Heading out into the winter with an untested tent is not normally something I would recommend but this time out there are lots of potential bail outs should conditions take a turn for the worse and then there's always the shovel. I’ll let you know if experiment supports the theory.

Huldreheimen: The Plan

2011-02-07T21:53:00.002+01:00

It's been a bit quiet around here lately. That doesn't however mean that nothings been happening. In fact, there's been quite a lot of outdoorsy stuff going on, albeit almost all of it indoors. Plans, of sorts, are made, tickets are paid for, hire gear is reserved and purchases, some big, made. A course in the black art of waxing skis has even been followed. Serious stuff, all of it.

So where are we heading and what will we do when we get there? The first question is easy to answer. Gausdal Vestfjell, a.k.a. The Huldreheimen on the first weekend in March. Not for us the Jotunheimen, the home of the giants. No for us instead the home of the fairies. But, before you start pointing and laughing, you should take a look at the sort of fairies that have made Gausdal Vestfjell their home. They're not your run of the mill winged, tutu wearing, star-tipped wand waving variety. No, these are a different breed altogether, and probably related to the "rock-ard" and malicious fairy folk of the Scottish unseelie court (where else but in Scotland would fairies be responsible for gang violence?). It seams the huldra, hiding their cows tails and taking on the appearance of stunningly beautiful, sometimes naked women, with long hair, lure men into the woods for sex. However, it's not all good news, if they're not impressed the man doesn't live to tell the tale. Theo had better be careful!

The more difficult question to answer is what are we going to do when we get there. More difficult to answer because we're not completely sure. The "plan" is to start out from Espedalen and head uphill, more or less due South until, probably somewhere around the Agnsjoen lakes, we set up camp. What happens beyond that point will depend on mood and weather. There are plenty of options for day trips and there are plenty of huts in the area should there be need for more substantial shelter .

The photo at the head of this post is an interesting one. If I'm correct, it was taken, almost exactly a year ago, looking approximately due west from our camp on Oyer Fjell. Little did I know as I pressed the shutter, or the many times I've looked at the image since, that the distant hills framed between the trees would be the venue of my next winter trip. I'm looking forwards to getting a closer look!

Tick Test: Lyme Disease Self Tester Kit

2011-02-03T22:40:00.000+01:00

Just occasionaly a product comes along that realy makes a difference. I think this, from the Dutch travel health company Care Plus, may be one of them. If you've ever read about the possible consequences of a single miniscule tick bite then you will recognise the potential value of this piece of kit. My last encounter with a tick was two summers back when my then one year old daughter picked one up on the steep wooded climb to Cruachan Dam from the shore of loch Awe. A day elapsed before we noticed the tick and for several weeks after we worried about lyme disease. If we'd have had one of these it may have spared us some heartache. I can't vouch for it's efficacy and I suppose that some doctors may not be inclined to reach for antibiotics on the strength of this test alone but I do think that, at the very least, a positive result will help support a later clinical diagnosis. I for one will be packing one of these for the warmer months.

Montane Resolute Mitts: First Impressions

2011-01-02T23:32:00.001+01:00

Imagine my surprise when I found a pair of Montane resolute mitts under the tree on Christmas morning. Ever since I saw them here I've been wanting a pair of these. WANTING you understand. Either Santa saw fit to grant my wish or he misplaced his own after taking them off to down the mince pie and glass of malt. I think the latter explanation is entirely plausible. Living at the North Pole I expect he knows a thing or two about gear for cold climates and these look like just the thing for high altitude winter slee rides! Either way, they're mine now, even if that means I'm off his list for next year.

So what about the mitts? Well, first impressions are good. Very good indeed. "But", I hear you say, "at £70 a shot they'd have to be". And you'd be right too. So what exactly do you get for your hard earned? Well, for a start, you get four gloves and that's two more than you get in a standard cash for gloves transaction.

Two of the four are lobster claw, pertex inners with heavy fibre pile insulation. Pertex/Pile, sound familiar? It should do, it's been around a long time! Buffalo clothing systems are built on the principle and anybody who's worn buffalo clothing will tell you it works. Pertex blocks the wind and the pile serves the double function of insulating and transporting moisture away from the skin. As long as you're active this stuff will still feel warm when wet. Still not convinced? I agree. In principle that's not enough to command a market value of £70, you can get seven buffalo mitts for that ammount. So what else do you get?

Well, the pile is heavier than that found in the iconic buffalo mitts and there are times when I, for one, will be happy with the extra insulation. You also get alien clawed loveliness. Don't knock it. It's not a gimmick. I think the trigger finger/lobster claw/whatever you want to call it is useful: for me more dexterity equals less excuse to strip my gloves to get things done and not having enough personal discipline to refrain from doing stupid things with bare hands in stupidly cold conditions may get me into (entirely avoidable) trouble one of these days. I need all the help I can get. Moving right along with the Buffalo comparsion you also get a better product. I love my Buffalos (I realy do) but there's no avoiding it, they're constructed using the simplest pattern concievable for a mit: two pannels joined with a single seam forming the main body and a thumb that sticks out of the side at an inhuman angle. There's nothing wrong with that, it works adimirably but there's a lot more work in the resolutes. The seams are gussetted , the thumb and trigger finger are where they should be and you get an elasticated wrist. I'm not sure that all adds up to better functionality but I think it probably will. At the very least the fit is better.

“Okay, okay” I hear you say, “so the Resolutes are put togther better and are nicer to look at than the Buffalos but still, come on, £70 for a pimped up fibre pile mitt?” Again I'd have to agree, but then again I don't think you're paying for the inners. The other two mitts are, according to Montane, take a deep breath, fully taped eVent shells with hypalon reinforced palm, flocked microfleece nose-wipe, single-hand adjustable elasticated cuffs, locking wrist cinch, reflective trim and D-ring attachment points, breath again. That's not just a long list of technical features there's some useful stuff in there.

First up the wrist cinch. Webbing through a ladderloc with a bite-down rubber end cap. Tightening and loosening can be done with a mitted hand or with the teeth. Next up the elasticated cuffs, with captive cord grip, can be operated with one heavily-insulated hand. It's hard to fault the moving parts and the pre-fitted D-ring saves me from adding one to attach the essential idiot cords.

There are four materials used in the shell. The nose wipe is a fine microfleece, warm to the touch and no doubt easy on a much-rubbed red nose. Sounds disgusting I know but some sort of drip control is required when active in the cold and fumbling around in pockets for tissues isn't an option. Then there's heavy hard-wearing cordura in the gusset between front and back pannels and Hypalon on the palm and the working face of the thumb. Hypalon is a synthetic rubber more commonly used in the construction of inflatable boats and rooves. It's so applied because it can tollerate temperature extremes and UV light. I guess here it's a hard wearing layer that offers rubbery grippiness but I suppose the choice may also have been motivated by performance at low temperatures. The balance is 3-layer e-Vent hurricane which, if nothing else, is supple and looks realy nice.

Like others I'm not entirely convinced by the requirement for waterproofness and breathability for normal use in cold climates and if I look criticaly at the use of e-Vent here I'm still not convinced about the breathability argument: the e-Vent is mainly on the back of the hand and around the wrist and the complexity of construction (I count 11 seams!) means there's a great deal of tape used. Nevertheless I'll be happy to have these shells on when the wind is blowing, during hand-to-hand combat with the white stuff when setting up camp and when using ski-poles (an activity that eats up more lightly constructed gloves).

So are the resolutes worth £70? My conclusion is a resounding yes, to me they are. I think they'll prove to be a fantastic winter glove. I'd happily pay £50 for the shells and £20 for the inners is a more than reasonable price in the context of the price of a pair of buffalo mitts. My first impression is that these are well thought out and well made. They are also more than just an item of clothing they are the basis for a working system to keep my hands warm in different conditions and circumstances. I can of course now pair these shells with any other glove or mitt and on my next winter trip I'll carry the resolutes for camp duty and a pair of lighter gloves like extremeties thinnies for use when under way either on their own or paired with the shells. I'll let you know how it all works out when I know myself.

An afterthought, just a closing remark about fit: I'm usualy a large (10 or 11 in glove size). I bought the resolutes in a large. The shells are perfect, roomy enough to swallow my hands dressed in anything from my current glove arsenal but any bigger and they wouldn't articulate well with my hand. The inners, however, are a snug fit. I'd preffer more space in the inners so that they could be paired with liner gloves and could be removed without stripping liner gloves from the hand. Large was on balance the right size for me but I'd recommend trying on a size up if there is opportunity to do so before purchasing.

Also, for the gram counters: in a large the inners are are 52g, and the shells are 65g a piece. These are winter mitts!

In With the New!

2010-12-28T14:11:00.004+01:00

Things have been a little quiet around here of late. In terms of priority work has taken a close second place after family. There’s been a lot of writing going on but none of it about the outdoors. The New Year may bring some changes in that respect. Lets wait and see.

On reflection it's been a good outdoor year. Trips were thin on the ground as usual but what came my way was top notch. I got my share of snow in a wonderfully wintery Oyer and summer saw me back in Norway, my beloved North country, enjoying good company and the great outdoors on Seiland. I went some way to rediscovering that there's fun to be had closer to home to (I'd advise anybody living here to take to the water!). Just lately their have been walks in the frosty dunes and sledging!

December brought dire conditions on the roads, transportation chaos, the worst winter weather since, erm, last winter. The conditions have again uncovered gaping holes in our readiness for, erm, winter in wintertime. The winter has started well!

Although we're seeing the year out in the Netherlands this year and consequently didn't get a run out in the peaks somebody, somewhere still managed to put the magic back into Christmas: presents were opened and turkey was gobbled with ba ba ba bing doing his thing to a backdrop of real, and no mistake, freshly falling snow. Magic!

So now out with the old and in with the new. I wonder what the year has in store? For me there's at least one trip coming into view. Somewhere in the background, a low-pitched hum against the razamataz horns and drums of the festivities, a plan has been taking shape. Early March will see me in the Huldreheimen! Watch this space.

Wishing all who come to this place and make the effort to read my scribblings, especially those who make the effort to leave comments and most especially those who repay my effort in kind and inspire me to keep going, much happiness down the trail in 2011!

Nieuwkoopse Plassen

2010-11-12T23:41:00.001+01:00

Nine AM. The half-light of a chill wet November Sunday. Five friends. Early? Used to be. Not any more. Car boots full of bags. Bags full of boats. A half hour of boatbuilding and banter. Catching up. Remembering a forgotten knack. Which rib first? Which one next? Pass the mallet! E Voila! Three boats. Two big and green, one small and red. More bags. Dry bags this time. Gear. How much gear? It's a day trip! Food. How much food? Well it's for five strapping lads and it's cold. Okay not so very cold but it is wet. It feels cold. Paddles. Bung em in and get changed. Back pain? Back pain! Ibuprofen! Good to go? Good enough (I think). Lets find out. Look left, look right, cross the road. Boats to water. One, two, three. Paddle strokes. Turn the bow, face forwards, put the concrete behind. Which way? Check the map. Turn the corner and follow the channel. Turn the corner. Narrow channel! Just two boats wide. High reeds! Silence! Paddle on. No not silence. Plunging paddles, gurgling bows, wind, rustling reeds. Magical sounds. Which way now? Left then right then onto the lake. A left then a right then open water. Big water. Wind? Some wind. Wind from behind. Where we headed? Check the map. Left of the spire? Think so. Paddle. Stay alert now. Not a good place to tip. Kayakers! Four abrest. Hi. Hi back. Ride the swells. Into the channel. Skirt the village. Past the house boats. Sleepy Sunday. Wet Sunday. Cold Sunday. Nobody about. Which way now? Left, skirt the island, follow the shoreline, left again. Peat island. Beach boat, walk on water, fool around. Back into the reeds. Better. Much better! Cormorants. Geese. Jet planes. Deeper into the reeds. Better still. Which way now. That way! Paddle on. You sure it's this way? Actualy, erm, no! Small channel. Three boats wide. Overhanging trees. Silence. No not silence. Plunging paddles, gurgling bows, dripping drops. Wilderness? No. Definately not, but, close one eye and imagine. Feeling cold. Too cold. Unexpectedly cold. It's November not February. Holland not Norway. Stop for lunch. Click of piezo, roar of gas. Soup. Pea soup! Suasage. Smoked sausage! More banter. Laughter. Good friends. Cold? No warmth and belonging! Back to water. Paddle strokes. Turn the bow. Follow the channel. Out of the reeds into the meadows. Wind! Into the wind. Twist and turn. This way and that. Past the cows. Men without legs levitating through fields. Back into the reeds. Turn right. Flat water. Mirror smooth. Long light. Golden, warm, rich. Magical. Nearly there? Yes, just along there? Still early! What to do? This way or that? That way. Then back again. This way too. Raft up. Drift. Still more banter. Swap paddles. Fool about. Time? Time! Paddle back in. Slowly. Reluctantly? Perhaps. Haul out the boats. Look right, look left, across the road. Break 'em down bag 'em up. Banter. Cafe? Cafe! Beer? No beer. Coffee and apple pie! Banter. Talk of winter, snow, skis and muskox! Good day? Good day! Realy good day!

Scotland

2010-10-30T22:35:00.000+02:00

Chris Townsends new Cicerone guide hit the mat this morning. With a thud. Chris says that this book was six years in the making. I can believe it. Scotland in one book! Not a light undertaking I'm reasured by the fact that it took so long. I would always hope that the authors of such guides have walked the walk. You just know that Chris has. At first glance the book looks ordered, well written and beautifully layed out. Chris's easy but authoratative style, recongisable from his TGO columns and blogs, has thankfully survived the editors hand. The man and his love of the hills shines through. I especially like the fact that this isn't simply a walking guide, attention is also paid to ski touring and mountaineering. I'm already thinking this is going to be my go-to-book for the region and I'm going to enjoy getting to know it, and in turn perhaps Scotland, much better.

Walking the dogs: Seiland 93-109hrs

2010-09-25T07:10:00.040+02:00

I awake one more time with a face full of yoke-yellow inner tent. A few drops of rain had smashed hopes of a night under the stars. Hydrophobia, common to rabid dogs and the owners of down bags who've left their bivvy bags at home, had motivated some late-night high-speed pitching. The fun didn't end there either. I'd moved back indoors to find my attempt at the intrepid had been rewarded with a puncture. A sickening hiss, a cold sensation at the hip and shoulder, some heavy swearing and a field repair had helped while away my last night in the field. I crawl out of the tent a wizened old man. A cup of Randulfs strong coffee starts my heart. I decide that coffee grounds, like duct tape and super glue, should be part off all field repair kits.

I notice that I've now fallen into the routine of a longer trip. Breakfast is consumed, packs get packed, tents get struck. All of it rhythmic and without undue effort. The ground-hog-day, good not bad, that backpacking days converge to. On short trips I don’t always get there. This time out I get there on the last day. Just in time for the jiggity-jig of the homeward leg.

We stride out of camp under blue skies. Heading roughly North-West, aiming for Ovrevatnet, covering ground I’d reccied the night before. This is the easy bit. We can be sure of a good line. Randulf is once again handling both dogs. In less than half a kilometre we cross the watershed and are dropping into the Stuorajarvaggi. The descent is easy. Nowhere too steep and always with views to distract. Backpackings paydirt. This valley seems different to the others. Softer somehow. We cross a carpet of greener green, lush by comparison with what we’ve seen so far, studded with flowers. The flowers give the game away though. They’re the same ones I know from the South, except in miniature, their size testament to the short summer season and the long hard months preceding it. We decide that this would make a great base camp for an extended trip to explore the parks interior. You could get here by canoe by way of Storvatnet and Ovrevatnet packing in all you could need for a couple of weeks.

The Ovrevatnet is another gem. Long and narrow with one ruler-straight shore and squeezed into an unfeasibly narrow valley. At first sight it’s hard to envisage passing through without a boat. The Western shore is flanked by a rise just shy of 600m over a run of around a half a kilometre. To all intents and purposes, to the backpacker, it might as well be vertical. The eastern shore offers better potential but a spur, running down from the heights of Suolorassa, dips its toe in the head of the lake. From here it looks hard to negotiate.

As we press on down I hope that a new perspective will change my outlook but is doesn’t happen. The red line of the suggested route stays high above the lake crossing the spur at the 225m contour. We decide to go with the suggestion and start to climb. A little toil puts us on top of the spur but once over the top we’re confronted by a steep complex slope, a series of grassy terraces separated by rocky steps. The hillside is convex and although we can see enough to work out our next move we can’t see far enough to plan a route down. We start down with caution, the dogs once again adding spice to the proceedings. A couple of steps lower I decide to try and make some ground on Randulf and the dogs, hoping that from the base of the thing I’ll be able to spot them down. A series of random left-right decisions sees me on steeper ground, wet underfoot and slippery under my soles. I pick my way down, on occasion utilising my arse to generate valuable extra friction. At times, if you count both cheeks, maintaining five points of contact. By the time I’m down the pack are already at the bottom. We see our mistake immediately, the route around the headland is passable right at the lake shore. Next time we’ll do it differently.

A pause and a glance at the map tells us what we have in store. Between us and the car there are seven or more kilometres of perpetual rise and fall, all of it over a mixture of fellside and scrubby vegetation. I run my finger over the intricate ridge of Suolorassa and wonder if we would have been better staying high. False optimism perhaps given the nature of the high ground we’ve encountered in days previous.

Up and down, up and down we go as the hardest day so far unfolds. The skies stay clear however and each rise brings new reward: long views of sea and rugged fell with powder blue, cloud streaked heavens. The near field an intricate cameo of vegetation and still water. The light is perfect. A landscapers heaven. It’s hard to find fault with this little island.

We move deliberately, at a steady pace, pulling up the inclines and catching breath when mood and view demand. As we approach Storvatnet wetter going and stands of silver birch demand more detour. We pause for a food break. Insects are bothersome here. I thank my stars we’ve camped higher these last nights. We discuss our options. Another night out near to the car or push hard to make the last boat. The latter comes with the promise of a beer and home cooked food. The ayes have it. Beer works its magic on me once again.

After the break we push harder. Bearing a few degrees East of the suggested route we work our way onto higher ground and across the shoulder of Glimmerfjellet and enjoy our last taste of open fell. I fall back a little and watch Randulf weave through the terrain with both dogs on the line. Man, dog, wilderness. There’s gloriously primative about the scene.

In front of us lies only a descent across vegetated hillside. Not my favourite but, tiered legs or otherwise, I resolve to enjoy it. As we pass by a small group of lakes we see a small helsport lavvu pitched at the waterside. The first sign that we don’t have the island to ourselves. Nobody is home. We’re a long way into our fifth day and we havn’t seen another soul. That’s a rare and wonderful thing in this new Europe of ours.

The last kilometre brings one more dog incident. As Randulf negotiates a rock step Thule launches forwards. No barking, no whining, just a sudden acceleration and the clinical application of all his strength through the leash. Randulf very nearly takes a tumble and only going to ground saves him a fall of a couple of meters. At first it’s not apparent what’s caught Thules attention. Having returned to composure, a few steps later we see the reindeer lolloping away, pausing to look back and check we’re not in pursuit. To me, uninitiated in the way of the Greenland dog, this is another lesson. These dogs, as cute as they look, are bags of muscle and hairsprung instinct. These are about as far from yappy terriers as the canine can get.

A few minutes further and we’re at the car and still have a fighting chance of making the ferry. No time for reflection we throw the bags and dogs in the back and drive away. As I watch the island flow past the realisation hits me. This trip is at an end. It occurs to me to that I may never get another stab at Seiland, I may never get a look at that Glacier, the higher ground may never feel the tread of my boots. The whole is a familiar sentiment. After all there will always be more undone than done. Still it doesn’t pay to be greedy and, if I’ve learnt anything this time out, it’s that there's still reward when you leave your list of goals at home. As we round the next bend my focus turns to beer and hot food. After all, it’s been a long day.

Walking the dogs: Seiland 68-93hrs

2010-09-04T23:06:00.002+02:00

We're up and about at the crack of midday. My head says we've burnt too much of a precious outdoor day but I'm coming to terms with the irrelevance of time in this place. The sense of urgency I brought from home is starting to look like dead weight. As I sit and munch muesli I cast my eye over the Gressnesfjellet yet again. Ever since we started our descent from the pass to this fantastic pitch I've been wondering what's on the other side of the rise. The map tells me that a fantastic water-filled mountain valley is tucked in behind the rocky barrier but is the grass really greener? Today we should find out. Today the sky is clear. Today the tops are bathed in crisp cool light. Waiting a day was the right tactic. Waiting a day is something I wouldn't have done in different company.

The intention is to cross over into the valley system running along the western side of Suolorassa, climb up another ladder of lakes and then wind our way back North along the red dashed line of the recommended route via the Ovrevatnet to find a last camp at a suitable jump off point for the boat. If we break the back of the walk out today it will leave us with just an easy stroll to the car. By the time we're packed up and moving off my watch is saying two in the afternoon and I'm expecting to burn the last of our midnight oil before we make camp.

It's a sharp but short climb up onto the broad ridge separating the Guicavakkejavri from the Voulit Guhkesjavri. Warm in just a baselayer I take the climb slowly never missing an opportunity to look back at the lake shore home we've just left. The little tarn is right in the saddle where the map says it should be. It's prettier than the map suggests. Just a shallow scoop but its mirror glass surface is coated with sea-deep reflections. We shamble across the flat and, just as I have to let go of the view behind, the view in front opens up. There follows one of those moments of affirmation. Before me, all around me, lies the answer to the question “why do I do this?”. The question I ask invariably when weather or terrain or joints or mood or all four are against me. The answer I find invariably elsewhere, in the warm, dry well fedness of return or in moments like these. Moments sometimes fleeting but thankfully recurring. Moments where the majesty of these wild places cuts through to my core. Today the Vuolit Guicavakkerjavri, hemmed in by steep rock and scree, is picture postcard. On another day this would have just been another mountain lake but it's not just a question of place. It's about time and place. I'm uniquely privileged to be here and now.

A beaming Randulf passes comment on the surroundings. It strikes me that his enthusiasm borders on the miraculous. As much as I love the outdoors getting back home and washing it off my skin remains equally pleasurable. This place is Randulfs office, his everyday, his bread and butter, and he's still blown away by it all.

We move slowly on traversing, sometimes on a steep slope, around the lake. Pausing to take photographs. Pausing just to stand and gorp. It's an improbably beautiful scene. The lake is a patchwork of mirror and ripple, patches of troubled surface betraying the complex pattern of down draft and local wind that flows around the intricate topography of its shores. The southern end narrows dramatically and hangs, levitating in the notch between the Gressnesfjellet and the Kastarfjellet. A fast flowing stream runs into its Northern end to replenish whatever runs over the southern edge.

We turn our backs to the lake and climb along the stream. Randulf takes me by surprise once more suggesting that we take a break. It's only an hour and half since we broke camp and we've covered just a kilometer as the crow flies. We've scratched the surface of what is set to be the longest day so far but we're in the golden moment of this trip. Randulf reasons that the moment is too good to waste. We should stay right here and mine some more gold before moving on. We go with the impulse, park the dogs, dump the packs, take out cameras and just idle around enjoying the moment. In fact we stay so long we're in need of a meal and a brew before we move on.

The rest of the day follows in the same vein. More perfect day. More lakes, seethrough in the shallows, as reflective as polished silver where deep. We thread our way up along two more kilometres of the valley suntil the next urge to stop takes over us. Another lake, unnamed and two hundred meters higher up the chain, looks like the perfect camp but if we stop here we'll still have a long walk out tomorrow. If need be we have enough food for an extra night but it won't make for an exciting meal. It's just 5:30 and three and half easy hours since we set out. We decide to stay put and to hell with the consequences.

The rest of the evening is spent relaxing. Our unnamed lake gives us a grandstand view of a gnarly unnamed peak. Fishing doesn't yield fish but we have a good fire courtesy of a collapsed reindeer fence. The sky stays clear and it looks like the night will be a fair one. There's next to no insect activity so I suggest we forgo setting up the tent. After three sunlit nights and sweltering mornings in a tent the idea of sleeping under the stars and waking in the fresh air carries a strong appeal. So, deal done, we mill around some more and when the time comes roll out the bags and lie down. Simple. Just like nature meant for us I think to myself. Then comes the rain.

Walking the dogs: Seiland 44-68hrs

2010-08-16T15:57:00.001+02:00

Kangias high pitched whine wakes me a couple of times in the night but other than that I sleep soundly enough. I wake warm. Not hot like the previous morning but uncommonly warm given my situation. This morning it's not a sweltering tent that provides the motivation to rise but an awkward lie. The pitch that looked so nice had put me on a convex bed. Lie with both feet and head lower than your waist for a night and you're guaranteed to start the day with back pain. There's a consolation of sorts though. As I crawl out of the tent sharp pain shoots through my knee and the pain in my lower back fades into the background. Over muesli and coffee I inspect my knees, old rivals of mine I know them well, today they're different. As I poke one side fluid bulges out of the other. The left is the worst, swollen and reluctant to flex. I've been here before. I find I use my knees a lot when hiking. This is not a good development.

It's another slow start but I'm getting the hang of it. We drink coffee, chew the fat, discuss what we might do placing the emphasis on “might”. I'd quite like to see the glacier. Seilandsjokelen, Norways Northern most glacier is just to the west. Five kilometres as the crow flies with five hundred meters of up. Randulf talks me out of it, gently suggesting that the knee situation should be taken seriously and pointing out the the nearest tops, two hundred meters shy of the glaciers eight hundred, are in cloud. We consider following the outfall through the Guicavaggi to the coast where there's another large lake and some buildings, probably disused houses. The stream may offer some fishing opportunities on the way down, the lower lake will certainly hold fish and the buildings may offer Randulf with a photo opportunity. We agree on the apparently light option that we can do with light packs. Some more milling around and the essentials are packed, dogs are on the leash and we're heading out of camp. My watch says it's gone two in the afternoon. I can't decide if that's late or early. It could be either.

We follow the shoreline, pick up the outlet and start picking our way downstream. As we descend the undergrowth gets thicker and we soon find ourselves back in birch wood. The trees slow progress, tripping, snagging leads, whipping faces, obscuring views and making route choices that much harder. The stream drops into a narrow gorge and we climb again, high above the left bank, looking for a way round. We find ourselves on steeper ground. A mixture of rock steps and damp greenery makes for tough going. After some effort we get a better look at what lies ahead. If we stay on this bank we'll soon have to descend steeply and climb back up again bushwhacking all the way. From where we stand the opposite bank looks like a better option so we zigzag back down towards the stream, stopping frequently to scout for the best way to avoid steep rock, and search out the least treacherous place to cross. Dogs and men safely across we traverse more steep green and weave through more birch. We arrive at an edge. In next to no distance over ground the stream drops what looks like forty meters or so. Closer inspection of the map reveals we've been conned. A little more attention to the contour detail before setting off might have lead to another choice of easy day. Although the stream drops only two hundred meters in three kilometres, it concentrates most of that drop into three sharp steps. We're looking over the first.

We follow the edge looking for a way down. More tree dodging and climb brings us to a likely spot. One bad step will put us in a rocky chute running back under the rock face, with the edge for a handrail we could loose a lot of height over a boulder staircase or alternatively cross to what looks like steep but easier ground on the other side. It all looks easy enough. but then we have dogs. Randulf holds both dogs while I down climb face to the rock. Then come the dogs. It takes some coaxing to get Thule over the edge but Kangia doesn't need asking twice. Once over the step we pick our way back down to the streams edge. Thule moves, more or less on command, the rest of the way down without hesitation. Greenlands apparently sense when a situation is serious enough to take heed of their handler.

It's hot sweaty work in the undergrowth. As the slope levels out I catch sight of what's in store. The stream splits and meanders across a stretch of level, marshy ground bounded left and right by high flanking valley sides and in its rear by the steep rock step. A lost world of silvery water and luminous birch dotted with dark glassy pools begging to be fished. These are just the sort of pools, isolated, accessible to small fish, inescapable to small fish grown big, that could hold something well worth catching. We choose to take a break. Randulf tries his luck but his luck runs only to a couple of returns.

What's left of the afternoon deals us more of the same. Slow progress on a route that alternates between bushwhacking and stream crossings. Moving forwards and downwards always wondering what's rushing over the next rise to bite us. The remaining two steep sections bark louder than they bite. Although the map suggests potential for treachery they´re easier in descent than the first and we reach the lower lake, the Vuolit Guicavakkejavri, without having to scramble. The dogs at once alert to something unseen as we skirt the eastern shore looking for a suitable day camp. Reindeer have most probably passed through here. I check my watch, we´ve averaged something like one and a half kilometres an hour. It occurs to me that a path, constructed or use-worn, however meagre, makes such an incredible difference.

We find a nice spot at the southern end of the lake. There´s a fire ring, used more recently than any we´ve seen along the way and the first real sign of life. Low life it would seem judging by the discarded beer cans. An annoyance I hadn´t expected to encounter here. We revert to form. Dropping packs, we brew up, put up our feet and lay back. We fish a little. Randulf sleeps a little. I fish a little more. My effort is rewarded with another good fish. In the late evening, bothered by mosquitoes, we move to the top of a rise away from the waters edge, set a fire and make a meal. Chicken curry, courtesy of Real Turmat.

There are moments when life seams surreal. This is one of those moments. I´m sat in the wild North eating curry with a friend made over beer and curry in the big city. The sights and tastes don´t match up but the company does. For most of the afternoon I´ve been watching the sky. Slowly but surely its mood´s been changing. The cloud base gradually lifting, the light warming. As I eat I watch the last of that process, watch the air become translucent and the light turn golden. The impact of the fall of light amazes me once more. We´ve spent late afternoon and evening in a nice place. Under this new light that same place has become a fantasy landscape. Up and down, near and far, sky and ground are abstract concepts the whole melted down into a single topsy turvy scene by the power of reflection and shadow. I reach for my camera and mill around taking photos. I notice Randulf is doing the same

We sneak away from the dogs and Randulf strolls and I limp through the last kilometre of the valley to the shore. We find the buildings marked at the edge of the park boundary. An old house, still being used by someone but with a meter wide hole in the roof. A barn, rickety, filled with the detritus of previous human existence. I spot two rusty childrens bikes through a low doorway. Lower down, on the shoreline, a boathouse, connected to the shore by a stony slipway terminating in luminescent bladderwrack. Two nailed lapstrake double enders lie rotting, one within and one up against the boathouse. Faerings I guess. Years of neglect and exposure have done nothing to conceal their beauty their lineage so clearly Viking. This is another unexpected. I hadn´t imagined that I´d spend precious wilderness time snuffling through the waste of forgotten lives but it's fascinating. Who had lived here in such isolation? Who had left here with childhood memories of running free through the meadows and cycling around the house? How had this family fuelled their existence? Cameras run hot.

We head back up to the lake, collect the gear and dogs and start the return trip. It´s just shy of ten thirty. My instinct is telling me that it´s foolhardy to still be out so late but the truth of the matter is that we we´d have to take the whole of July before getting benighted. By that time, only having food for three more days, not having packed a head torch would be the least of my worries. To save my knees more abuse, Randulf takes both dogs. This isn´t without consequence since a little way into the walk Randulf finds himself at the epicentre of an explosion of overexcited play fighting dog. Shouting commands and pulling on leads has no effect. Ear pinching extracts a passable impression of pigs at slaughter and restores calm.

Now that we know the route, the climb is, on the whole, easier than the descent. Scrambling with dogs remains a challenge, especially since Randulf now has both dogs and dog-to-dog synchronisation is called for. I find myself, on more than one occasion wondering why I´d deemed it sensible to leave my Spot Tracker back at the tent. As we walk back into camp its long gone midnight. I feel surprisingly beaten up. So much for the easy day. It´s late but there´s time enough for a supper of fresh fish before bed. As we eat we whitness another lightshow. The Gressnesfjellet is cut in two its base in dark, cold shaddow its top bathed in warm, golden light. Randulf toys with the idea of heading up to take some photographs but instead just eats his half of my prize fish.

Walking the dogs: Seiland 22-44hours

2010-08-01T22:43:00.004+02:00

It's hard to find sleep. It's full daylight, I'm too warm and my heads brimming over with the happenings of the last twenty four hours. I'm too warm because, although I've packed a sleeping bag suited to nights that follow ten degree days, here, ten degree day is followed by more ten degree day. I fiddle around a little with my layers, work out I'm warm enough with my bag pushed down around my waist and pull my beany down over my eyes. Bingo, instant night. Even if sleep doesn't come I'm at least comfortable.

Sleep does come. And when it does it's deep. I come round slowly. I'm hot. Far too hot and for a moment I'm twenty one again and lying suffering in a cheap tent in the south of France on an interailing holiday. The tent's in full sun and it's yellow interior amplifies the Mediterranean illusion. With the realisation that I'm at the very top rather than the very bottom of the continent comes, first the joint pain and stiffness that reminds me I'm no longer twenty one, and then the need to get out of the tent and into fresh air. I sit up, pull on my boots and crawl outside grabbing burner and food bags on the way. The dogs prick their ears and watch me with interest as I make coffee and munch on muesli. I check my watch, it's 8:30. Far too early and far too late all at the same time. Too early given I was still milling around in the small hours but hardly an alpine start nevertheless. Time seems irrelevant. More important is enjoying the location to the full.

Randulf emerges and we sit and drink coffee in silence. Strong, black, fresh coffee sweetened only by the view. The sun shines intermittently through patchy cloud. There's a long view south through the pass and over the last lake to the line of hills defining the coast on the mainland. Layers of cloud hang low over the tops. It feels like a two brew morning and so it turns out as a second pot of coffee is set. I take advantage of the slow pace, taking photos, at first without filters but then with all the bolt on paraphernalia. I so often pack this stuff only to leave it in the bag, schedules overriding photographic experimentation, but not this time. The captures look fine on the small screen. I'll have to wait and see how they look in the real world. Fish jump in the lower lake as we sit. We decide to try our luck. One last indulgence but with a purpose, if we can bag some extra protein already we'll be sure of a good evening meal.

We catch but nothing big enough to keep. The main achievement is to kill so much time that we decide to eat lunch before setting out. The alternative, stopping soon after starting, doesn´t make sense. So it´s with full bellies that we pack up and head out. It´s long gone midday already. Today I´m paired with Kangia. As we leave the camp she darts quickly and purposefully to the left taking me with her a metre or so. Before I´ve worked out what´s going on she´s uncovered and swallowed a fish head. Rule number two of Greenland dog handling is that they get no food between meals. I start this second leg, therefore, with another exemplary display of dog handling. As I pull her away I promise to do better.

We wind our way through the valley, skirting round the Northern shore of the lower lake and then veering further south looking for a higher traverse to avoid loosing too much height. At the three hundred meter contour we cross the first patches of old snow, pausing briefly, perhaps instinctively, to allow the dogs to roll around and cool down. Then we climb more steeply, due south, making for a slight notch at the root of a high spur that, if our interpretation of the contours is correct, should bring us into the breach of another unpronounceable high pass, the Geaidnovaggi. On the way up we are rewarded with views back across the Buogojavri, the Tinstua hut perched in splendid isolation on it´s northern shore. An ideal location, I imagine, for a winter base. As we drop the few metres to the first of a long string of lakes in the Geaidnovaggi we continue to reap reward. Austere, monotone, an acquired taste perhaps, but beautiful to my eyes. This first stretch running South-South-East, an irregular hotch-potch of rocky knoll, tarn and fast flowing stream. Further in, after a slight dog-leg, narrow, ruler straight. All of it, rock strewn and desolate.

Our passage through the Geaidnovaggi starts with a river crossing. Narrow, not too deep, but fast flowing. Under normal circumstances a minor obstacle but with dogs requiring a little more care. We scout a little to find a good place to cross and then, with dogs on a tight lead and shouting instructions, cross stone to stone. Feet still dry we pause briefly for a drink and snack and continue up the valley. Towards the summit the scant vegetation gives way to rock and lichen. Since setting out yesterday we've passed through birch woodland, crossed berry-strewn hillside and have arrived in the mountains. Three hundred and fifty meters of up is apparently all that's required to reach high alpine territory in this part of the world. All the usual climatic zones are here, they're just sandwiched into super thin layers separated by sharp transitions.

The going is very slow. There´s little by way of rise and fall, the summit, at just just shy of four hundred metres, requires a net climb of just fifty meters in four kilometres, but it's rough ground. We're dealt a stretch of uninterrupted boulder that has us rock-hopping for what must be a kilometre or more. Rock hopping, for me, already difficult with a full-pack, it turns out is even harder when tied to a dog. Kangia moves quickly and unpredictably. Less insistent when we're in the lead but pulling hard to catch up when we fall behind. I don't always get to decide when to take the next step. Without a moments pause to find equilibrium and choose the next landing my movement is even more awkward than usual. On occasion the tight rope acts as a handrail but the benefit comes at a cost. I find myself frequently having to pirouette on one toe, turning a full three sixty degrees, in order to disentangle my lower legs as Kangia runs rings around me. Two entities, with two agendas, tied to the same rope. Fun to watch from the sidelines I imagine but my knees are grumbling under the strain.

It's close to six in the evening by the time we've reached the summit of the pass. We pause for another break, munch on some snacks and drink. Dropping down on the Southern side into the head of the Guicavaggi is a pleasure even on tired legs. Before long we're back on a carpet of bilberry and we move faster and more freely. As we lose height the large expanse of the Guicavakkejavri swings into view. Pausing to take photographs we discuss the options. On the one hand crossing into the next valley, a move that would require a steep but short climb, would put us in a great jump-off point to make a day trip to the Seilands Jokelen. On the other hand the Guicavakkejavri is a beautifully situated lake and will clearly make a superb camp. We agree to make the decision at the waters edge but in truth I can't see us digging deeper to make the extra climb leaving the perfect camp behind in the process.

A couple of hours later the tent is standing on a green rise on the lake shore, the dogs are tied up and fed, and a short trip to a stand of stunted birch has unearthed enough firewood to fuel a good fire. There's drama in the sky as I twist on my big lens and take some shots of the camp and of Randulf preparing a meal of pancakes. As I focus through the smoke and flame I get a strong sense of deja vu. I've captured the self same image before. The same man, the same setting, two fleeting moments each lasting a few hundredths of a second separated by nine years.

It's a cold camp. Exposed to a wind following on our heals through the head of the valley. I pull on every scrap of clothing I've packed. Even my gloves. It's enough, but only just. Even with a full belly and a blaze. There are two choices open to me, crawl into my bag or get active. I choose the latter and try my luck with rod and reel. I walk the shore, first against and then with the clock, casting and reeling in the little golden lure that served me well the evening before. Nothing. An hour and a half of nothing. This lake is different. Deep, black, cold. I suspect if there are fish they're not active yet. Still, I'm out, soaking up the views, watching the change of light and the drift of cloud. Breathing the air. I'm just about to call it a day and throw one last cast. Less than half focussed on the job in hand I reel back in. A second later my rods bent double and the mono-filament is whistling a high pitched tune. Ten minutes later I've landed the biggest trout I've ever caught. Beautifully marked, a sleek torpedo of muscle and skin, built for speed a mouth at one end and an arse at the other, surely one of natures finest designs. No room for improvement. No useless widgets. I feel genuine sadness as I deliver the coup de grace. Randulf approaches, camera in hand, and captures the moment. He comments that most fishermen would be smiling broadly right now and that I instead look like the best thing that's happened to me today is getting my balls caught under the wheels of a tram. I'm smiling broadly on the next few captures. I'm still smiling and the suns still shining on my way back to the tent.

Walking the dogs: Seiland 0-22hours

2010-07-27T23:34:00.002+02:00

The little plane climbs steeply, prop engines screaming, the deafening noise in stark contrast to the scene framed through the window. Inside noise, vibration and the side to side jittering of a plane being wrestled into level flight. Outside, silence, stillness, solidity, permanance. I'm looking down at a jumble of black rock and white snow that stretches into the distance. An intimate mixture of mountain and sea. I wonder why I'm clenching my cheeks. Is it the rollercoaster plane ride or the intimidating array of sharp ridge and pointy peak that make up the Lyngen alps? I decide I need to come back here and take a closer look. I wonder if I can legimately tick off the tops already and save myself the effort and anxsiety of having to climb them. It seems that no sooner are we in the air than we're heading back down. We circle Hammerfest before landing. It's a steep-banked, tight radius turn. Apparently it takes just a minute to make a full circuit of the worlds most Northern city.

I feel strangely conspicuous as I walk cross the apron. I'm a northerner. Or so I've always been told. I clip my vowels until they bleed, I'm friendly to strangers, I prefer my beer with a head and I'll sell my soul for pie. Here, a little short of two thousand kilometres North of Oslo (1903 kilometres or 1day 3hrs drive according to google maps-longer if you don't go via Sweden and Finland) I find myself re-evaluating. This place is surely THE North. My Northerness is, it seems to me, more than a little fraudulent. Still, it's ten degrees here and, dressed for the thirty something degrees I've left behind, I realise I'm the most inappropriately dressed person in sight. With a smile and a semblance of my identity intact I enter the terminal building to be greeted with a smile and a firm handshake.

The how've you beens and how's the journeys quickly dealt with we make our way to the car. A turn of the ignition key unleashes the soft prattle of a boxer motor together with the Bleargh of metal. Death, thrash, black? I'll never know. The subtleties of that particular genre will, I suspect forever remain a mystery to me. Randulf lowers the volume with a smile. Apparently, some things haven't changed. First stop is to be Randulfs house for lunch, a last minute run through gear and food, get the dogs into the car and head off in time to catch the afternoon ferry. This first leg doesn't take long. I'm told it's three minutes drive from the airport to the house. As it happens three minutes is a wild exaggeration, It can't be more than two and half, in three I've pulled off my boots and am taking in the views from the living room, in five I'm spooning up a hearty bowl of Reindeer stew. Just the thing for a Hammerfest summers day. If things don't get better than this in the course of the weekend I'll still be going home a happy man.

A good meal and some more catching up behind us it's time for some last minute packing. I reacquaint myself with my gear. It's a relief to find that it's all present, undamaged and still bringing a smile to my face. The postal service took their own sweet time but got there in the end. In the meantime Randulf has gathered his things and has changed. We lay out the food and take stock. A quick inventory of breakfasts, lunches and evening meals tells us we're well enough supplied. Some dinners will be a little basic without fresh fish but Randulf suggests we take the chance. Give us this day our daily bread but make us work for the jam and butter. I comment on the large quantity of fresh ground coffee. Randulf retorts that it's not supposed to be some sort of punishment.

It's almost time to leave but first I have to make acquaintance with the dogs. I've been watching them through the window. Sled dogs out of context, lounging in the dirt, sleek, bright-eyed, panting in the heat of a ten degree day, waiting for something to happen. The dog, Thule, snow-white, powerful and heavy set. The bitch, Kangia, black and white, a hand shorter, wiry and inquisitive. Truth be told I'm a little nervous about what's about to happen. I haven't been around dogs in any significant way since my childhood. As a kid I had, so they said, a way with animals. As an adult it's proven to be harder to gain their trust. Something in the scent or appearance of an adult male human puts up a higher barrier than does that of a child. I Walk with Randulf around to the cage, watch as he enters and wrestles two overexcited dogs onto leads, crouch low as he opens the gate and emerges and wonder what I've let myself in for as the dogs turn circles and bounce excitedly in my direction. Two seconds later it's clear my fears were unfounded. Greenlands are clearly people dogs. Unless a dog-breathed face licking is enough to deter Hammerfests criminal set these two would certainly make for useless guard dogs.

As we drive out of the town and along the coast it begins to dawn on me how special Randulfs situation is. If you love the outdoors then you're not likely to run up short here abouts. Some, at least to my eyes, seriously wild country starts where the town stops. That particular geographical boundary is here marked with a tall reindeer fence and cattle grids. Hills, not the high alpine variety on offer from Tromso but nevertheless rugged little fells, sit hard up against an intricate twisting coastline dipping their toes in the blue-green water. The shade of blue-green, that I've seen on other occasions in Norway but nowhere else, looks somehow false, too intense to be real.

In a few minutes we're sitting in a short queue of cars waiting for the boat. I figure ours must smell more of dog than any of the others but can't be sure. The front occupants kill time chatting and looking across the water. The rear occupants kill time by chewing any interior trim they can sink their teeth into and whining. Their behaviour occasionally soliciting a loud admonishment from Randulf. To a father of two the scene is frighteningly familiar.

The crossing is short and the drive that follows both short and beautiful. In just a few minutes we've passed through the small collection of wooden houses that constitutes Hornseby and have parked close to village in a gravel lay-by . Then we're kitting up and getting ready for the off. Randulf asks if I want to take a dog straight from the off. I hadn't anticipated that would be an option thinking both the dogs and myself would want time to get accustomed to the idea but I guess if you're in for a penny the pound's as good as a done deal and nod in the affirmative. Then follows a seemingly well practised routine. Randulf kneels down behind the car, opens the boot a crack, reaches in and grabs one of the dogs firmly by collar. Then, a moment almost too short for me to take in, sees the boot door opened and closed , one dog whining in disappointment on the inside and the other bouncing around on outside with Randulf doing a passable impression of a Rodeo star behind it. The action replayed and some fiddling with rope and webbing sees both dogs harnessed. Packs get hoisted, dogs get clipped into waist bands and then and I get a short reading of the rules from Randulf. The rules are short and simple: the dogs must be kept on the lead at all times. If they get away from their handler and attack a reindeer they will most likely get shot. With my new found and acute sense of responsibility, the dogs excitement impossible to contain any longer, we're setting off back along the road.

I pause while Thule sniffs and scurries around in the verge in front of the last house on the road. Before I know what's going on he's marked the illustrious start to my dog handling carrier by squatting and dumping on private property. I drag him away along the road feeling sheepish and willing the curtains not to twitch and the door to stay shut. This is my first exposure to the workings of the Greenland dog. It seems the best policy is to watch their every move and expect them to do exactly what you don't want them to do at exactly the time you least want them to do it. I'm relieved when, in just a few more steps we turn off the road and head up a steep grassy slope and out of sight. A moment later, as I skip and scurry through scrub and bushes at a pace set more by Thule than myself, I feel the first beads of sweat running down my back and I realise, after the months of anticipation, it's really started.

We don't follow the route marked on the map but rather keep to the east in order to gain some height and stay out of the marsh. The going is pretty gentle. Wet underfoot but not very steep and not too densely vegetated. With a bit of dodging and weaving the worst of the wet is easily avoided. A few mosquitoes buzz around my head but they're not in such numbers nor so intent on blood that it's an issue. Thule has settled into a steady pace. He toos and fros a little, sniffing around and checking things out, but basically keeps to plan. An occasional bad call, on his behalf or mine, sees us passing a tree on opposite sides each pulling the other on a tight rope but a little backtracking has us both back in the groove. Staying balanced takes a little more effort than usual but on the whole Thule is taking some of the effort out of the climb. As we climb the trees thin out the bushes dwarf and a carpet of bilberry forms the backdrop for a scattering of rock. We arrive at a short string of pools and take the chance to take a draft of cold, clean, Seiland water. The first of many. I've been thumbing our route as we've gone getting the measure of the statens cartography. The detail on the map is reassuringly visible on the ground. The tiny pool separating the two bigger ones in the string is marked and the bigger ones themselves are recognisable from their profiles. The long view makes sense too. The twin pyramidal points of Veggen are right where they should be.

As we pause the mosquitoes begin to annoy a little more. I break out the deet, strong stuff, imported from Canada, tried and tested. The activity abates a little but the best policy is to keep moving and so we do. We head South, climbing a little more steeply and soon after get a first taste of rock hopping. It's been a while. Dogs add to the fun. With another hundred metresor so underneath us we skirt around the base of the Glimmerfjellet and into the mouth of the Buogovarceabetvaggi. A short pass bounded on one side by the steep Northern end of the long Suolorassa ridge and on the other by the bulk of Eidvagtind Buogovarri it's easier to walk through than pronounce. The pass is decorated with another string of lakes. These more substantial than those we've just left behind. Randulf pauses to check the map and suggests we make out way to the highest lake right at the saddle and set up the tent. The suggestion takes me by surprise. I'd expected to cover more ground today. It does make sense though. We've made some height, I imagine most of the insects are below us, the views are good, and the lakes look like they hold fish.

Half an hour later the dogs are on the line the tent is standing and we're drinking coffee and taking in the view. A magical moment. I count my blessings. Something I don't do often enough considering how charmed my life is.

We fish a little. Catch enough fish to make a meal for two. Arctic Char. My first and lovely little lean, red-breasted , pan-sized, examples that give a good fight on light tackle. Eat well. No pressure, no schedule, no plans, just being in the great outdoors.

I think to myself that the evening is going just fine but then realise I have lost all sense of time. A glance at my watch tells me it's now gone midnight. It could just as well be three in the afternoon. None of the usual keys are telling me it's time to wind down so I do just the opposite. Gathering my camera gear I head off up the hill in search of the midnight sun. I wander upwards, looking for interest in the fall of light looking for foreground detail and pastel backdrops but the light isn't long and a capture I'm happy with elusive. I've climbed another hundred meters or more before I realise that a clear view of the sun is going to take more effort than I'd banked on. I look at my watch once more and it's gone two. Twenty two hours after shutting my front door behind me I decide enough's enough and head back down the hill with every intention of getting some sleep.

Seiland: The place and the gear

2010-07-14T12:10:00.000+02:00

Although I'm sure there's no written rule on this it always feels like I should start with the trip report and finish up with some reflection on the gear. It feels, therefore, like I'm doing this one backwards, or upside down, depending how you look at it. Nevertheless, the trip report may yet be a while in the making and the observations on gear, well they're already in my head and just need setting free. Hopefully the process will free up some neurons for the write up. Reflections on gear are bound to be trip, terrain and weather specific so first some short comments on the trip to give the rest context

North versus South
It was a short trip of just four nights conducted at a relaxed tempo. Seiland is a wild and pointy little island with, at least on its North side, barring the road from the ferry dock to Hornseby, very little by way of infrastructure. Routes are marked on the Turkaart leading South out of Hornseby along the eastern shores of Storvatnet and Ovrevatnet and on to Seilands Jokelen, Norways Northern most glacier. These are “route suggestions”. Don’t be fooled into thinking there is any kind of path on the ground. There isn’t. Don’t be fooled that the dashed line follows the most sensible line over ground either. It doesn’t. At least not all of the time, as we found out to our cost on one occasion. Crossing Seiland requires that you navigate, often along watercourse and shoreline, frequently on contour detail alone, but always staying in reasonable contact with the map. The ground under foot is rough. Where marsh is marked it is wet, deep and may require detours. Where vegetation is marked is bushwhack territory of the first order. Where nothing is marked is often extensive boulder field. At this latitude, 71 degrees North, climatic zones are compressed into thin layers. Seiland is at it’s highest point just 1000m up. We used only half of the altitude available to us but passed though everything from coastal to high alpine zones with lush birch woodland and bilberry carpeted hillside in between. Bare mountainside with closely spaced contours and all the trimmings, in July 2010 including snow and ice, jumps out and bights you from around 400m. There were times when, especially at lower altitudes, with packs and dogs and all and sundry, we were making just 1.5km an hour over ground.

As far as the weather is concerned we were dealt a good hand. I guess the temperature hovered around 8°c, give or take a couple of degrees either way. We got little by way of rain, a reasonable amount of sun and a little light wind. At times, when sheltered and out of the shadows, the temperature felt more like 15°C. When in the shadows and exposed to the wind it felt cold. Although the sun didn’t always shine it was, of course, ever present. Wind-chill and sun-bake aside the temperature was remarkably constant without the usual rollercoaster boom and bust normally associated with the swing from day to night in the mountains. Thankfully we always had good visibility making navigation that much easier.

Tarps versus Tents
Hmm tents. It’s a hard one this me not being a tent person and all. Randulf had a new Tunnel tent on test and needed nights in it so that was what we took. Large and heavy it wouldn’t be, for either of us, the tent of choice for the job in hand. I’m not about to spill the beans on the review and talk specifics but my generic experience of tent use on the trip is worth sharing (at least I think so). The two main motivations for choosing a tent over any other form of shelter in this part of the world are a) bighting beasties and b) weather.

Let’s deal with a) first. In retrospect, the insect activity was never so bad that I would choose a tent over tarp for this reason. We camped in relatively exposed locations at elevations of around 200m and, although I took some flak, I’d have been happy to use a bivvy with some mesh protection. We passed through areas at lower elevations where I would definitely not want to overnight, tent or otherwise, and of course, had we been Inland, on the infamous Finnmarks Vidda, I would most likely draw another conclusion but Seiland, at least in July of this year, was not at all bad.

Now for b). We didn’t get heavy weather. A bit of wet but nothing major. For what we were dealt a bivvy bag/tarp combo or even just a bivvy bag would have been ideal. Of course there’s always a chance that you get caught out in something nasty. On normal trips I apply the rational that, I’m out for just a few nights, I’ve checked the forecast, that I know how to pitch my tarp and, perhaps most importantly, being never more than a half days walk from a hut or village, I may have a rough night but bail out is always possible. Seiland is, in that respect a little different. lack of paths, the requirement for careful navigation in poor visibility, terrain that slows you down to 1.5km an hour could all potentially force a couple of miserable nights before a bail out was executed. Hmm, tent or tarp?

A factor I hadn’t reckoned on before the trip was the midnight sun. I’ve camped in tents in hot climates and know how unpleasant it can be. Lying sweating in an oven-like tent and being forced to come out for air in the early hours isn’t my idea of fun. I associated that experience with summers spent in the south of France not with the far North. In reality the two aren’t so far apart. Wherever you sight your tent, at some time in the next 24hrs, it will potentially be in full sun. In Seiland, I found myself, on several occasions, wishing I was in an open shelter, in a light breeze with fine views. That was partly due to my choice of bag but mostly due to the choice of shelter.

I think, on balance, regardless of the mosquito and sunshine arguments that, because of the remoteness and potential for heavy weather, I would again choose a more enclosed shelter than a tarp. Whether that shelter would be a two skin tent would depend upon factors beyond my experience. The middle ground between tent and tarp is somewhere I’ve not yet been. Although enclosed single skin shelters like the MLD Duomid or Trailstar, look ideal to my eyes, I’d want to give them a thorough trying first. The jury is still out.

Shoes versus Boots
I started with warm, dry, blister free feet. I finished with warm, dry, blister free feet. On the whole I’m happy with my boots. To be fair, the pace was never fast and distances were not that great, we never covered more than 10km in a day. There were moments when I wished I could just cross watercourses without performing a strange dance. There were moments, when boulder hopping, I felt a desire for helium-filled footwear with sticky rubber souls that would transform me from a lumbering hulk into a graceful athlete. There were no moments when I thought my footwear was truly unsuited to the job in hand. I don’t need to change the formula but, in the interest of science, I’ll be trying out trail shoes this year.

Down versus Synthetic
Down every time! Perhaps I’d be singing to a different tune if I’d had all my insulation collapse on me but, so far, five years and counting, I’ve managed to stay high, dry and warm with down. I suspected the PHD Ultra Pullover rated to -5 would be overkill for this trip but wanted a little extra just in case. I also wanted the security of it’s drishell outer. In the event it was just right. The second night in camp saw me wearing all my available layers (Merino base, microfleece Gillete, PHD Ultra pullover and Hoglof Oz shell) and I was just comfortable. Any colder and I would have had to retreat to my bag. At other times, the comfort range of down being so great, I was happy in a baselayer and the Ultra pulley when stationary. Hoorah for down!

Applying similar logic I went with the PHD Minimus 300 also in Drishell. This was a mistake. I cooked in the tent. No zipper and too much down. Given the choice again I’d run with my Cumulus Quantum 200. Less down, a full zipper and 200g lighter. I’d anticipated I may spend a nights outside of the tent but rain put a stop to the idea. You can only push Drishell so far.

Meths versus all comers
I had the white box stove with me again. This time combined with an Alpkit My Ti Pot equipped with a foil lid. The pot, sold as 1300ml but in practice having the capacity for a little under a litre, is big enough for two. The combination worked well. The stoves simple fool proof and easy in use. It was reached for at most lunch breaks to brew up and as a second burner when preparing main meals for two. It doesn’t burn as well or as cleanly with Norwegian Rod spirit as I’m accustomed to with my normal fuel (clear, 95% Methanol) but, sooting can be reduced by adding a little water to the mix and it does the job.

More test kit provided an interesting comparison. A Swedish jet-boil look-a-like (no prizes for guessing correctly) was used as the main boiling machine. A heavy unit, especially when paired with a large canister, but I can see the attraction. Even putting fuel efficiency arguments aside the convenience is a major plus. The ability to cook safely in a tent is welcome. The luxury of stretching an arm out of your bag to hit the piezo and brew a first pot of coffee is bordering on hedonistic.

When it suited us we also cooked on open fires so a third fuel wades into the mêlée here. Wood fires sure don’t win on convenience but it has to be said that they elevate the wild camping experience to something bordering on the spiritual. It’s fantastic to have the freedom to set a fire! We didn’t experience a shortage of fuel at any point, never higher than around 500m, there was never more than a couple of hundred meters drop separating us from supplies of birch. Had we been serious about using wood as an only fuel we wouldn’t have had a problem collecting on route. Even at higher elevations there was sufficient creeping vegetation to fuel a small fire.

I think all three types of stove have developed to a stage where, on short trips like this, the weight argument is as good as irrelevant. I think the choice basically boils down (no pun intended) to personal preference. If I were to travel through this sort of terrain again (please let it be so), for this duration and sort of trip, then I would be very tempted to take a wood burning stove. I’d want backup fuel to contend with bad weather and laziness, but I’d want a fire to feed my soul.

Inflatable’s against the World
The Neo Air remains a miracle in my eyes. Together with the Granite Gear Vapor Trail it forms the foundation of my pack list. Never have I slept better on a camping mat. In Seiland it very nearly lost it’s crown. After an abortive attempt to bivvy (rain stopped play) I found it was deflating every few minutes. I managed to find the hole and patch it up (a blob of superglue and a strip of ductape-why don’t TAR supply a repair kit on purchase, surely the product costs enough for them to cut us a little slack!) so it lives to fight another day, its reputation a little tarnished but still functioning. Clearly I have to take more care not to run up punctures but, and this may just be coincidence, this is the first time I’ve managed to fix a mat of any description in the field. Even at home, with the aid of a bath full of water, I’ve never yet been able to locate the source of a leak in self-inflatables and down mats alike. Against the silvery base of the Neo air the puncture stood out like a saw thumb. I’m in the market for a longer mat (I have the short Neo Air) and the POE Ether elite has got my attention but it’s going to have to be good, very good indeed, if it’s going to displace the Neo Air.

Fresh versus Freeze Dried
As far as food was concerned we pooled resources. We ended up using a broad mix of fresh ingredients, preserved food and technical freeze dried meals. It was interesting. The trip became as much about preparing food and acquiring it as backpacking. Real Turmat was interspersed with alternatives concocted from supermarket packets and fresh produce. Real Turmat is good, realy good, but when you have the time, the fuel and the inclination you can make a fine meal from supermarket packets for a fraction of the cost. I had a couple of those “must make this at home moments”. In terms of main meals we’d packed a little light. We had more than enough staples but we were banking on fresh fish to add interest. We weren’t disappointed. trout and arctic char, straight out of the lake into the pan, supplemented several meals. Of course in order to fish you need to build time into your schedule. On Seiland, blessed with good weather and endless days, armed with only the sketchiest of route plans and an easy going attitude towards objectives and schedules, we made time to fish on all but the last day. Boy does arctic char taste good next to a plate of dried porcini mushroom mash!! It would take some effort to persuade me to leave rod and real behind if I where to go back to Seiland!

Seiland: Coming back down

2010-07-07T23:38:00.000+02:00

Well it's all over. The fat lady has done her bit and walked off into the wings in search of chocolate and doughnuts. I'm down, more or less in one piece, and able to tell the tale. Seiland was a great experience. Not for the faint hearted but well worth the effort. We had our fair share of good weather, freshly caught fish and stunning scenery. The company wasn't bad either. A nice chance to catch up with an old friend who taught me (a repeated lesson but I'm a slow learner) that there's more to being out than eating up kilometers. It realy is okay to just be outside and take it all in! More, much more, will follow but before that I need to work through the photos and let it all sink in.

Seiland: Ready for the off?

2010-06-29T22:57:00.000+02:00

I'd better be! All that's between me and Norway right now are about six hours of sleep, a taxi ride and three flights, none of which are guaranteed to go according to plan. The long term weather forecast is "interesting". Here its bone dry and thirty degrees. There it's eight degrees with some wet on the way. That's quite a contrast. I'll let you know how it felt.

A Deep Sigh of Relief

2010-06-25T20:40:00.000+02:00

My gear was delivered today. It's safe and sound with Randulf. I'll sleep a little better tonight! I'm thankfull I allowed three weeks for shipment. I was certain it wouldn't take anything like three weeks but if I ever do this again I'll be sending it earlier still. Now I'm ready for the off next wednesday and looking forwards to it.

Got the builders in

2010-06-20T22:40:00.002+02:00

We're in the middle of a build. We've been squashed into the first floor whilst the ground floor, including the garage (a.k.a. the bat cave), is being "remodelled" (to you thats knocked down and started again). It'll be mid July before we have a working kitchen again. That has its drawbacks, epecially for a young family, but looking at the temporary facilities I'm left wondering why we're going to such effort and expense: the Optimus Stella and the Primus Gravity EF have been going head to head for three weeks now and doing just fine. The former is a boiling machine par excellence, the latter is to be prefered when it comes to frying sausages.

Seiland: Gear List

2010-06-14T23:45:00.001+02:00

Preparation for this one has been interesting. I'm less in control than usual. Having poured over the map for several evenings and having read through the information here (a great web resource for peak bagging in Norway and beyond if a little hard to find your way around) I have a good feeling for the terrain but I don't have any detail on the route and will be basically following where Randulf leads. I'm also unsure about what to expect in terms of weather and the need to ship gear three weeks in advance means I don't have the benefit of the short-term forecast . The only certainties are that I'll be in good company, that Seiland will be breathtakingly beautiful and that the sun won't set for the duration of my trip. Several exchanges with Randulf in the lead up to putting together my pack list have largely determined what's in the bag and shipped:

Randulf On the Weather: "You can expect anything from +25 and sun 24/7 to -2 with snow and sleet."

Sounds like a Scottish afternoon. What to pack? Well I'll be wearing merino base layers (Icebreaker Bodyfit 200) my favourite Haglofs DWR trousers (knitted, stretchy and comfortable with a DWR that works), and boots (Hanwag Banks). The latter will have lightweighters reeling but I'm not a fan of trail shoes for the kind of rough, untrodden terrain I'll be up against. I also don't like wet feet. Not at all. Certainly not for five days at a stretch. Lined, lightweight boots are my tool of choice. For those occasions when a baselayer alone isn't enough there will be a Mamut micro fleece gilet and a Rab neutrino windshirt in the bag. I never leave home without them. Next up, for when it's wet, and for some reason I'm expecting wet (the geography, mountains and sea, has me thinking of Knoydart), I've gone for the Haglofs Oz pullover and Montane Atomic DT Rain trousers. The former got a run out in Rondane and although I have some issues with it it's a solid performer and very, very light. The latter are newly purchased so I'm hoping they're up to the job. For insulation on breaks and evenings I'm assuming -2 rather than +25 and going with a PHD Ultra pullover with hood. Arguably not the best choice if it's really wet and calls for careful management but it's cosy warm for very little weight. Besides, I had mine knocked up with a Drishell outer (so it's technically not an ultra perhaps a minim with 900 fill down?) for just such occasions. There'll also be the usual collection of odds and sods including a beany, liner gloves, buff and spare socks (the only spare clothing I intend to pack). It's all shipped but of course I can travel with clothing in my carry on bag. I'll keep a close eye on the forecast and may take one last opportunity to swap clothing out when I land.

Randulf On Insects: "There are probably fewer insects than on the vidda, but it can still be a fair bit... Bivvy bag and tarp, thus is no go - at least for my part. I have a 2 kg tent. Isn't that light enough? .......I'm happy to carry it."

I'm going to run with Randulfs advice on this one. The last time I used a two skin tent, or any shelter other than a bivvy/tarp combination, on a summer trip was in 2006. Finnmark mosquitoes are, however, infamously vicious and if Randulf says we need a tent then we need a tent. Besides, over the years I've become prejudiced against tents. My stance is that they have their place but are not as necessary as many claim. Time then to face down the prejudice and get back in a tent and see how it is. Randulf will supply the tent. I'm not sure what it is, he's being very secretive which I guess means he's got it under review, but I think a 2kg shelter between two is respectable . The only catch is, it's all going in my bag so adds a kilo plus to my MLD Grace Duo and Alpine bivvy combo (900g). The reason why I've offered to carry it follows.

The choice to go with a tent and the possibility of -2 degree temperatures has also forced my choice of sleeping bag. Out is the Cumulus quantum 200 and in is the PHD Minim 300 (only available through PHD's bespoke service or occasionally in the sales). The extra down will be welcome at those temperatures and it lets me leave extra night-timeme clothing at home but the main reason for the choice is once again the Drishell outer which will help me deal with prolonged wet. Again, on the basis of the short-term forecast, I can, at a push, travel with the Cumulus bag and swap out on landing.

Randulf On Dogs: "Another thing: Do you like dogs? We have two Greenland dogs (8 and 9 months) They are very kind, but may be a bit on the enthusiastic side..........The dogs require one kg/day in total. That goes in my pack as well."

It seems we'll be travelling as a group of four. Randulf will have, I guess, seven or eight kilos of dog food on his back. He does this kind of thing for a living and clearly isn't scared of carrying a few kilos, but I think the decent thing is to carry the shelter and take some of the strain.

The rest of my gear list can be seen here. It's a strange mix of ultralight and, lets say, less than ultralight but the juggling act has got my starting weight down to 12.5kg which is in my "basically happy zone". There's a white box stove and meths in there which, although not strictly necessary (Randulf will bring a the main stove which is better suited to cooking in a tent, I'm guessing more test kit to play with) but I want to share my delight in it's simplicity and function. There's also a kilo and half of SLR and lenses. The latter hasn't been shipped so a last minute change of heart might see me ditch a lens, ND filters and tripod but I'm expecting great light and great scenery, as ever, the camera is the hardest call of all.

Starting Post

2010-06-09T22:30:00.000+02:00

I'm packed up and ready for the off. This must be a personal best. It's three weeks until I fly. It has nothing to do with being organised and everything to do with the vagaries of air transport. Flights to Hammerfest, apart from being excruciatingly expensive, are far from direct. I'll be making two changes but suggested routes involved up to five. My incoming and ongoing flights in Oslo are rather critically spaced. I'd have to be moving, and probably squealing, like a greased pig in a pig wrangling festival if I was to disembark from the one, collect my bagage, pass through customs, pass through security and board the other on time.

What to do? Well, my plan is to take only hand luggage. A great motivation for going ultralight you would think and a very astute thought that would be if it wasn't for security. Stoves, fuel bottles, pocket knives and stacks of Ziploc bags containing freeze dried powders would have border control guards pulling on elbow length rubber gloves before you could say "assume the position". No, the only working solution is to ship my gear ahead of time. My packed rucksack, containing everything I will carry apart from the clothes I'll be standing up in, fuel, Randulf’s mystery tent and a few bits of fresh food, has been entrusted to the postal service. Gulp. Seven kilograms of my favourite things in the world are separated from disaster by a sheet of plastic, a few wraps of packing tape and the loving care of TNT.

On that latter point, it turns out that, in the interest of customer service, my village no longer has a post office. Apparently, since the end of May, unnoticed to me, my fellow residents have been buying stamps and posting letters at the supermarket. I tried the new service for the first time today. I spent a very pleasant twenty minutes trying to work out tarrifs and fill in customs documents with a check-out girl. Well, my gear shipment was after all the first large parcel destined for a non-EU country since the end of May. Here's hoping for a speedy delivery and a reassuring mail from Randulf . When the palpitations have stopped I'll post my gear list.

Burn up

2010-05-20T23:08:00.002+02:00

I played with three meths stoves this evening and ran up a comparison of boil times and fuel usage. The stoves in question were the Pack A Feather XL, the White Box Stove and the Evernew Ti Burner combined with the DX stand. Here are the numbers:

The numbers correspond to 500ml water brought to a rolling boil under perfect, wind still conditions at an ambient temperature of 22°C (in other words, in my kitchen). The pot used an Alpkit MyTiPot. A glance at the table reveals some measurable differences in fuel usage and boil time. Whether these differences are significant depends, I would guess, at least to some degree on perspective. Personally, within limits, I don't consider boil times to be important. In fact if the ninety seconds difference shown above is enough to spoil your evening then you should probably consider getting another hobby. For me it just amounts to ninety seconds more of watching the dancing blue flame work its magic whilst I sit in anticipation of a hot food and a brew. Boil times would have to be double those figures before I started getting twitchy. On the other hand I do think the fuel consumption figures reveal an important difference. Thirty percent more fuel used can potentially, depending on trip duration and stove usage, have a noticeable effect on pack weight.

I should stress that, although I've kept everything as constant as possible, the relative inaccuracy of my kitchen scales and the subjectivity associated with deciding when a rolling boil has been reached mean that data can only be considered approximate. In reality I'd have to do many more repeats before I was confident in the numbers and even then only consider them valid in direct comparison. In the field fuel consumption will almost certainly be higher. Nevertheless the exercise has given me a first impression of the new Ti burner and a rough basis for comparison with stoves I'm more familiar with. Here are my first thoughts.

White Box Stove

This remains my all time favourite little spirit burner. I like its simplicity, I like the fact that its made from another mans rubbish and I´m blown away by its performance. Its all up weight with wind break and heat shield is 63g but it punches harder than its weight. Its not the most stable of stoves but with care it will cope with a largish pan such as the MyTiPot. It's wide neck makes it easy to light: drop in a spark and away it goes, and although you need to let in bloom before dropping a pan on top it's just a matter of 40 seconds to a minute extra. Its main draw back to my mind is that, whilst pack size and weight lend it to solo use, being a side burner it throws out such a wide flame that it's better suited to a larger pot than a mug. Other negatives are that I would not be inclined to use it in a shelter and when it's running there's no putting it out. On balance though, the pluses win the day here, and this is the stove I'll always reach for first.

PackaFeather XL

This little stove, a welcome windfall, makes me smile. It's typifies everything I love about US cottage industry products. One glance and you can see it's been put together from bits of old junk and hardware store widgets. That's not to say that it's not well crafted. It is. WHR himself would be very proud. It makes me smile even more when I light it though. It works improbably well and shows just how simple a meths stove can be and still get away with it: an open topped fuel cup placed inside an inverted cup with a hole in the top is apparently all you really need. That point hasn't held the PackaFeather people back though. They've done their best to make it extra complicated. It's the only meths stove I know that is adjustable. Twiddle the knurled knobbly thing on the end of the sticky out cable and the flame, after a moments contemplation, waxes an wanes in accordance. A meths stove with moving parts! Who'd have thought it? In use it's a far more civilised affair than the white box. It throws up a single narrow flame and burns sedately without fuss. The handful of times I've used it I've been taken by surprise by just how effective it is. I light it up, again simply achieved by dropping a spark into the meths pan, and then invariable wonder if this thing will ever bring water to a boil. The burn time is the longest of the bunch but I'm willing to bet that it's about as fuel efficient as a meths stove can get. It's wide and stable too and I would say it's the only meths burner in my possession, other than a fully enclosed Trangia, that I'd use in a shelter. Other plus points? Well it's just 37g (without wind shield) and you can both simmer and douse the flame and that's got to help with fuel consumption. It looks a little quirky but it functions just fine. It's my second favourite meths burner right now. Did I already say it makes me smile?

Evernew Ti Meths Burner and DX Stand

This is my newest toy. Out of the box it looks like the Rolls Royce of meths stoves. Beautifully finished, light gauge, titanium with a fashionable matt finish. You're hard earned cash gets you four parts: a base ring in which burner, the second bit, sits, a pot stand that slides snugly over the top of the base and a power plate/fire grate. Titanium is hard stuff to work and fabricate with but it all looks very convincing and, although it looks like a lot of metal the all-up weight, burner and all, is just 93g by my scales. I have to say though, that in use, I'm less convinced. Throw in a spark and it gets going straight away but, with this stove, going involves spewing flame out of every one of the beautifully punched little perforations in the pot stand. I was surprised by how wide a flame this thing throws, the burner is so trangia-like I'd expected a similar burn but it seems to be in a constant state of flare. I'm used to meths burners with more finesse. You can't argue with its effectiveness though, it heats the pan, boils the contents in double quick time and incinerates everything else in its path to boot. The stand glows cherry red is use. Watch your fingers! Just for fun I tried it with the power plate too. The effect was impressive. The stand glowed even brighter and the boil time went down some more. Lighting is simple without the power plate, again drop a spark from the top and you're away, but put the power plate in place and it's a different story. Evernew recommend lighting the stove through a side port in the pot stand but it's hard to imagine how you would do this without a long match or a splint. You'd certainly have to be pretty nifty with a flint and steel to lob a spark with just the right trajectory into the meths pan.

Of course the strength of this stove is that you can also burn wood in it. That's something I'm yet to try. I'm also intrigued to see how the burner works outside of the stand. In principal it it can be used like a white box with a pot placed straight on top of it. At 35g, especially if it combines well with a narrow pot or mug, it'll make a useful addition to my arsenal. There'll be another chapter to this story yet.

Incoming!

2010-05-18T22:58:00.000+02:00

Got a box! Goodies from Bob and Rose. There's a new stove, the Evernew Ti DX. That makes a new stove for each of my last two trips and one for Seiland. It's becoming a habbit but who's counting? There are a couple of Bobs hip-belt pockets to bling my vapor rise with. Last, but not least, there's an OMM chest pocket that I'm banking on being a viable alternative for my shoulder strap camera bag. There'll be more detail to follow but it all looks very nice. The Jelly babies were out of the box and consumed before I could get a look in.

BTW: Beat ya Joe. The DX is a very polished bit of Ti kit first impressions very favourable!

The Day Has Dawned....

2010-05-18T11:04:00.002+02:00

Time travels fast! The day I travel to Hammerfest to explore Seiland with Randulf has dawned already. Fortunately I still have six weeks or so to get my act togther. Hammerfest, at 71° North, experiences polar day from the 16th May to the 27th of July. I won't be packing a headtorch.

On Packweights and Other Related Phenomena

2010-05-15T14:14:00.002+02:00

Preparations for Seiland have started. Nothing physical you understand. On the contrary, I'm still sat in my lazy armchair. No, preparation at this stage of the game always involves trying to ascertain what I'm up against (terrain, weather, insects and that sort of thing) and tuning my gear list to suit. This serves several purposes. It gets me into the right frame of mind, provides me with documented proof that I need to buy some more gear and, arguably most importantly, results in my being equipped correctly for the trip in question. No two trips are the same. My pack list is always changing.

All this talk of motivations for light-weighting and lightweight kit lists over at Section Hiker got me curious about the evolution of my own kit in recent years. For the last five years I've been on one main trip per year, give or take, and have kept careful tabs on what's gone in and out of my pack. Responsibilities at home have forced me to keep my trips quite short and as a result they have all taken on a very similar format: four days and three nights on the hill in summer. The data for those trips is therefore pretty clean and should reveal, rather than big swings in requirements driven by season and terrain, something more akin to a change in attitude and approach. The results shown graphically above (sorry I am after all a trained Scientist and analyse everything to death) are interesting (to me if not to anybody else).

There's a pretty consistent downward trend. I'd expected an initial crash in pack weight, driven by the light-weighting bug and first energetic attacks on the big three, followed by a levelling out. However, apart from one glitch, my pack weight, both base weight and all-up weight, continues to decrease. This can't go on surely? There are few majour purchases left to make. Any slack in the system can now only be a few grams here and there as I become more aware of what I can safely leave out?

The truth is actually slightly different than the graph suggests. That Glitch was Rondane, and what you see there is that my base weights levelled out somewhat and the total weight has gone up. That's because the base weight figure is not what it seems. I don't include my photo gear in my base weight calculation. Why? Because it's non essential and on occasion I've left it at home. What the Rondane anomaly (I like that, sounds very scientific doesn't it?) shows is that, as I've eliminated dead weight, as I've pared down in other areas, I've compensated for the difference with camera gear. In Rondane I switched back to my SLR. I could because it was possible to do so and stay under twelve kilos. I'm glad I did because I've got the photos to show for it. Photos I'll keep revisiting for years to come.

The last data point, my first stab at a list for Seiland, shows my base weight is down a little again. This isn't the last version, things are likely to change somewhat, the shelter will certainly be left behind in favour of a space in Randulf''s tent (motivated by bighting beasties!), there'll be a rod and real strapped to the outside of the bag and there will be an extra days food. If, there's still any slack, my long lens my get a run out. I'm willing to bet that all those swings and roundabouts will see me back at around twelve kilos on the first day. Things are probably levelling out after all. That's good. That's a weight I'm happy with. That's a weight I can function under. And, at the end of the day, that's what's important!

Garibaldi Provincial Park, August 2006

2010-05-12T23:09:00.000+02:00

We’ve been in Canada for four days. The first four days of a month long vacation in this spectacular land. A couple of nights in Vancouver, a drive along the sea-to-sky highway and a night on a Squamish camp site has brought us to the Rubble Creek car park under the barrier damn. We’d scouted out the trail head after dinner the night before and had learned, from a fellow hiker booting up, that today was a provincial holiday. This day, set aside and planned weeks in advance, as luck would have it, had fallen on British Columbia Day and we now stand in British Columbia. Not just anywhere in British Columbia but just a stones throw from Vancouver at the head of one of the most popular trails of the coastal range. We’ve come early to beat the crowds. Permits paid, boots laced and packs slung we lock the car, still one of just a handful on the car park, and stride off. Purposefully, because today, we’re determined to be amongst the fortunate and bag one of the forty tent platforms on the Taylor meadows camp ground. The hike had clearly taken on a different character to the one I’d envisaged. More race-like and less stress-free wilderness experience.

The walk in is easy enough. Just eight kilometres or so over clearly marked, well prepared trail. Nevertheless, this is our first time out in a while and boots and packs take some getting used to. The packs are heavy too. Although we’ve done our best this time out, we’ve packed dried food and everything, as always when with Jane I’m inclined to pack a little more luxury. Down mats, two skin tent and the Trangia are all in bag. It might be a short walk in but the climb is not insignificant for a couple of lowlanders, we’ll have to cross about a thousand meters worth of contour detail before we set up camp. Just about every step on this switch-backed trail is a lift, shallower on the straights, steeper in the hairpins, but all of it upwards. It’s not long before I’m sweating, Jane's glowing and we’re both pausing to strip off a layer and sip some water. Slow and steady is the order of the day.

The experience is most definitely North American. The trail a tight corridor through otherwise impenetrable forest with restricted views. An acquired taste I suspect and if I’m honest not one I’ve acquired yet. As wooded walks go though this ones got character. Natural growth of Douglas fir, western red cedar and western hemlock score more points than the close knit, regimented plantations of imported quick growing spruce which dot the hillsides of my youth. As the morning passes, the sun climbs higher and, though unseen, it’s effect is felt. It’s hot under the canopy. By design or by accident the pace is most certainly slow and steady.

As we climb we’re passed by several faster walkers wearing trail shoes and carrying light packs and we find ourselves moving in a loose group. Being passed as we pause for breath and passing as others do the same. The dance is accompanied by the frantic tinkling of a bear bell tied to the pack of a young girl. Bears add an extra dimension to this long loved backpacking hobby of mine. Exciting and terrifying all at once. I’d like nothing more than to see a bear in this environment. I’d like nothing less than to see an angry bear at close quarters in this environment. I’d prefer that particular wilderness experience to be on my terms. Given the amount of activity on the trail today, bear bell or no bear bell, my guess is that we are very unlikely to stumble across a bear. Still I imagine big googly eyes and twitching wet noses following our every move from strategic locations in the undergrowth. Lip-licking at the sight of two legged, bag-backed mobile delicatessens carrying fresh supplies of energy bars and minty toothpaste up to the high ground.

As we approach 1500m, with close to nine hundred vertical meters and six kilometres put behind us we arrive at a split in the path. We take the path on our left hand and climb a little further but a little less steeply. The path continues to duck and weave to left and then to right through the trees but on average it veers right and keeps on doing so until, at once, it levels out and we find ourselves contouring. First comes the edge of the wood and then comes the light. The harsh light of an early August midday made all the harsher by the clear skies and thin air. We're not above the tree line but the big trees are now behind us and , here on the shoulder of Black tusk, longer views open up, framed between tree tops and branches. Looking up I'm in the mountains. Looking down I'm in a flower garden. These aren't the hills I'm used to. Not subtle greens and greys under grey skies. Not 'ard 'n northern. None of that. No, these hills are extravagantly dressed in lush, long flowing green grass and accessorised with bright blue, yellow, red and white flowers. We're crossing the Taylor meadow in the first week of August and the display is at its best. It's an astonishing scene. Summer in caricature. I have to look up at the snow-topped points to remind myself I'm in the mountains.

Soon enough we're striding onto the board-walks of the Taylor meadows camp ground. Our chosen camp site, one of two official sights on the Garibaldi Lake and Panorama ridge trail network and the smaller of the two. we'd gambled on this one, without a lake shore, being less popular and thus that there would be room at the inn and our overnighter wouldn't become a day walk. Our gamble has paid off. There are already plenty of people milling around and quite some tents standing but we still have a choice of pitches. We drop the packs and scout around for a few minutes finally settling on a platform just off the path, partially hidden by small conifers, but in full sun. Sticking to the rules we forgo the soft green pasture and pitch on the platform. Just big enough for our tent its a hefty construction of compacted dirt and timber retainers. It's flat but I'm happy we picked up inflatable mats before heading out of Vancouver. The tent pitched we eat lunch, lounging on our mats, soaking up the sun and the scenery, insects buzzing lazily around our heads and ground squirrels scurrying frantically at out feet. I wonder exactly what it is about beach holidays I don't like?

After a long break we stow the gear we don't need in the tent, raise the food and toiletries into the bear hang and head back onto the trail. We first make our way across the meadows and then duck back into the trees. It's getting busy. We're rarely alone on the trail. At first that's a little disappointing but once again the trick is to look up. Every so often we're treated to a new view of the high peaks. Soon flashes of turquoise, also framed through the green trees tell us the lake is nearby and focus our attention. After a few false arrivals we find ourselves paralleling the lake shore an loosing height. Arriving at the waters edge we cross the outfall and then, swinging to the left, all at once the lake is in view. I'm winded by the breathtaking beauty of the lake. Crystal clear and transparent in the shallows and shocking azure blue away from the shore. Dotted with stony islands some of which are adorned with stunted, gnarly pines. It so vivid. So sharp. So perfect. It looks for all the world like a bonsai display.

The camp site is crawling with trippers and the lake shore is dotted with sunbathers but, turn your back to the platform strewn slope and face the water and that's all forgotten. Across this majestic body of water the panorama ridge is in full view. The lower slopes dressed with trees the higher levels still encased in snow and ice. Gentian peak, just a meter shy of twenty two hundred glowers down at us. Here a scorching summer day. There icy winter. For the second time today we just lounge around, feet up munching snacks soaking up the view. Possibly the most photographed view in the Garibaldi Provincial Park but I can see why. Fluffy white clouds keep scudding by adding new interest to the view and I keep raising my camera to add another photo to the archive.

After a lazy hour we drag ourselves up and head back down the trail. Back the way we came, this time up hill, to the meadows. As we once again find the board walks and cross the open to find our tent we see that the holiday chaos of the Garibaldi lake site has found the Taylor meadows too. It seems that every pitch has been occupied. Even the pick-nick tables up by the bear hangs have been moved aside to pitch tents on the platforms they normally inhabit. Every shape of tent and every shape of human can be seen from our tent door. There must be a couple of hundred people milling around in this tiny corner of this otherwise pristine wilderness.

We fetch the food, filter some water and settle down to prepare our evening meal before bedding down. I like such evenings to be about quiet contemplation, a time to reflect on the days deeds, to rethink the thoughts and flick through the images in my minds eye, to take stock before locking safe and turning attention to the next day, but there's no chance of that this evening. Here, this provincial holiday seems to be about sharing this pastime, this so often solitary activity, with a host of the like minded. The evening passes with a series of “how d'ya dos”, “where'ya froms” and “where'ya headeds” from the stream of people going to and from the bear hang or the hut. We're visited by the rangers on their evening round and a young lad, never having seen one before, comes to inquire about the Trangia pruttling away with water on the boil. Our meal finished a neighbour comes and joins us for a cup of tea. She's back in Canada after a stint in Germany. Living in Vancouver and contemplating moving out to Squamish to be closer to all this. A little over an hours drive is apparently a too far away. I wonder if I´m making a decent stab at hiding my jealousy. With the festivities still on a roll we say our good-nights, brush our teeth, hang the bear bag and creep into the tent. After all we´ve got another long lazy day ahead of us tomorrow.

We rise late. Not too late but late enough that the tent is already warming up. It seems that yet more people arrived late in the evening. Now every platform and stretch of board walk which will take a tent is occupied. Four Japanese emerge from two infeasibly small tents perched on the boards under the information boards. Breakfast is more of the night before, eating, drinking tea and watching the buzz of social interaction. The schedule dictates that this is to be a one nighter. We' re booked on a ferry to Vancouver Island tomorrow and the walk out plus the drive add up to missing the boat. This evening needs to see us back in Squamish, an easy jump off point for the drive. It's not over yet though. Just along the trail is the black tusk. Further along the trail is the Panorama ridge. I'm hoping to get at least a closer look at both before turning around and heading down. We pack up the tent, stuff the sleeping bags, roll up the mats, pump some water and , taking one pack with the bare essentials head out onto the trail.

It's shaping up to be another day of blue skies and scudding clouds. High summer, high in the hills. What could be better? We cross a stream, pick up the Panorama ridge trail, a motorway amongst footpaths, and amble along it. Taking our time, making best use of the views, enjoying each moment. Arriving at the foot of the spur to the black tusk and not having fully decided on the mornings route, we ponder our options. The path up to the tusk is busy, steep and does not appeal. It only gets you as far as the base of the basalt plug and its a lot of up to get half way and come back down. On the other hand the main trail runs on through more meadows with wide views and if we press on we might make some elevation on the ridge itself. If we press on that is. We set of with good intentions but pretty soon we fall back into an easy rhythm. This place is intoxicating and, not only are we on holiday but the rest of British Columbia has decided to keep us company. We make the shoulder of the ridge just in time to turn back.

Retracing our steps we pick up the rest of the gear and head back down yesterdays trail. Not with the usual drag-footed sadness at a trip finished but with the sprung stride of a trip just begun. We've got three more weeks in Canada. Ahead lies Vancouver island and then, glory of glories, on to Ontario where we've got a rendezvous with a seventeen foot prospector. As I look forwards I can't help but think of the ridge I'm leaving behind. The greens of the grass and pines at its foot, the grey of its scree strewn slopes and its sun baked but snow streaked crest. I wonder what was over the other side. I'll have to come back to find out.

Oyer Fjell Wrap Up

2010-04-22T22:53:00.002+02:00

Hmm. It's all coming out in dribs and drabs. In the wrong order too. I have one of those minds. It likes to see one thing finished before it moves onto the next. Unfortuantely life doesn't always allow me the space to wrap things up as neatly as I'd like. There's been more to say about Oyer rattling around in my head for weeks but time has been at a premium. Birthdays, three in the space of a month, a build and the trip to Colordado have all bumped this last post down the list. Well, here it comes at last. Probably shorter and less ordered than I imagined but lets see were it goes.

The Area
It's funny but on reflection I can't make my mind up about Oyer. My heart is definately with bigger and grander landscapes. When pouring over the map before leaving and again since my return I invariably experienced a vague sense of disspointment. Too much infrastucture. Too many huts. Contours too far appart. Too many trees. Too many too manys altogther. Nevethertheless, I don't recal ever having such feelings when I was standing on the ground turning my head and looking over the topography for real. Yes the place is comparatively tame, but it's Norwegian tame. Yes it's relatively accessible but in truth we saw no more than a handful of people on a cloudless, sunny weekend.Yes we used a hut but hell we had the whole damn thing to ourselves. Yes it was quite flat but even so my face spent almost as much contact with the snow as my skis. No, on reflection, it was the right place at the right time. Wild and wintry enough to to create the illusion and gentle enough for the groups level of ability. Challenging enough to get a little practice and improve and gentle enough not to break the confidence. With the passage of a few weeks, I even find myself believing I could take on something bigger next winter. I've got nine months to talk myself out of it.

The Rucksack
My pack of choice is now definately, without question, the Granite Gear Vapor Trail. Yes it's heavier than many UL packs now available, in fact at around a kilo it's not much lighter than some of the latest breed of mainstream packs, but it works for me. It fits me, it carries comfortably and it's stable. I think that latter point is too often overlooked. How much energy do you burn when trying to maintain or recover your balance under an ill-fitting sloppy pack? I guess that for me the answer is sufficient to warrant a couple of hundred grams extra. On Oyer Fjell I even learnt that one of things that used to annoy me makes sense. Regular readers may have noticed my critical comments regading the excessively long roll-top. How it gets in the way making loading and unloading all the more difficult. How, the extra volume, towering high above the shoulders with the closure fully extended , is never going to get used. How I was some day going to cut half of it off. Scratch that. This is an all in one pack. The extra hassle loading up is worth it given that the pack accomodates my summer and winter lists with equal aplomb.

The Tent
Oyer Fjell was far from a light weight trip. I guess, at it's peak, my load will have been around 16kg. With work and/or a liberal use of my credit card, I could make a dent in that number but the truth is I'm basically happy with the kit I carried. I'm sure my shelter, the Exped Orion Extreme, is heavier than it needs to be but the knowldege that it's bomb-proof brings piece of mind. I'd happily carry it into any winter landscape. The only negative was the level of condensation on the inner and outer tents but I suppose some of that could be solved by opening the vents more fully. A lighter shelter that can cary a snow loading is just a click and an argument with the wife away but it'll be a while before I replace the Orion (I've been here and said such things before but this time I mean it. No I realy do mean it!).

The Clothing
RAB Vapour rise has won a place in my heart. I'd read all the hype, used the trousers walking in moderate cold but never realy understood the benefit until I was working hard is deep cold. It's miriculous stuff. It's warm enough, breaths enough, blocks the wind enough, does everything it needs to enough. RAB clothing fits me well too and RAB have got their hoods down! The smock has become an all time favourite in just one outing.

My down came into it's own too. The PHD Ultra pully was'nt out of its depth at -15°C when used as an extra layer. Sling it on over a base layer and the vapour rise smock and it's as warm as it needs to be for most of the time. Chuck a roomy shell over the top of that and wind doesn't pose a problem either. Still feeling cold? Combine the Ultra Pully with the Montbell down inner, light enough on its own to be used as a nightshirt. I honestly didn't miss a big duvet jacket. Perhaps I'd been singing a different tune had we got another ten degrees of cold but that potential mistake is saved for another time.

PHD Minimus down trousers and booties were overkill. Great but overkill. Over the years the clothing in my summer list has been seriously paired down. I tend to walk eat and sleep in my clothes. The only luxury I allow myself is clean, dry socks for the eveinings. My winter list will take the same path. The only way to dry clothes in cold climates is to keep them on. Changing out of the vapour rise and into thermals and down was a real pleasure but putting the day gear back on in the mornings was less so. When moving around my legs were always warm enough in day dress. When in the tent I was in my bag. It'd need to be much colder before I'd pack the down troos and shoes agaian.

The Sleeping Bag
At 1200g the Cumulus prime 700 is not a light bag. Put it next to my quantum 200 and it might as well be a lead sock. It's fantastically warm though. I've been colder in the Quantum in high summer than I was in Oyer in the prime. The second night out I slept in a long sleeved base layer and bare legs and was toast start to finish. I could've pushed the boundaries of my lighter gear but in all honesty, having followed the massive swings in nightime temperature reported for Oyer before departure, If I ever head out into and area like Dovre in winter I'll be happy to have something in reserve. I'm still jealous of Jame's Hispar though.

The Stove
The Primus Gravity EF worked just fine for what we did, just a few boils for brews and breakfasts, but it wasn't in the frontline. The heavy work was left for a whisper light. I didn't experience any problems in the cold other than getting it started with the piezo and it burned well with the can inverted but It's too early to tell whether this is in or out. I never even got to the bottom of the first can of gas. It'll go out again if I don't get suckered into buying a Spider in the meantime.

The Gloves
The only villains in the cast were my gloves. Buffalo mitts are great but there's a but. They don't fit me well. Even in an XL, a size up for me, they're quite tight and they won't go over my inners without a fight. I could get them on but couldn't get them off again without stripping my inners. I ended up with cold hands and fingers often. That was partly because I need to find the discipline to put on the right gloves for the right task but mostly because that involved too much faff. I like having a full compliment of fingers and thumbs. I need a better system. Inners and outers that work togther, perhaps a lobster claw that affords some dexterity, something I´ll reach for happily rather than reluctantly. Montane may have supplied the answer for next year.

I think I´m done with winter for now. The tulips are starting to appear and I´ve got a summer trip desperately crying out for some attention. Unlike Joe I don´t have ski´s so I can´t perform the ritual of putting them in the closet. I did put Emily´s sledge on the garage shelf though.

Fly. Be Free!

2010-04-18T21:30:00.000+02:00

The time it's taken to get my sorry ass into gear is better measured in weeks than days but, at long last, the mystery box is shipped. Four items stayed in the balmy south for some R&R. Several more stowed away hoping for a new life in the land of clean air and long light. For a moment there I was tempted to join them.

Oop North

2010-03-28T22:44:00.001+02:00

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Oh, and I've been keeping some other stuff close to my chest too. A plan's been hatching for some time now. I'll be heading back up North for some wild time in the first week of July. Yes you guessed correctly. Norway again. It's not out of my system yet. This time I aim to get really high. Not the height you measure in meters though. Oh no. The height you measure in degrees, minutes and seconds. Tickets are booked and I'm off to Hammerfest, a hair-raising 70° 39' 50” North, to catch up with my old mate Randulf. He plans to whisk me off to Seiland, a snaggle-toothed little island just across the water. What it lacks in altitude it makes up for in attitude. It may only rise to just over a 1000m at it's highest point, Seilandstuva which roughly translates as “ Seilands Tussock”, but it's home to Norway's Northern most glaciers, Seilandsjokelen and Nordmannsjokelen and the next thing to the North is Svalbard.

A Mysterious Delivery

2010-03-28T21:58:00.001+02:00

I returned from the good old US of A jet lagged, sunburned but otherwise in good order on Friday morning to find a box of goodies waiting on my doorstep. The Scandinavian mystery box had made a southern dog leg down the north sea coast to find me. It's contents are rather interesting. Amongst other things it contains my new meths burner. A pack a feather XL courtesy of Roger. Reward for my, all to nerdy, camp stove recognition skills finely tuned with many wasted evenings bent over a PC Googling gear. I always knew it would pay off! I now have in my possession another wondrous piece of kit I can't wait to try out. There's a whole bunch of other stuff in there too but I'm not about to tell you any more. It's a mystery box after all. If I'm right about the order of business It'll soon be winging it's way to Finland, less a couple of welcome bits and pieces and topped up with a few of those bits of kit collecting dust in the bat cave and in need of a new life in a caring home. I think I might need to find a bigger box. Great fun and a great principle! The trail indeed unites us.

Go west young man!

2010-03-21T15:34:00.000+01:00

It's going to seem like I've been keeping secrets but the fact is I've just not had the time to keep you all up to speed. I'm writing this post from my "authentic South-Western Style" hotel, room in Golden, Colorado. Yes I said Colorado. Work has dealt me a cushy number. It's been a while coming, what with the crisis and all, but I now have the opportunity to take a peak at the Colorado School of Mines. As a bonus, I've got a full Sunday to "recover" from the journey. I spent the night at 6000ft. Today I'm going to see if I can better that by another couple of thousand on the trails that start right here in the town. Should be interesting. I've only got the bits and pieces of gear I could squeeze into my carry-on luggage. Light trail shoes, no snow-gaitors and no spikes and it snowed 30cm on friday. The enterprise will however be fuelled by a cattlemans breakfast.Wish me luck!

Oyer Fjell Day 4: Veslehaugen to Steinsetra

2010-03-16T10:00:00.002+01:00

Sleep had been harder to find but I was still awake early. I'd spent the first hour or so after bedding down nursing a raging thirst. An endless loop of lying in my bag until I could bare it no longer, the faff of loosening the draw cords, sitting up with a shiver, reaching for the flask at my feet and sipping another cup of hot water. I don't know what it was. Perhaps I'd drunk too little on a long day of exertion? Perhaps the two main meals I'd stuffed my face with added up to too much dehydrated food? Perhaps they weren't fully rehydrated? Whatever the reason the first part of my night had been restless and the inevitable trip to the toilet to unload the string of hot beverages had postponed sleep until at least a normal adult bedtime. When sleep eventually came it was a good deep sleep. Despite the night being clear, and consequently colder, perhaps -15ºC, I'd not felt cold. In fact I'd been warm as toast. It took another call of nature to wake me and another fifteen minutes of shall I shan't I to get moving.

By the time I emerge the first pan of water is reaching a boil and Thim and Willem-Maarten were already breaking camp. I don't have to wait long for breakfast and it's not much longer before breakfast is finished. Just a few minutes fumbling in a foil bag with a too short spoon whilst wearing an ill-fitting mitt, followed by a few minutes more shovelling food with a bare hand, trying to stuff it all in before losing the feeling in my fingers yet again. Breakfast tastes good nevertheless. Theos probably tastes even better as he takes it in bed for the second time this weekend.

We spend the next hour and a half or so packing up. Retrieving snow anchors and pegs buried under two feet of hard compacted snow, shaking the frost off fly and ground sheets, stuffing stuff sacks and loading rucksacks. Much of my food's been eaten but somehow there's less space in my rucksack. That or it's harder to pack up the tent on the snow than on my living room carpet.

They say it's not over until the fat lady sings. As I strap the snow shovel to the back of my pack I'm sure I can hear Birgit Nilsson warming up in the valley below. Whilst I'm settling into the idea of a gentle downhill along the tracks Willem-Maarten is putting in earplugs and working on an alternative plan. One that involves avoiding the tracks to within a stones throw of the car park. A discussions ensues. Thim chooses to get more practice in track. The remaining three choose to pretend we're in the wilderness for a little longer. We agree a rendezvous and go our separate ways. As we move off I glance around one last time. Two big holes in the snow and a deep trench remain. A big dump of snow or the spring thaw will have to come before we've left no trace. Beyond the camp I catch sight of the view. It's not one I'll forget in a hurry.

What follows is more of the afternoon of the day before. Breaking trail in thick snow, meandering between trees and finding shallow diagonal lines up the steepest of the slopes. On the way in we'd climbed constantly. The route out cross-country seemed shallower and I was expecting that, somewhere along the line, we'd encounter a steep or two. It never came. Dealt an easy ride all the way I was free to take in the surroundings. Two and half days, the two full days and all of this morning, had been spent under clear skies. As we make our way out there's just a light layer of wispy cloud on high. I reflect on our luck. As I do so our luck gets even better. At first I think we're getting a dusting as wind dislodges snow from the trees but then I realise it's snowing. Fine white flakes are dancing downwards throwing an extra layer of magic over this already magical landscape. Not enough to make life difficult but enough to set the scene. My weekends complete.

Too soon we hit the track. Not long after we're amongst the huts that just three days before had been half hidden in mist. As I hit the top of the long downhill, that first climb in reverse, I remember the sense of foreboding I'd carried in. Three days in the dry cold, simple days without cares separated by long, deep sleeps have apparently well and truly erased those feelings. It occurs to me that I'm feeling physically fit too. Was it the antibiotics or the dry cold that had chased the last bacteria out of my lungs? For the first time in the weekend I reach the bottom of a slope without a single fall. It suits me to assume that a weekend in the snow is a good cure all.

We arrive at the car park and, assuming Thim has already dumped his bag and headed back out to practice, take lunch. As we sit in the sun and eat the last of our bread a slow stream of locals ski through the junction. Our second close encounter of the weekend. All passers by get three nods and a chorus of hallo. Most react in some way. One stares and, without so much as a glimmer of recognition, skis on. We can’t help but laugh. Willem-Maarten offers an explanation suggesting that we too don’t utter greetings to all and sundry when we’re walking through Amsterdam, when its’s too busy it’s just not expedient. Perhaps in Norway the threshold is a little lower?

When lunch is done I prepare to head back out onto the track. To make good use of the last half hour before. Returning to the car I realise that Thims ‘sack is not there. He’s not been back. There’s a moment of subdued concern for Thims well being but it’s soon put to rest with a mobile call. He’s on his way down the last run. We head up to meet him and as we approach the huts catch sight of a relaxed figure gliding at speed between the huts. Thim skis past with a wave and smile. Practice makes perfect.

I’m the last back to the car. I’ve bled every last minute out of the weekend and have to pack up in a hurry. Bags are packed for the flight, skis are tied onto the roof, layers of sweat and salt are scrubbed off with a snow bath and then we're spinning out of the car park and back into the world.

Oyer Fjell: Day 3, Djupslia to Veslehaugen

2010-02-21T13:44:00.001+01:00

I’d been a concerned that a winter sleeping bag rated to -18C would be overkill for a night in a hut. That concern was misplaced. By the early hours the bunk room was cold. Certainly sub zero. By morning, the prospect of getting out of bed was just as unattractive as it would have been was I lying in a tent. As I lay building up the motivation to get up and set the fire, I heard somebody else, I guess Willem-Maarten, doing just that. The immediate future is suddenly a whole lot brighter. Just lie in a little longer then make a beeline for the stove.

By the time I make an appearance the stove is warming the room nicely, there’s a kettle of hot water waiting for me and the others are up and about. By the measure of the weekend breakfast is a civilised affair. Still an adventure breakfast eaten out of a foil pack but now consumed sitting on a chair wearing few enough layers of clothing that I can bend my arms. My morning hot chocolate, a substitute for coffee, my having avowed that everything passing my lips this weekend will be bursting with calories, is drunk out of a proper, ceramic mug.

The start is a relatively slow one. There’s not much to pack but we take our time about packing it. Then there’s cleaning and tidying to be done. We do all eventually manage to get out of the door and when we do we step into a crisp, brightly sunlit morning. The door locked behind me and the key safely stowed I step into my skis. Not without a pang of reluctance. When covering the last kilometres the previous day, when sweating up the long climb on the heels of Willem-Maarten, the thought that I was, at some point, going to have to ski back down the same slope kept doing rounds of my head. That moment was now upon me. Almost. First I have to navigate up the steep bank back to the track. As my first steps take me past Thim I sense, perhaps wrongly, the same reluctance in him. The next thing I sense is a light thud as I bury my head for the first time today. Not ten meters from the hut! The now familiar recovery routine, involving swearing and straining, sees me on my feet and, thankful that there was no audience of locals to cheer us off, I make my way up the hill. Then comes another thud. Muffled and distant, this thud is the sound of Thim taking a fall in exactly the same place.

Getting to the track is not what I’d call straight forewords. Herringbone climbs and side-stepping are that much more difficult amongst the trees. I do, however, make the track without incident. In anticipation of my next fall, I wait at the trackside and let Willem-Maarten and Theo ski through. Better, I think, to allow them free passage. Then Thim and I once again find ourselves lining up for synchronised face-planting. Now, one lesson I have learnt in my chequered skiing career is you only need to think half a negative thought and the ski gods rub their hands in glee and pounce on you like rabid dogs. Visions of mistakes appear to be, invariably, self fulfilling. Armed with this valuable knowledge I try to put thoughts of impending disaster out of my mind. Hoping at the very least to bluff my way out of the situation. Feigning confidence I kick and glide to get some speed and, expecting a fast schuss, am surprised to find that my skis are running slower than the day before and that I have to actively kick and pole to keep forward momentum on all but the steepest sections. Perhaps because it’s colder today? Whatever the case, I make it to the first intersection, at the head of the lake without incident. So does Thim.

The plan today is, rather than to go back the way we came, to first head further west, away from our destination and to make a big loop past the Grunnesvatnet and back through Svartsetra. We follow the now familiar narrow tracks, drawn by snow scooters, for the rest of the morning under blue skies and bright sunshine. We make just one soup and snack stop but the pace is nevertheless relaxed, the landscape captivating and the conditions as near to perfect as I can imagine. The sun is surprisingly powerful. As we travel we’re dealt close ups of sculpted snow, sugar frosted birch and picture postcard huts. Behind each of them, long vistas with big mountains as backdrop and a middle ground of smaller but prominent fells. Previous incarnations of this plan would have taken me to either high mountains just like those or these nearby fells but as I work my way across the relatively low lying and level terrain I’m convinced my skiing wouldn’t have been up to the task. As the track swings South-west away from the Grunnesvatnet we cross a junction with the Troll-Loype. A right turn here would take me north, onto increasingly higher ground and eventually into Rondane. In spite of my skiing ability I feel an urge to turn right. I can see myself having to keep my ambition in check in the not too distant future.

In the early afternoon the sun is obscured by cloud and, as if stepping from an overheated shop into the cold street, the temperature appears to plummet. We find ourselves at the foot of a steep climb to Svartsetra, the steepest yet. It’s hard work, made harder by the reluctance of my skis to bight home on the kick. Short steps with a deliberate firm placement of the kicking ski seam to help but the very steepest sections demand to be herringboned. As we reach Nysetra, I’m in a full-on sweat which all available venting and exposing my forearms has failed to suppress. I’m beginning to dip. Time for a break. Time to eat, drink and put on some insulation and burn some of the sweat out of my layers.

We break amongst the huts of Svartsetra with most of the climb behind us but some still up ahead. To my eyes, the downhill looks fast and fierce and, regardless of the effort, I’m glad we’re going up rather than down. We make seats and settle down to eat. Today has been busier. We’ve seen five people since leaving Djupslia, and as we sit we see two more gliding down the hill towards us. A couple of meters uphill from where we’re sitting a nasty, steep-sided dip runs at right angles across the track. I watch with interest as the first of the two skiers, a man, hits the ditch at speed, corrects with a couple of quick dance steps and carries on down the slope. There then follows a surreal moment, visually pythonesque, complete with sound effects. The second skier, a woman, presumably the wife of the first skier, scoots down the hill at high speed gradually coming into sharper focus. She’s fully made up, wearing a bronze all-in-one insulated ski suit ( as I write this I wonder if this latter observation may be an unintentional mental embellishment but I really do remember it this way) and a long haired rat, no a small dog, yes a Yorkshire terrier or some such, is running hell for leather, all tongue and snot, ahead on a long lead tied to her waist. As the dog draws level with me the woman approaches the dip and my view of her is obstructed momentarily. Then comes an audible thud and a high pitched squeaking sound, a squeaking sound not unlike that made by a rubber duck if you jump on it with both feet (don’t ask me how I know this), and the dogs head jerks backwards violently as it comes to a sudden stop on a tight lead. I catch sight of Willem-Maarten and he’s wearing a broad grin. The woman has just nose dived into the ditch. Fantastic. Now I know this makes me guilty of schadenfreude in the first degree but this moment, to me, is a sweet one. Even without the surrealistic accents. Why? Because I’ve just witnessed a scandinavian crash and burn in the loipe. Not only that but this local performed the act in front of an audience of foreigners. I´ve waited years for this.

Rested and refuelled we pack up and step into bindings. It occurs to me as we move off that we four are dressed in full armour, carrying big packs and sliding on wide skis equipped with Telemark bindings to travel through an area used by Norwegian women, in full make up, to exercise their Yorkshire terriers. Feeling a little overdressed I work to put the rest of the climb behind me. Just beyond Svartsetra we arrive at a junction. Literally and metaphorically. From here we can either bear left, run south-east for a couple of kilometres and rejoin the Steinsetra track or, alternatively, leave the track and make directly for Veslehaugen and the tents. In other words we can continue as we have done on prepared tracks or we can get into the landscape and break trail. The discussion is a short one. The skies are clear, we have plenty of daylight, the ground doesn't look difficult, there are just a couple of kilometers to cross on an easy bearing due south and the Steinsetra track running east to west across our path makes for an unmissable catchment feature. Willem-Maarten heads off first and does the lions share of the work.

In my experience every trip has a defining moment. For me, this is the defining moment of this trip. Skiing in the tracks across Oyer Fjellet is great fun and beats the very best of outdoor days in Holland hands down, but I still get a sense that I'm looking at the landscape from the road. From a safe distance rather than immersing myself in it. Not ten meters from the track I look back over my shoulder and the scar of the track has disappeared. All that remains is the landscape and I'm already immersed in it up to my neck. This is great. The whole trip suddenly falls into place. This is why I'm here. This is why, as a non skier I've worked to overcome my reluctance and strapped skis to my feet. Right now, my skis, instead of being an unnatural extension of my feet, all at once too long and to too slippery and out of control, are all of a sudden my best friends. Skis are enabling me to cross wild country through impossibly deep snow and providing me with a stiff hit of wilderness experience. The choice to go with wide skis now makes perfect sense.

The traverse, a gradual climb all the way, is just a couple of kilometres but I revel in every meter of it. I'm treated to views of the surrounding hills and distant mountains each across fields of virgin snow, twinkling under the fall of sunlight. The views are framed by the sparse coniferous wood through which our freshly cut trail weaves. The trees, half buried, now just pillars of snow, play peekaboo, hiding and revealing views in quick succession. As we climb, the view to our rear, to the North, the land of giants, steadily opens out and my progress is slowed by an ever more powerful compulsion to stop, turn around, and take it all in. I don't want this to end. My camera shutter runs hot. Too soon, the Steinseter track jumps across our path and were back in the world.

We now have a second chance to choose between track and virgin snow. I urge Willem-Maarten to ignore the track and continue breaking trail. Although he's worked twice as hard as the rest he doesn't object and carries on. The top of Veslehaugen, familiar from the morning of the day before, is now clearly visible and we make a direct line for it. Just a few more minutes sees two of us at its foot and two of us at its summit. Theo and Willem-Maarten take the chance to play. Thim and I are happy to watch while they both telemark down the slope. Theo even manages to make a turn. Then we all glide down the easy slope to the tents and find them both still standing.

By the time we step out of our skis it's mid afternoon. Still quite early with a couple of hours before the light fades. There follows an half hour of melting snow, boiling water, taking refreshments and improving the camp. Theo Improves the camp by, graciously, levelling the snow under my half of the inner tent. Willem-Maarten and Thim improve the camp by building walls and in the process create man-traps in the walk ways. Everybody is just keeping busy. Doing anything to keep occupied and stay a little warmer. It's all too easy, when the last long day of a trip is drawing to a close, to switch to a different mindset. To let the trip become something of the past and to focus on packing up and going home. On any trip, especially one as short as this, it pays to fight that feeling. To treat every minute as part of the journey and only to start looking back when the bags are unpacked and the kids are opening their presents.

Willem-Maarten fights harder than the rest. He starts digging a snow-hole, just for fun, but finds it impossible. The snow's not consolidated and, half a meter down, he hits the tops of small tress hidden by the snow. By the time he stops the golden hour has just started. Without warning he announces a plan to climb Storhaugen and jumps into his skis. There follows a short discussion, Theo decides to join him but Thim prefers to head for the track and practice some downhills. I'm torn between options. Right now I´m busy with my camera, taking advantage of the ever changing and improving light but, as ever, uncomfortable about splitting the group, agree to go with Thim. A breath later, recalling the spirit lifting experience of leaving the track in the early afternoon, decide nevertheless to head for Storhaugen. Thim can´t be persuaded and heads down to the track. Willem-Maarten, like a dog in the gates, can´t be persuaded to wait and heads up the hill closely followed by Theo. I take my time, make sure I´ve got all I need, polariser, spare battery and the like, step into my skis, and happy to be alone for a while, head out at my own pace.

There follows an hour that can only be described as magical. The going is easy, I just have to follow the tracks cut by the hares, and once the summit of Veslehaugen is passed, the prominent top of Storhaugen, is in plane view. I decide not to make the top my goal and instead to just see where the journey takes me. To take my time, take some photos, get as far as daylight allows and turn back when it´s time to turn back. It´s a good choice. Tortoise tactics are best suited to this race. As I move through the trees the sky begins to burn. A few scattered embers quickly spreading until the horizon is a single, continuous sheet of flame. The warmth of the sky is projected onto the cold snow under my skis. Bands of gold run out from between the trees and cross my path. The warm colours, strangely conspicuous and out of place in the winter landscape, warm the soul but leave noses and finger tips frozen. The scene, far from frozen, changes constantly. The colour deepens and the shadows lengthen turning subtle patterns in the snow into deep relief. The sun sinks quickly. It´s movement perceptible. The whole becoming two thirds and then a half until finally just a sliver is visible. I want to throw a noose around it and tie it off, delay the process, win some time. For a moment, there are two suns. Two bright orange partial spheres, noses against the earth, peering over the horizon and then they´re gone leaving light reflected from the cloud base to do all the work.

It´s not just about light there´s sound too. At first an unbelievable stillness but then, as my ears tune in to it, a subtle soundtrack, The sound of my skis sliding over the powder. Huge sugary crystals, some a centimetre across, issue a barely audible tinkling sound as they jostle for a new resting place. A tinkling like the sound of broken shards from a, too thin, cheap glass as it´s swept up and deposited in the bin. Then, every so often, a soft thwump as a slab, sometimes two or three meters in diameter, suddenly shifts, dropping down a couple of centimetres under my weight. These things are all new. There´s much I don´t understand about this environment. Much still to learn.

In the meantime I´ve been hopscotching from goal to goal. You know the process, just a few meters more, just to the top of that rise and then I´ll turn back, but instead, when you get to that rise, the next point of interest comes into view and dares you to carry on. My hopscotching has brought me right to the foot of the last steep pitch and within throwing distance of the summit cairn. I figure it would be rude not to. Willem-Maarten and Theo are starting down but, seeing me on the approach, halt their progress. A few minutes later I´m crossing a field of wind hardened snow, steel edges proving their worth for the first time this weekend, and then I´m at the summit in company. Light is failing fast and though there´s no time to to enjoy the view we do so anyway. Finally, motivated by a cold, cutting wind, we make our way back down. The others, faster as always, let their skis run and put ground between us. I, cautious as ever, take my time on the steeper ground but am happy to be once again alone in the landscape. If the afternoons decision to break trail had been the turning point. This evenings up and down to Storhaugen has been the high point.

Oyer Fjell: Day 2, Veslehaugen to Djupslia

2010-02-16T22:16:00.009+01:00

In the period of half sleep. Somewhere between fully aware and comatose I’d heard a moped buzz angrily down the street. Gaining consciousness two and two became four again. The moped must have been snow scooter, the street the loipe. It’s Saturday morning and the tracks are being prepared for the day folk.

I awake early but all things are relative. It’s six o’clock by my watch but the fact is I’ve been in my bag for eleven hours straight. Apart from a couple of wakeful periods, during one of which I was compelled to re-inflate my mat, I’ve slept virtually continuously. Deeply too. My oldest is now two years and ten months, give or take. For two years and ten months, give or take, I’ve been struggling along on, at best, six hours of broken sleep. When I tell people about wild camping most of them react with genuine concern. For the uninitiated, sleeping outside, in the cold and wet, on the hard uneven ground, amongst the bighting beasties, seems to conjure up images of hardship and long sleepless, black nights. The truth is it’s a real luxury. More comfortable and sleep enticing than even the finest five star hotel with it’s too soft beds and it’s dry, overheated, air-conditioned rooms. Even in this cold, perhaps especially in this cold, I’ve spent a comfortable night. Only during one period did I feel any cold at all and then, as a side sleeper, only at the knobbly contact of hip bone and compacted snow under my failing mat. A problem easily solved when you’ve overcome the natural, if illogical, reluctance to extract yourself from your warm bag and take action. Anyway, however I look at it, from my perspective, ten hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep is a wondrous thing.

It would seem that Theo has slept well too. At least he seems bright enough. Then again, when isn’t Theo in a good mood? He thinks it’s too early. I tell him how long we’ve slept. He still thinks it’s too early but he’s happy to let me make breakfast. Breakfast in bed! Who needs a five star hotel room? I sit up in my bag, unzip the inner and reach into the porch setting up the stove. The last of yesterdays water is decanted into a pan and the process of melting more snow starts. In no time we each have an expedition breakfast under our chins and a mug of hot chocolate balanced by our sides. Perhaps the Teasmaid wasn’t such a bad concept after all?

The process of melting snow continues for a little while longer but when the flasks are full all excuses are used up. It’s time to move. We’ve faired pretty well on the whole. Just a little dampness here and there. Mostly caused by condensing breath and the in-tent snow falls as our movement knocks the hoar off the inside of the inner tent.

Then comes the worst part of the day, out of a warm bag and into cold clothes and boots. The clothes warm quickly. The heavy leather boots don’t. With as many layers as I can muster I step outside and launch straight into the morning ritual. Two trenches, part tramped, part dug, lead off from our tent, one to the kitchen and one to the bathroom. In the interest of avoiding mistakes the rooms have been colour coded. The kitchen we’ve kept white (a subtle shade of snow white in fact). Modern, clean lined, a feeling of space and simplicity. The bathroom a warm, cheerful yellow.

As I do my share of the decorating I look around for the first time. The air beyond my breath is crystal clear. The sky draped with cloud but high and wispy. The sort of cloud that serves to add interest for the morning but is on it’s way long before the sun gets its act together. As I take in the scene it’s beauty becomes apparent. Not all at once but gradually as the light and colour of the sky and the length of the view slowly penetrate the last of the early morning fugg between my ears.

I head back to the tent, collect my camera and take the first of a long series of photos. Tent as foreground interest, Norway as backdrop but the sky as the real subject. As the sun climbs somewhere behind my back, somewhere behind the hill, the changing fall of light is translated as changing colour projected onto the clouds to the north. In that first photo the blue-white, green and blue-grey of snow, tent and sky are complimented by patches of blue sky. Not sky-blue sky but a pastel, powder blue. Somehow unnatural and unexpected. As the sun climbs those accents steer a course through the spectrum, powder blue becomes salmon, salmon becomes orange. I stand and watch and, hemmed in by deep powder, shoot from a single perspective, no fiddling with settings, trying not to look at the result, keeping my fingers crossed, preserving my chilled battery.

Thim and Willem-Maarten are out and about too. They’ve chosen to take breakfast on the veranda and stand looking at my view. Looking south, over their shoulders, I catch a glimpse of their view, equally stunning, warmer light bounced of high cloud. It’s going to be a fine day!
Willem-Maarten is quick with breakfast and quicker to put his boots into bindings. Before the rest have got their act together he’s breaking trail behind camp. Heading off uphill to take a look around. A little later Theo slides off to join him soon flowed by Thim. I stay in camp taking more photos and then readying myself for the day ahead, stripping excess layers and packing. Willem-Maarten reappears and encourages me to join the others up the hill. As it turns out we’re not a hundred meters from the summit of Veslehaugen.

With remarkably little effort we’ve bagged a 1000m top. Not much to look at. It's prominence can be no more than 30m or so. Just a knoll poking out of the high plateau of Oyer Fjellet. But it’s nevertheless adorned with an impressive, solid built, stone cairn to kiss for good look and it’s fine to look from. Standing on its top, a man of 1m 85cm or thereabouts is a half a body length above the tops of the highest trees. Norway in winter stretches out all around me. The big guns, Rondane perhaps, look down from the North. To the South smaller hills and cloud filled valleys. A cloud inversion! My breakfast is still warm in my belly and I’m leaning on a cairn looking down at the clouds. I could go back home a happy man already.

They say that what goes up must come down. With the exception of deep space probes that rule seems to hold. Willem-Maarten leads off, telemarking straight down the tracks he’d cut earlier. Skis refusing to turn but staying upright. Theo follows in much the same style. leaving just myself and Thim. This is going to be interesting. I let Thim go first. He gets down. Part of the way on his face but there’s no arguing the fact that he’s at the bottom. I push off on a shallower traverse and try to plough, intending to try and turn, speed is hard to find in the deep fluff but I'm mostly in control. Before I initiate a turn I realise my line is taking me to a step. A less than elegant but effective enough kick turn gets me onto the opposite traverse and another slow descent sees off the last of the hill. I’m down. I’m vertical. Marks for style? Zero! Confidence? Still basically intact.

Back at camp we prepare for the off. This new shiny plan allowed not only for a light first day but for lighter packs on the second. The intention is to leave the tents pitched, leave some food, the bulk of the fuel and a stove behind, and to make for the DNT hut on the shore of Djupslia lake where we'll overnight and then to return to the tents on the third and last night. Again the distance is moderate and the relative close proximity of the hut allows a large margin for error. The tricky bit will be navigating back to the tents in the event of significant snow fall or poor visibility. As we pack a snow-scooter, almost certainly the dawn moped, trundles along the track in the direction of Steinsetra. The driver looks at us and we look back. Contrary to expectation the tents are clearly in full view of the track. Nevermind, the compensation is that proximity to the track and the cairned top of Veslehaugen will make finding the tents that much easier. Packs on backs we kick gently down to the track.

A right turn sees us facing east and we’re off along the track again. Our broad skis fit perfectly and glide easily in the freshly pulled grooves. First comes the remainder of the climb started on day one. Then we’re on the shoulder of Hogasen where the terrain levels out and a little later we’re descending a gentle incline. Not steep enough to schuss but enough to lighten the kicks and extend the glides. The snow-scooter drivers early start shows. The track kinks, twists bucks and dives left to right and right to left. Nothing difficult but on occasion just enough to knock a ski of course and break the rhythm. Rhythm is everything.

Not expecting wet I’ve dispensed with a camera bag for this trip. My camera hangs around my neck and is tucked under my smock its swing killed by the chest strap of my rucksack. As we progress the sky clears, the sun shines and we’re treated to a blue and white spectacle. Long, shadows thrown by the shallow Northern light bring interest to the white canvas. The snow is studded with glittering diamonds. I stop often to take photographs. The accessibility of my camera encourages more. The temperature differential on passing from my smock to the crisp open air makes condensation on the lens a real problem. Before long my polariser is smeared and unusable and gets retired to my pocket.

Then comes the first real descent of the weekend. Nothing too difficult. Not too steep. No tricky curves. An easy glide straight down. I pause to take a photo and then at the same time as Thim in the opposite track, pole to get things moving, confident and deliberate. Several seconds later it's carnage. Two bodies and bits of kit are spread over the track. I’m not sure what happened to Thim but apparently my feet were intent on descending faster than the rest of me. Now swearing, I start to pick myself up and discover that recovery whilst wearing a heavy pack is a sport in its own right. Finally upright I push off again, let the skis run and whoosh. Not the exhilarating whoosh of rushing air. Oh no. Again the whoosh of static snow as my ear carves a turn along its surface. This isn’t good. Not at all. I’m sure the last time I was on Nordic skis I was getting down this type of slope without too much bother. A rough calculation suggests that two more falls should get me to the bottom of this one. As it happens I was out by one.

Regrouping we continue along the track. Unfortunately the same pattern repeats itself. Easy kick and glide followed by easy downhills for Theo and Willem-Maarten and crash and burn for myself and Thim. Practice isn’t making perfect. At least not at a rate of improvement that will see me confidently covering the last kilometres to Djupslia. On a wider track I may have skied down out of the tracks on the skating surface but here that’s not an option. All that separates the grooves is an untidy pile of loose snow churned up by by the scooter.

We stop for a break, dig seats, get comfortable and I take consolation in the view, still breathtaking through the funk of hot frustration. When the blood stops rushing and the pulse is back to normal the reality of the situation hits home. I’m in Norway, in the snow, the sky is blue and the sun is actually burning. Things could be a lot worse. If the secret of good planning lies in timing then we’ve struck gold this weekend. As we sit and eat the first of the day folk skis past. It’s been around 21 hours since we left the car park.

The rest of the route continues in the same vein. Steadily covering ground in the tracks, photographing whatever catches my eye, enjoying the company of the others and enjoying the periods of separation from them in turn. The route takes us over more open high ground loosely studded with low conifers, past tiny communities of private huts which at this time of year, tracks and roads concealed under meters of snow, appear infeasibly inaccessible to the families that own them, and finally across the Djupslia Mire. I imagine that this flat, dwarf birch strewn stretch of ground at the western head of the lake is very different in summer. A wet, soggy mess, humming to beat of tiny wings. I imagine all the little mosquitoes sleeping soundly two meters beneath my feet dreaming happy dreams of sweet tasting foreign backpackers with single skin tents. We see two more people taking the tally to three for the whole of Saturday. Its popular here!

For the last couple of kilometres around the head of the lake and along its northern shore the hut is clearly signposted. From the mire the climb is sustained. Three kilometres or so of up. Willem-Maarten has shown the group his heels, I suspect a little out of frustration, he could do so much more if he was free to set his own pace. My reflex action, honed by years of being barked at by teachers and instructors alike, is to keep groups together and I try to close the gap. Trying, without success, to keep Thim and Theo in view over my shoulder and Willem-Maarten in sight up ahead. In fact I succeed in losing site of everybody. It’s such a fine day and the route is so clear that nothing can go wrong. Can it? Probably not. My efforts were in any case wasted in all respects other than that they get me to the final destination quicker. I’m quite glad to see tracks leading into the trees from the final hut sign. At the same time I’m surprised that there appear to be a single set of fresh tracks. Could we be the only people to visit the hut since the last snow fall?

Well and truly arrived, I can relax, and shamble off down Willem-Maartens trail. However, my feet are, once again, set on getting there first and I find myself lying on my side in the snow. By now, a familiar feeling in all respects but one. This snow is not consolidated. If getting upright on skis on a prepared trail is a sport, then doing it on powder is the elite version. It takes me several minutes of wallowing around before I 'm on my feet and only then after a herculean effort that I’m sure involved bursting blood vessels in my head.

I make my way down the remainder of the trail more cautiously, even side stepping the steeper bits, avoiding another fall at all costs. As the hut swings into view it’s apparent we’ve made a good choice. Idyllic would be an understatement. As I close on the hut I can’t see any skis next to the door. No tell tale signs of company. Two paces further and I see the peculiar, heart shaped, DNT padlock hanging in the hasp. It would seem that we have the twenty one bunk hut to ourselves!

After performing, what to a Norwegian might have been interpreted as some sort of strange English homecoming dance, I’ve removed my skis and my pack and am standing, on just my feet, on solid ground, in front of the door. Willem-Maarten clears the piled up snow and I pull the chord to which the hut key is attached out of the side pocket of my rucksack. The key in view, and safely secured on the end of the chord I joke with Willem-Maarten that he better be nice to the key holder if he wants to sleep dry and warm tonight. As the joke is falling flat I catch sight of the key also falling. The two of us spend the next five minutes crawling around on all fours trying to find the tell-tale key shaped hole in the snow and retrieve the key. I’m having visions of cold nights and collapsed down bags when the key finally reappears. I open the door without further attempts to entertain the guests.

Inside we find a well provisioned (strangely enough for a boy out of Liverpool with amongst other things a years supply of tinned lobscouse), tidy, living space, with solar powered electric lighting, three bunk rooms and a huge cast iron wood burning stove. Indeed, Idyllic just doesn’t suffice. The temperature inside is about the same as that outside, at a guess still around -10C, so the first job is to light the stove. In the woodshed next to the hut we find a huge store of dry logs and, after warming myself up preparing kindling, I warm the room with a fire. In the meantime, Theo and Thim have joined us and, spirits running high we sit back and relax. Although it's still quite early, I've reached the end of my day. I'm happy to just to settle down, keep the fire burning, and enjoy the hut and its surroundings. Willem-Maarten and Theo, reluctant to waste daylight head out for a little off-track skiing.

Beforehand, a night in a hut always seems to me to be selling short. Cheating somehow. Cheating myself out of a night in the open. Mostly though, when I get inside I'm quite happy to be inside. This time is no exception. A chance to warm toes, treat blisters, drink hot tea and dry damp gear is welcome.

Apart from a short trip out to take some photos in the evening light and again after dinner to look at the stars on what turns out to be a clear cold night I stay put. So does Thim. The spectacular night sky rounds off what has been a good day. The constellations I see in the skies under which I live and work are still there but now the spaces between are filled with countless millions of strange stars and the milky way burns a path through the blackness. Before bedding down I open the curtains. Who knows. Maybe the northern lights will make and appearance?