Kit in the Cairgorms

I was in the Cairngorms last autumn with the good folks from Rosker, Spring PR and Skookum to try out some new kit. It was fun to put some names to faces and to catch up with some familiar well worn faces that I haven’t seen for a wee while.
It was a great trip, we got perfect weather, had a lot of fun and as Stan Marsh might say, I think we all learned something today.

The bushcraft guides had us eating leaves and bugs scavenged from scenery during the walk in from Glenmore. Some stuff I know, some stuff I hadn’t thought of, some stuff I didn’t want to know because it was still moving and I wasn’t go to eat it with a days food in my rucksack. Still, nice to have possibilities,

The walk into Utzi’s Hut in the Rothiemurchus Forest was very pleasant indeed. So often the forest is an inconvenience to pass on your way to the hills, here I was just enjoying it. The hut is near the edge of the trees to light floods in, but its surroundings lush, plush and a fine pace to spend an afternoon.

There were a bunch pf activities related to some of the kit that we were using and just some stuff for fun. It was all about food initially so we looked at some stoves and cookwear.

Three mega fancy Primus stoves were demoed. Above is the Kinjia with the Campfire Cookset and awesome wooden utensil set. There’s wood all through these stoves, proper old school feel to that which I like.
The Kinjia runs off a regular canaister that we would carry for a mini stove, so although it looks like it’ll be set up on the tailgate of a Range Rover, it’s as portable as you’ll get for this size of twin burner stove.

The Tupike above is a different design of twin burner. There’s a nice lid with wind flaps to the side and legs to give a bit of height if you’re using it on the ground.

The Onja is a quirky design, it folds out to make it’s own stand, has a chopping board as a lid and has a strap for carrying it. Madness, I loved it.
There’s a bunch of textile extras here, all of which come made from Fjallraven fabrics, which shows a bit of commitment from Primus, they could have gone in cheap with the carrying cases and covers.

These are expensive bits of kit and market for these is car campers and day trippers, I’ll never need anything like this but it’s nice to see this kind of kit done well.
I remember nearly slicing my fingers off on a badly finished edge of a bright blue twin burner I used to take on trips to camp sites up north before I took the tent into the hills with me.

The bushcraft folks demonstrated they ways to do it and then had us lighting fires and cooking with just what we cold find in the forest.
There were mixed results from the teams, but we all had a hot lunch and a hot cuppa. And the forest remained safe at all times.

Nothing beats a fresh made cuppa outdoors.

Then we had some visitors and all the jaded journo’s all tured into a bunch of kids. Well, how often does a reindeer herd come over for lunch?

A fantastic band of big beasties, and one wee cutie there too.

Had a preview of some of the new Fjallraven tents. The Keb Dome is a fine bit of kit, designed in Scandinavian fashion so there is weight to deal with there but strength when pitched and space inside to compensate for the effort carrying it.

 

Some headed on for a night in the heather, some were too scared of the reindeer. Well, you just never know.

Rangering

Had a long day around the Lang Craigs and surrounding hills. There was a few things to be done and more were discovered along the way. It was chilly, the mist was down and I left my camera behind because I wouldn’t be needing that. Idiot.

In mist and rain you do notice the wee stuff around your feet more so the pellet full of chewed bones and tiny feathers had the three of us (Roy site manager and Jo fellow ranger and wildlife fan) pondering. It was quite big, so what coughed it up? They said buzzard and other sensible things, my imagination says other things. The wee furry guy nearby says nothing except that springs’s on its way.

One of the wilder parts of the site is where the Black Burn has made itself a little waterfall. It’s actually a lovely spot, if it were closer to the road end it would be a popular spot for picnics. Maybe the fact its in a steep sided grassy gorge is as much of an issue.
We were checking the water gate here, unfortunately the site boundary line is right on the edge of the waterfall so the fence ruins the aesthetics and also it means the water gate hangs over a drop. Do deer get in here? They’re bloody brave if they do and deserve a seedling or two. Don’t tell them I said that.

Across the northern end is a favourite place, easy in snow shoes when the conditions are right, a triparama when the grass grabs your ankles after every second step the rest of the year. It’s where ooh views start and this time it’s where the temperature shot up and the cloud cleared. Dammit.

The light was getting lower and it picked out perfectly the prehistoric dyke that runs over the hills and climbs into the crags. One survey puts a Roman road up here too, there’s a lot of unexcavated and uninspected up here. Maybe one day we’ll have some proof and some finds to show? But then again its nice just having stories to tell, possibility can fire the imagination more than fact.

The Arrochar Alps were hazy and still streaked with white, and beyond the powers of my phone to record them. The pines of Black Wood were as wonderful as ever and soon to be free of the rhoddy blight around their feet. It’s a magical place this wood, it feels separate from the rest of the site with an atmosphere all of its own and the rhododendron growth has choked its heart to the extant it’s not worth the grief to try and get through it any more.

The site is still evolving, change can be difficult to watch at times and always it’s either too fast or too slow. Just got to hang on though, it can be worth it, for example the old quarry is looking great now it’s been cleared giving us a new little rocky outcrop viewpoint with new paths slowly growing around it. You should go and see it.

 

Roll the bones

Conic Hill is always a safe bet for getting a bit of height before it’s dark and I’ve always got enough kit in the motor for wee jaunts like that.
Balmaha feels more like a tourist spot than ever, it’s getting ever shinier and flashier, but Tom Weir’s there keeping his eye on it. I just hope he doesn’t see the same horrors unfolding as his friend and contemporary Bob Grieve does in the national park board room in Balloch as his portrait gazes down on the madness those folk in there put together.
The whole east side of the loch is seeing changes, Sallochy, Milarrochy and elsewhere have been developed and the hit and at the miss destination of Rowardennan I could see lots of folk eating and drinking through the lounge windows which was rather nice to see.

Not too far away Glen Finglas is now very visitor friendly, the Woodland Trust who I volunteer with at the Lang Craigs has put their corporate stamp there and made it accessible and pleasant.
I’m always going to have an inner battle with any of this stuff. I miss finding all these places I’ve mentioned unkempt and forgotten when I first got my driving license 30 years ago. Its selfish though, people bring money and possibilities for the future with them when places can be visited and enjoyed.

But as age grips me I am see things differently, I’m not going to be bitter and resentful as change chases me up the A82. I’ll just remember a comment from Tom Weir when he felt the changes that my generation brought to the hills when we mobilised in our cars back in the 70’s and 80’s. He said that he used his knowledge of the hills to find them as he used to know them. I’ve realised that I’ve been doing that with route choice and even my time of day. You can put as many tourist information signs up as you like, charge for parking, restrict this or that, but you can still slip past it all and the hills are waiting, same as always.

Held in time

When I’m away from the hills this is what comes to mind first, a path leading on to “something”. I can think back 20 years and remember seeing myself put one foot in front of another as the sun shines on me or the rain falls on me and I have no idea where the path is.
It must be something about just getting there, the chase is better than the catch? Unlikely, given some of the places I’ve caught over the years. Maybe it’s just the forward movement that us humans embrace as an evolving species, the looking and hoping, secretly desiring but not wanting to demand in fear of somehow jinxing ourselves. Maybe that’s just mountain folk looking for a blue sky?
Hell no that’s all pretentious bollocks, it’s just me looking for an excuse to be glaikit.

Ben Lomond has seen my feet one in front of the other more times than I can remember but I always look forward to repeating the process. It’s a hill that is aging with me, Ptarmigan has a track nearly as ground-in as the tourist path and I can remember when it was just a ribbon of light wear winding up the ridge. Or is that old guy memory tricks? Revisionist memory is probably unavoidable as you grow older but with every breath we take these days being digitised the truth will be hard to hide from in the future.

It was a good way to end a week where I’d got stuff done. Plus Friday is the weekend apparently, I heard someone say it in the queue in the local shop, so it must be true. By the time I’m 60 I’ll remember it as an EU directive. See, memory revisionism.
Mind you, I’m fairly certain stuff I learned in the 70’s is a lot of rubbish, but for the sake of continuity in arguments I stick with it. Another old guy memory trick, things were better in my day regardless of any evidence presented to the contrary.

Not warm, not cool, not clear but not cloudy, bright and breezy too. I think the word would be pleasant. Setting off was a joy.

But here today there were more important things unfolding than I’d had in mind. A poor soul was on the summit and had apparently lost their life the previous day or during the night.
As hill goers tragedy is something we have at the back of our minds or sometimes at our fingertips, but here, so close to help on the busiest of hills and on such a beautiful day, it just didn’t seem possible.

As the sun sank it pulled a blanket of clouds over itself. It was saying good night, a clear message to anyone still out there.

I’ll be back to the Ben sometime soon.

It was such a beautiful day.

 

99%

I’ve had a lot of luck chasing blue sky over the years, to the point where getting stuck in pishy wet rainy days at the bottom of a slope looking up without any drive to carry on can feel like a personal attack. But it’s never dented my optimism, a look out of the window in the morning still has me changing plans and hitting the road.

The road is often the problem though, especially on short winter days. A couple of weeks back it was perfect, blue above and white underneath and my first thought was Ben Lomond as I hadn’t been up this winter yet.
All the way to Drymen was at 25mph behind a cavalcade of stoopids as the sun seemed to be setting faster than usual and when I misread the first signs by the road as I was finally moving faster I had no idea until I got there that the road was completely shut at Balmaha. My bubble was burst, I could climb Conic Hill, I could maybe make the Luss Hills, but my heart wasn’t in it. Home, tea and biscuits.
I did get to Ben Lomond in the end, last Friday, but that was another unusual day which I’ll come back to.

A couple of days later it was blue skies again, it looked clear up the loch and although time was getting on I wasn’t wasting it again. The road was fine, the Greggs latte only spilled a wee bit on the centre console as we drove and I was in the hills fast. The wispy clouds looked nice, the blue sky sucked me out of my seat, into my boots and I was off.

It was hard going as it was steep from the roadside, damn that heavy milky coffee (a convenient scapegoat). The weather also hadn’t seen that lassie with the dark hair and glasses on the Reporting Scotland forecast who’d said it would be clear until late on when a front would slowly move in. Maybe this was the prefront, the forefront? Whatever, it was misting up. And snowing, now it was snowing. I climbed on but now the wind was coating me on one side with crust of white so I stopped to pull on my shell.
It was lovely though. The cloud was just prowling the tops and rolling through the glens and I know that it was clear above. I was just not high enough here to see it.

It was dark at the top, cold and windy too. I was surrounded by indistinct shapes, above, below and to every side. I didn’t feel overly welcomed. something I’m not used to, I like to dig in, get the stove on and take in the atmosphere but for now I was just thinking about descent. Nothing fancy either, a straight line out of the cloud and back to the motor.
I made an arse of that of course and in the pitch black I found the road a good k and a half from where I’d planned to. I finally got the stove on in the layby and it was okay even if there were no stars above, I still had the gurgle and slapping of the loch next to me.
I had a camera full of photies too, and now that I see them, I should remember the less than perfect days.

Return to the scene of the crime

It was all fine, I’d climbed out of the shadows and the broken sunlight had just enough heat in it to keep the chill off but not enough to make me sweat. Well, sweat hard anyway. The light was already golden in the later afternoon, it was gearing up for sunset although it was still a couple hours away. I wasn’t complaining, the colours were rich and dark with the snow stark against it and the sky was too blue for this late in the day.

The spring in my step gave me enough energy to fanny around with the camera and timer. I’ve gotten out of the habit of doing that, but today it didn’t feel like an effort to run back and forwards, in fact there was a real joy in it. I was grinning at every trip and slip that saw me fall on my arse while trying to look windswept and interesting.
It was all fine.

But with my eye off the ball and on the scenery I was suddenly on a long steep slope where my next footswing bounced off the snow rather than go into it.
“Oh” I said.
It was steep enough to look down between my legs and see the rocks waving back at me from the bottom of the slope.
“Bugger” I said.
Poles and good intentions were all I had so I sawed away at the solid snow with the side of my boots, sometimes stiff boots are indeed okay, until both feet were more secure and I could swing my rucksack off and get to my ice axe. The forgotten art of step cutting was paid some hasty and sloppy tribute until I got to broken patch of ground where I could get my crampons on and be a bit more suave in my approach to the rest of the slope.

I should know better, and I do know better which is why I wasn’t stuck. But it was a wee reminder of how easy it is to go from happy stroll to be being out of your depth.
My spikes bit deep and securely and the ground was now more broken and less steep anyway, the last part of the ascent was a joy. Patches of sunlight drifted across the hills and the clouds were now growing a fringe of colour as the sun slipped through their layers far out to sea.

I like coming here, it’s an unpopular hill which suits me fine. I also take a route that I’ve never seen another soul on and every step I took was in virgin snow until I was 20 feet from the summit. The summit is rocky and broken, it fits perfectly with it’s neighbours and the views are both awesome and odd, with familiar faces smiling at you from another angle.
It was getting dark and it was cold but I couldn’t feel it. I was skipping around as the light changed from blue to flashes of pink on the snow slopes around me. I laughed out loud. More than once.

The sun lit a gentle fire on the horizon. It burned slowly, catching the edges of the ribbons of cloud and then the flame passed lazily along this wispy chain until it reached the ridgeline to my west where it took hold and found fuel to burn brighter. I pulled on my down jacket and took it all in. If I’d been needing a reminder, I’d found it.

The descent was on more untrodden snow on an unloved ridge, not unloved by me, even though it’s a ridge which has turned me back before. Tonight its craggy tumble and steep snow made me welcome, even if it made me think hard and question my route choice a couple of times.
Two ravens circled and croaked, the only hello I had all day.

Further down a bowl ringed by large boulders cut the wind dead so I set up the stove and let darkness find it’s proper depth. I could see headlights on the road but they were silent, I was still in the hills for a little while yet.
My fingers were finally thawing after I took too long to put on my big gloves and my hot cuppa steamed my glasses as I watched the stars peep through one at a time.

Crampons and axes stowed, I set off on rubber soles and torchlight into the black.

I think I’d been a little lost. But to know where you should be, maybe you have to get a little lost sometimes. It’s good to be home.

 

Night Light

The best snow for me this winter so far wasn’t on a big hill, it was in the Kilpatricks. As a Woodland Trust Lang Craigs ranger it’s not all about walking the deer fence, there’s the wacky and fun stuff too and the Torchlit event was probably the best do we’ve had on the site.


Cancelled a couple of months ago because of high winds, the fresh snow and travel problems didn’t stop it from going ahead this time and it was magical. Children and grown ups were wide eyed together as they walked the snowy paths to find a minstrel in the trees who led them through a candle lit forest to find two pixies swinging from a tree. These two brave wee souls took them all further uphill to the fire wielder in the meadow who led the kids a merry dance around the sculpture.
Holly was wearing her wolf hat and was named “Wolfchild” by the swinging pixies, this of course went down very well. There was a frozen harpist in a tent, hot chocolate for all and it was very well attended despite the falling snow and temperature drop.

Never seen the like. Pure magic.

Cold warning comes, for me.

When the day long darkness lifted its weight a few times I was delighted to see the hills splashed with some white, even down to 100m or so.
Snow brings a mix of joy and terror, It’s been interesting seeing the different reactions from my mountain buddies and my musician friends. I like this extra perspective, I also like being the most weather ready guitarist out there.

Here’s a smile inducing memory from earlier in the year. I could barely stand up. Awesome.

Wilde in the country

It’s been foggy of late, and we all know fog is only skin deep. I’ve been in the Kilpatricks at night most of the time which I enjoy but when I can’t see a thing out the window and time is short, there really is only one thing to do.

6

 

15 minutes and I’m in a different world. The Kilpatricks are seeing a lot of change, ravaged by forestry commission’s vandalism with machinery on one side and on my side where the Woodland Trust are we have a mix of new wild growth and a softening  of the edges with new access paths.
There’s more people up here which is as it should be, but I can still find peace so it’s still a place I go by choice as well as to look at the deer fence.

 

 

Is it time?

I’ve had a few little flutters, I’ve had to catch my breath and let it out slowly so I didn’t blurt out the wrong words, but today the flow of thoughts and emotions finally ran through all their little gullies and into a river flowing the same way.
My last spark of inspiration came from the original source, voices and images from nearly 25 years ago and I was suddenly both then and now. It’s a rare thing to catch once again the feelings of your first step and I think I’ve been very lucky, I think I got away with it.
Better do some house keeping.

oot 1

Rewind to the beginning

It’s with mixed emotions I’ve just submitted my last route to Trail, for the time being at least.
I’ve always run close to the deadlines for submitting these, there’s no other way to do it than with the most recent information possible or you’re as well just having a page saying “Buy the SMC books”. This has worked for me, with forestry operation changing long established route, new deer fences etc, but also against me as I have spent far too many days sitting in laybys in the pissing rain waiting for a clear hour to run up a hill I know well to get new photies.
Doing the routes has seen me visit or revisit many wonderful places and try to spread the joy of what I see there but I think it’s time for me to chase the patches of blue sky wherever they are, camp on a hill I hadn’t thought of until that day and look at the calendar to see how far away Christmas is, not how close a felt tipped pen cross through a day is.

It’s been an absolute joy the past few years, and the fact that everyone hates Trail amuses me no end as despite it being the most popular mag, as a hate figure it’s made me feel a little bit counter culture having been involved in it.
It’s product, like every other magazine or website out there despite any pretensions of being an authority on its subject, it’s made to sell, but that doesn’t mean there’s not good folk in there. Matt Swaine who brought me in originally was a good lad, Phoebe Smith, now editor of Wanderlust, who I did two of the hardest days on the trail I’ve ever done is passionate about wild places and instantly made my wants list as a post apocalypse team member. More recently Dan Aspel is who has suffered from my oblique approach to scheduling and deadlines, he’s man who loves the mountains and who I’ve enjoyed bantering with but unfortunately never managed out on the hill with. Yet.

“Tell Petesy to stop writing about music and go back to the mountains”. Someone said that to Joycee a few weeks back, someone she didn’t know either, I guess that’s the power and reach of the internet.
It won’t happen overnight, but now I wouldn’t be writing about every trip twice it might encourage me to write my trips up on the blog again. For the blog it has to be done right away, I have to get my thoughts down when I come back, if I leave it too late it’s just a description of where I’ve been and I don’t want to read that kind of shite on here when I’m 70. I want to read about the mistakes, the swearing, the donuts, the song in my head and just how awesome that sunrise is.
Aye. We’ll see.

EPSON MFP image

Got it covered

I really have to remember to bookmark some of the more interesting things I do on here in posts so I don’t forget them.

I’ve done a couple of covers recently, one each for the areas I love the most: music and mountains.
The first is the cover of Moonwalker, the book by Alan Rowan. It’s a fine account of night time ascents, something that I can very readily relate to.
I took the shot on the cover, indeed that’s also me in it the shot and it was cleverly adapted to perfectly fit the title by not me.
That’s a black Diamond Raven Ultra in my hand. How sad is it that I remember that.

moonwalker

Next up was something I hadn’t done for a long time, then I got all excited and properly into it. I did the cover for The Red Eyes EP, out now and very good indeed – old school punk with better musicianship, songwriting and production.
Main man (and old school pal) Alan described what he wanted and I did my best to make it. I did it from scratch too, I made the old-looking paper by crushing and dying white paper and everything else there is either hand drawn or placed onto the paper as it’s a single photie.
It was fun and I was so pleased when the band liked it and used it.

Making stuff is fun.

theredeyes

Silent Running

I was meant to be somewhere else but the retro truck couldn’t hack the road and the day was bleeding away into the fresh snow.

Ooh, what a horrible analogy.

Anyway, the Arrochar Alps saved the day once again. The car parks were full, the tops teeming with life, but a few folks always head for the “other” places and I joined them.

Awesome.

Continental

3wee

Joycee’s motor, which was my motor and now subtly but firmly adopted by the wife, needed new tyres, four of them. Through my watering eyes I took my plastic card back and was glad at least that the girls would now be safer on the road.

The gravelly throat and wheezing had kept me on the couch for a couple of days but the paracetamol loosened off the vocal chords  enough for me to agree to giving the motor a wee run to see how it felt. Holly was at Granny’s and not shifting, or indeed even contemplating putting on anything but her pyjamas’s on during this frosty day.
A quick spin up to Luss and grabbing a cuppa was the plan. The motor was running smooth, the old tyres apart from having a couple of slow punctures really had made for a rough ride. The road was good, we’ll keep on for a bit.
The sun was getting low, the snow was glowing pink and orange, the music was good and the miles just disappeared. It got dark as we ate in the Glen Coe cafe, sat by the window grinning back at each other.

A new day but like the old days.

4wee