Walking on the Wild Side: The White Room

This article from a series of articles published in the Voice for Arran, a community magazine for Arran.

There is no doubt about it, white-outs in the mountains are scary, but they are not dangerous on their own if your navigation skills are up to scratch. 

 Navigating in a white-out on the summit of Ben Nevis.  Image credit: Stuart Wallace

In the White Room there is nothing. You can blink, strain your eyes and try to shake the dizziness from your head but the blank screen in front of you will not flicker.  Looking down at your rime encrusted compass you watch the needle settle on North and take a few stumbling steps forward on a surface that your eyes don’t register. Your quads pump. Your legs at least tell you that you are walking uphill. Ahead, a scrap of windblown lichen tumbles across the snow and helps your own internal compass to settle.

Being the navigator on point in a “white-out” is a lonely business. You can turn to look at your friends in bewilderment who will in turn offer words of encouragement, but while they have your reassuring footprints and rucksack to look at, they can’t fully comprehend the dizzying vertigo that comes from seeing nothing.  The experience goes from bizarre to hellish when strong winds and stinging spindrift are added to the mix. A cocktail of agony and blindness only slightly eased with ski goggles (now you enter the marginally cosier “Pink Room”).

To experience the true White Room you need a thick blanket of snow, removing any sign of surface details. All rocks, blades of grass and footprints are erased and the horizon mingles freely with atmospheric mist and snow. It is impossible even to see which way the ground dips, and I’ve seen people rolling snowballs out in front of them just to judge the gradient before they step on it. The disorientation of navigating in a full white-out can lead to compelling urges to lie down on the floor to confirm that gravity and the earth still exist.  

Knowing how to navigate in Scotland’s mountains at any time of year is very important, as our weather is so changeable and bad visibility or lack of concentration can easily lead to route finding errors.  In winter, white out conditions make navigation exceptionally difficult and the stakes are increased with more hazards and greater consequences for mistakes.  There is no doubt about it, white-outs are scary, but they are not dangerous on their own if you know how to deal with them when they overtake you, and practice your micro-navigation skills regularly so that when you need them they are right there at your fingertips.

Learn how to walk on a bearing. Sighting on objects such as rocks or tufts of heather just in front of you will work in summer and even in the dark, but in the White Room you have nothing to sight on so will have to take it really steady. Try sending people out in front of you and using the compass to sight on the line ahead rather than staring blankly in to the mist. You can also turn around and take a back bearing along your snowy footprints to check how well you are doing.

Calculate the distance you have travelled using timing.  Calculate your speed, and add about a minute for every 10m vertical height gained. If you can’t do the maths with a cold brain, try laminating a little cheat card with timing calculations already worked out for everything from 100-1000m, and at 2, 3, 4 and 5km per hour, and attach your cheat card to your compass.

Count every pace.  Pace counting is very useful for distances under 500m. Experienced navigators know how many paces they take when walking for 100m on easy ground.  Usually each double pace is counted, for example, every time the left foot hits the ground. Experience helps you learn how many extra paces to add in deep snow, uphill or with a heavy pack.

Avoid Hazards. Avoid cliff edges, gullies and steep ground.  These are often concealed by deep snow and cornices, and could be invisible in a white-out.

Don’t skimp on equipment: A map, a spare, a compass, a head torch and ski goggles are essential winter equipment, and should be included along with your ice axe and crampons.

If you are new to navigation, you may wish to start with a book to introduce the basics- there are lots of great ones on the market, but my favourite is a small publication called Mountain Navigation,  by Peter Cliff, which has been in print for a while but is still widely available. There is also no substitute for practical experience, and while the winter days are claggy and dreich, there is certainly plenty of that to be had on Arran’s hills!

Walking on the Wild Side: Nightwalking

Another little post from the Arran Voice series I am writing.  This one appeared in December's issue. 

It’s December on Arran, and the wheel of the year is dipping in to the darkest phase. If the weather is good, the low winter sun hits the eyes in cold hard rays, but if the island is shrouded in cloud, light slips in and out of the short days almost unnoticed.  

 

Walking in the mountains at this time of year means preparation, extra equipment and warm clothing.  One of the essentials is a torch. There is a certainty to the darkness in December, and I carry a torch with me now wherever I go. Trying to avoid the darkness cuts short the day and so it is in the dim pre-dawn light that I set out for the hill, and I know that I will return under the cover of dark. The weary trudge out of the glen in the gathering gloom is part and parcel of winter walking, and not always welcome, but the darkness focuses the senses and condenses the experience.  Some of my most intense memories are of the mountains at night.

Mountains have moods, and the same peak can have a hundred different faces depending on the prevailing weather, wind, and time of day. Camping wild and high in the mountains is a great way to feel the changes that come with darkness.  I recall my first mountain camp, two of us pitched by a lake in a lonely cwm on Cadair Idris. As darkness fell we retreated to the warmth of the tent for an early night. Much later I needed to pee, and crawled out of the tent in to the black night.  A mist had fallen, so there were no stars or moon visible, but the beam of my torch picked up the startled eyes of dozens of sheep. Like small green lanterns, they hung in an unblinking circle around our tent, the whirling mist revealing and obscuring each pair of eyes in turn. There was something very creepy about these sheep and fear of their luminous eyes kept me awake until dawn.

Night time is a great time to practise navigation, and the dreaded “Night Nav” is usually a set exercise on Mountain Leader Assessments. My most unpleasant night time mountain experience was one such exercise here on Arran. We set up camp on the shore of Coire Fhionn Lochain, under normal circumstances an idyllic place to spend a night, but on this occasion a storm was raging overhead.  After a hurried tea we went out in to the lashing rain to practice our navigation, heading on to the stony ridge above the coire. The torchlight created a white cocoon of dazzling light around us, beyond which the darkness was intensified and we could see nothing.  Rain soaked in to our clothes, our fingers went numb, and the wind wrestled with us so that we staggered around like drunks trying to feel our way in the dark. It was grim.  A sudden gust of wind snatched the flapping map out of my wet gloves and I watched as it hung in the air just out of arms reach, before being swept off in to the black sky above. I never saw that map again!

By contrast, on a clear but moonless winters night on Ben Macdui a couple of years ago, the stars alone illuminated the glistening white plateau so well we dispensed with our torches and walked by starlight. It was as if the land itself had an inner glow that was reflected back at the Milky Way.  We could see for miles, to the furthest extent of the mountains, where the frosty edge of the Cairngorms dipped down towards the darkness of the Aberdeenshire coast. It was like being on a magic carpet of snow, flying through the sky. On a night like that, the only place to be is roving the hills, on a twinkling island 4,000 feet up while the rest of the world is fast asleep.

The sheer beauty of the mountains at night can be breathtaking and sometimes the darkness brings even bigger surprises. The mysteries of the Cosmos best reveal themselves to the naked eye at night, and being high up in the mountains gets you closer to the action and away from light pollution.  I count myself lucky to have seen the Northern Lights from a mountain top in Norway. However, the one nightwalking experience that I treasure more than any other happened here on Arran just last winter.  Descending from Cir Mhor at dusk with my husband, the sun had set and the sky was a deep velvety blue, still smeared with pink at the horizon.  No need for head torches yet, but the going was tricky in deep snow and slippery boulders. Suddenly, our surroundings were illuminated and we looked up to see a burning ball of fire soar past. The trajectory of the meteorite took it at eye level across the hollow void of Glen Sannox, where it fizzled out in a puff of sulphurous light above the dark glen. It was a chance occurrence, a once in several lifetimes experience, but as they say, you have to be “in it to win it”, and walking at night is a great way to find these surprising and magical moments that come at you out of the gloom.  

Safety First:

Walking in the mountains carries a risk of accidents, and this is increased further at night.  There are ways of minimising the risk to yourself when mountain walking at this time of year:

• Take plenty of warm clothes, food and drink
• Carry a map and compass, and know how to use them.
• Carry a headtorch and spare batteries, or even a spare torch.
• Choose a route that will be easy to follow in the dark.
• Let someone know where you are going and when you plan to be back.
• In full “winter conditions” other equipment such as ice axe and crampons may also be necessary.

Walking on the Wild Side: Otter Diary.

Another little post from the Arran Voice series I am writing.  This one appeared in September's issue.

Retreat.

I’m walking alone at sunset close to my house, binoculars hanging heavy on my neck. The track behind the beach is pitted with the frost encrusted prints of animals and people. Paws, hooves and boots have been strutting back and forth along the lonely shore. I’m looking for evidence of otters, and pause to hunt among the rocks next to a drainage culvert. I find what I’m after, pungent spraint daubed on to a smooth lump of granite. There is evidence of several visits to this messaging post, and I follow the ditch upstream to a thicket of brambles. I look for prints in the muddy bank but find nothing. If an otter came this way, it did not exit the burn at this point, but must have continued to the farmland beyond. I don’t follow. An otter’s holt is a sacred space, protected through secrecy and by law. 

 

Winter is a great time for watching otters on Arran, as the short days bring their most active hours within reach of a normal human day. There are fewer dogs and people about too. The otter I am tracking today is a female with a young cub in tow. She is naturally shy, but I have seen them in the water from Clauchlands to Corriegills. The cub is only a few months old but already an efficient hunter of crabs and shrimps. I don’t spot them often, but the traces of their presence are left in piles of fishy spraint along the back of the beach above the high tide mark.

 

Sunbathing.

Not all otters insist on secrecy.  In Kildonan, a pair of cubs curl up in full view of villagers on a flat rock marooned by the rising tide. It is early spring now, and the sun is warming the volcanic dykes that jut out to sea. This rock is a favourite sleeping place and the young otters, disguised as piles of brown seaweed, doze in peace while their mother forages amongst the surf. Their tidal alarm clock is set- the rising waves lap around them until they wake to foamy splashes. Mother appears, and the family begins a daily ritual of play that must end every siesta. I call this time “Otter O’clock”. I have no idea why this family is so predictable, or why they are less secretive than other otters, but they regularly delight visitors and locals with their bold play in broad daylight.

Feeding Time.

As the Kildonan cubs develop, their presence begins to dominate the coast around the village. Locals tell me they have never seen more otter activity in the area than now. The hungry family spends hours in the water, fishing almost constantly for crabs, blennies and other small morsels. They patrol every sheltered bay methodically, diving again and again with relentless appetite. Lying on their backs in the water, each catch is quickly crunched up before they porpoise down to the sea bed for the next course.

Otters have a rapid metabolism, perhaps to keep warm in cold water.  Like teenagers, they live fast, going through episodes of intense activity, interspersed with vital periods of rest. They must eat well, and prefer small and easily caught meals, tending not to waste energy chasing the bigger prey. Their strong jaws and heavy molars are powerful tools for crushing the hard shells of crustaceans.  Their spraint is packed with the tiny bones of fishes and broken shells of crabs and shrimps. The Kildonan family hunt for several hours a day.

End of an era.

It is midsummer, and all good things must come to an end. The Kildonan cubs are now indistinguishable from their mother. I calculate that they are well over a year old. Recently while the family has been at play I have noticed a fourth otter, loitering a few hundred metres away. Days pass and the intruder is still there, a curious presence in the background. It is a powerful male, and his increasing interest in the family shows that there is a change in the air.  Reluctantly I go away for a week and when I return the favourite rock is deserted.

Now there is a different regime in the village.  A solitary otter fishes the sheltered bays, but it is not always alone. When the large male appears, the two embrace playfully. There is a tumble of shiny brown bodies in the water and a boisterous game of chase begins amongst the rocks and pools. Then, they fish alongside each other for an hour or so, before smaller of the two slips away.

I do not know what has happened to the Kildonan family.  Did the mother drive the cubs away? Did she leave and am I watching one of the cubs playing with the male? Otters are hard to tell apart unless heavily scarred, or as in the case of the male, distinctive by their size. He has a powerful bullish head and neck, his back humped and broad. I wonder if the smaller otter is a female in season.  Only time will tell.

Fight.

Male otters live a rough life often shortened by violence. Upon leaving the safety of their family they travel long distances, sometimes for years, searching for their own territory. Many die before they find it: in road traffic accidents, in fights with dogs, or at the hands of other male otters. A male may inhabit the territories of several females, the limiting factor on territory size being what he can defend.

Late this summer I witnessed a fight. The violence was undeniable. Canines flashed in the sunlight, and the two screamed their aggression as they tore at each others throats. Even as the loser turned and fled, he was pursued relentlessly through the water at an incredible speed. I wondered if he would get away, and what would happen if he didn’t.  Two years ago a woman from Kildonan found a young male otter with terrible wounds. He was handed to Hessilhead Wildlife Rescue Centre, but did not survive his injuries.

New life.

Autumn has closed in around us and the brutal weather has made finding otters hard, but I’m seeing evidence that the circle of life continues. Otter cubs are born throughout the year. The gestation period for otters is short- cubs are born helpless and blind, and are tucked up securely in the den for months. They are too weak at first to play in the currents, and even when they are six months old they will avoid rough weather.  A female with a wild rocky territory in the Southend has a growing cub. They have been very shy through the summer, but as the tourists depart they are becoming easier to find. The cub is increasingly brave in the surf, strong enough now to hunt amongst the rougher breaks. These two still have several months together and I’m looking forward to watching them.

Meanwhile the solitary otter at Kildonan no longer receives the attentions of the male. Fishing expeditions are hurried and businesslike. It works only the best bays and ignores the less fruitful locations. I fantasize that somewhere in the tangle of wooded cliffs there is a waiting family, squeaking and blind, dependent on mothers milk.

Otter Facts:

• All wild otters in Britain are the species Lutra lutra, although they inhabit diverse habitats, from the coast to lochs and inland river systems.
• Otter numbers declined drastically during the 20th century due to pollution and persecution. Numbers are now on the increase thanks to legal protection and cleaner coasts and waterways.
• The greatest threat that otters face in the 21st century is still pollution.  Roads also claim a number of casualties each year, including on Arran.
• Otters are protected by law.  It is illegal to disturb or harass an otter or damage its holt. For more information see the SNH Website: http://www.snh.org.uk/publications/on-line/wildlife/otters/law.asp
• Arran is one of the best places in the country to watch otters, as it is thought that every stretch of coastline has a resident otter. You will need a good pair of binoculars and patience. Dawn/sunset or a rising tide are the best times of day to see them.

Walking on the Wild Side: The Good, the Bad and the Squidgy

This article appeared in the Voice for Arran in Sept 2011 as part of a series of features on wildlife and walking on Arran.

I recently discovered that I am afraid of snakes. This sudden self knowledge is surprising in itself, but more astonishing to me is that I have suppressed this all my life until now. 

 A snake in the grass....

I remember finding my first adder- I am walking on a Norfolk beach with my father. A small scaly creature lies inert in the sand and my Dad yells at me to keep the dog away. I recognise danger, but blank my mind to fear. Dad tells me that only foolish people are bitten by snakes. I’m a little girl but I am brave.

Other encounters- a pair of dark sequins hissing at me from the heather, a flat head tensioned to strike, a black and olive pattern darting away. I respond with the same stillness I use to ignore wasps at a picnic, I don’t notice my heart bouncing in my ribcage or the adrenaline flooding my veins.

This summer, survey work has taken me more than ever in to the adder’s domain and I have come to expect these exciting meetings. Now I quiver at a twisted branch of heather, or jump back at the zigzag silhouette of a dead bracken frond.   When I see a real snake, I tremble with relief as my foot hovers above the angry coils. The statistics are in my favour- adder bites are rare and as my Dad said, usually inflicted on the hands of the foolish and the curious, but the odds are against me, as I must have tripped over 20 or so adders this summer alone.

My relationship with nature has been coloured by what I have read, watched and been taught. In order to understand the world around me I swallow facts and try to view the natural world through the objective lens of science. And yet it is virtually impossible not to respond emotionally to the wildness when I meet it face to face. Who cannot be delighted by the big innocent eyes of a red squirrel, peeking out of a tree, or the quicksilver energy of a pair of otters playing together in the surf? And we make value judgements about nature all the time. Sparrowhawks, magpies and black backed gulls are often reviled as thieves and murderers, but we easily forget that red squirrels sometimes eat birds’ eggs too.

My objectivity was recently tested to its limit as I stood on a stretch of rocky coastline watching a pair of otters fishing in a sheltered bay.  At first they seemed to ignore each other, but as they drifted ever closer together I waited for the expected game of rough and tumble. Instead, as they pulled up nose to nose, an eerie caterwauling began, and within seconds they were trying to tear each other apart. The speed, violence and complete lack of mercy that the larger otter showed the other were shocking. Eventually the loser escaped the frenzied grappling and was pursued at speed through the waves and out to sea. Finally getting away, it was clear that this otter was badly injured, its tail held stiffly out in the water as it swam. Unable to intervene, I was shaken and upset with myself for being so- fighting with lethal ferocity between rival male otters is the natural order of things.

We humans are unsurprisingly drawn to the parts of wild nature that are easiest for us to identify with.  We are afraid of, or ignore the unsettling and the unpleasant.  This is a huge challenge for conservationists who seek to protect entire ecosystems, not just cute and fluffy brand ambassadors. One wonders how much simpler the COAST campaign for a marine reserve in Lamlash Bay would be if it were dolphins or otters under threat from scallop dredging, rather than the strange and squidgy life of the sea bed.

We prize the rare over the commonplace. One species whose fortunes have seen a dramatic turnaround is the common buzzard. Growing up as a young birding geek in East Anglia in the eighties, I had never seen a buzzard. Their numbers plummeted during the 20th century due to persecution, pesticides and myxomatosis in rabbits (an important prey animal for buzzards). On a family holiday in the Black Mountains, I searched empty skies every day until at last I saw that heavy outline now so familiar in every British county. The buzzard has made a fantastic comeback, but has been relegated from magnificent and rare raptor to “just a buzzard” by bird watchers. Some people have asked me if buzzards are now considered vermin- we assume that if something is common, it is a problem that must be controlled. In contrast, the muddy brown fields of my youth were filled with giant flocks of boring lapwings.  Today they are in catastrophic decline and my heart bursts with joy when I see a just small troop tumbling overhead.

Is it possible to value all of nature equally?  Should we even try? What about biting insects? Some species are no doubt troublesome and even dangerous to human health. But each has a unique place and we are only beginning to understand the complex interspecies relationships in a healthy ecosystem. I have to hold my hands up to being genuinely afraid of the fierce little adder, but I count myself lucky, (especially while I remain unbitten), to live in a place where these animals still thrive. I’ll take the infested bog over the concrete jungle any day.

To put it simply, even midges have a value to bats and swallows, moorland birds eat ticks, and if you look deeply in to rainbow eyes of a cleg, you will see beauty reflected there.

And then it bites you.

Walking on the Wild Side: Michael's Deaf Blind Challenge

Those readers that follow me on Twitter will be aware that I have recently been involved as part of the support team for Michael Anderson, a Deafblind man who climbed Ben Nevis on the 21st of July.  I wrote a couple of articles for the Voice for Arran before and after the event.  They are reproduced below: 

Part 1: The Preparation

Michael Anderson likes a challenge but his goal of climbing Ben Nevis for his 70th birthday is going to be a mighty test of his stamina and determination. Michael is both deaf and blind and hopes to climb the highest mountain in Britain to raise money for DeafBlind Scotland, a charity which supports and campaigns on behalf of people with dual sensory impairment, a complex disability that can be incredibly isolating.  Michael hopes to raise money towards a Training and Resources Centre that will support people with deafblindness, their families and guides/communicators.

I agreed to get involved with Michael’s challenge long before I met him.  As soon as I heard about his plans to climb Ben Nevis I wanted to help if I could and put myself forward as a member of his support team. However, it was not until a grey midgey morning on the shores of Loch Lomond in June that I finally met Michael, his daughter Fiona and her partner Nina. Michael is a gentle man with a soft voice. His kind exterior belies a man with a core of steel. Meeting him for the first time, for a training day on Ben Lomond, I wondered what on earth I could offer Michael and his support team. My knowledge of the mountain is one thing, but my experience in guiding deafblind people and the additional challenges we might face was at that point non existent.

On the Summit of Ben Lomond with Michael Anderson

At first I walked alongside Fiona and Nina and watched how they patiently guided him along the early sections of the path. I wondered at how, taking Fiona’s arm, Michael intuitively followed and copied her motion, gauging the size of steps and unevenness of the ground by feel.  Michael wears a hearing aid, and the two women loudly described the footpath before us.  Suddenly Michael stopped.  “We are in woodland?” We tried to explain how green corridors of oaks and birch surrounded us.  “May I touch a tree?” Michael asked.  Carefully we led him over to an ancient and gnarled trunk.  “Ah yes,” Michael smiled “An oak”.  Later he would identify a fallen birch by the feel of the papery bark under his fingertips.

Michael’s sense of direction is better than that of most sighted people, as is his balance, despite his damaged hearing. He has Usher’s syndrome, and has had a hearing impairment all his life; his sight has deteriorated slowly since he was a boy, and at the age of 33 he was registered blind.  He recalls climbing a mountain with his brother as a child and the wonderful emotions that awoke in him: “it was an amazing, uplifting sensation, both in what one has achieved and what we could see.  That was my first ever climb and I believed a seed was sown”

As a younger man, Michael enjoyed walking in the hills around his Berwickshire home and he is still exceptionally fit and active despite his disability.

For me to get a handle on how best to guide Michael and become part of his team, it was time to experience a glimpse of his world.  Approaching a rocky section of the path, I closed my eyes and took Fiona’s arm. I felt a huge leap of faith at this moment, and suddenly the act of climbing a mountain was condensed into each tentative step. Simple descriptive commands work best and though to the guide this can seem incredibly repetitive, it is vital information.  “Step up and over, left a bit, forwards, rock in path”. This steady flow of information is the guidee’s lifeline to progress. Fiona and Nina are very skilled at this, but as we approached complicated sections of path I could see the concern etched on their faces. 

Taking a turn at Michael’s side was nerve wracking initially, but his kind manner and careful concentration soon helped me to relax. Michael has an iron will and even though it was clear that he was weary, he never complained and continued to smile graciously. We left the treeline, and climbed up in to the grey clouds. He was keen to learn when the mist closed in.  We described the views, and how they faded from sight. He sensed the cold wind, and the brightening of the sky as we approached the summit.  Standing at the trig point taking photos, Fiona and Nina had tears in their eyes, but Michael’s face was a picture of pure joy.

Wise people say that when you reach the summit of a mountain you are only half way there, and for Michael this is more than true.  Each step is placed with equal care in ascent and descent, and as fatigue set in, the reality of the challenge dawned on us. Progress was slow, and through the stony sections painstaking. Ben Lomond is a lighter shade of Munro than Ben Nevis, which standing at 1344m is a worthy challenge for any hill walker. The Ben Nevis path is rough and rocky, and the weather on the hill often violently nasty.  We expect to be on the hill for at least eighteen hours, and will have to carry additional food, water and equipment.  Walking back through the woodland on the banks of Loch Lomond, I felt humbled by the immense challenge ahead for Michael, and honoured to be part of making it possible.

Part 2: Ben Nevis.

It was never going to be easy, but climbing Ben Nevis was a huge challenge for Michael Anderson and his support team because not only is he deaf and blind, but at 70, no spring chicken either. Michael was raising money for Deafblind Scotland, a charity that supports people with dual sensory impairment.  As part of his team I was able to take part in one of the most satisfying challenges of my life, and although it was hard for everyone involved, not least of all Michael, the whole experience was a huge adventure that forged new friendships.

We met at 4.30am at the visitors centre at the foot of Ben Nevis. The team comprised Michael, his daughter Fiona and her partner fun loving Nina, a cheerful young woman called Meg, George- an experienced mountain walker, Phil- a gear freak and walking guidebook writer, and finally, myself.

We set off in the early morning gloom grateful for evenness of the initial sections of the path. Michael set a cracking pace for his guides, and not even a peculiar design of stile (hard to describe to a blind man at 5am) slowed him down much. Optimism set in and as the sun rose and we were joined by other walkers on the track, the plan started to look distinctly feasible. By mid morning, Michael was striding out confidently alongside the “Halfway Lochain”. 

“Its in the bag” we thought….

The section of path above the half way lochain is very rocky. Loose boulders of considerable size litter the path despite recent work by the Ben Nevis Partnership. As we wove in and out of the obstacles in our way, progress ground to a standstill. Putting one foot in front of the other, we zig zagged our way up the shoulder of the mountain. I could see that this was taking its toll on Michael and the team and I began to seriously worry whether we would have enough energy left in hand to descend this sort of terrain.  I called a meeting and expressed my concerns.  Anxious that Michael was concealing his physical state from the team I asked him to level with us. Normally a quiet and polite man, he looked uncomfortable. Eventually he spoke: “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, “I feel we are going too slow. I can go faster; I don’t need to go round everything!” 

Relieved, we pressed on, and the pace quickened. The support from other walkers on the mountain was fantastic. Phil was also sending out live updates to the internet via a satellite beacon that logged our exact position online. We felt as if the whole world was rooting for us to succeed.

We were joined by Jim, an elderly gentleman who was walking alone and looking for company. As we neared the summit, to my horror Jim took a turn for the worse and collapsed cold and insensible. Concerned that he was hypothermic, we wrapped him in warm layers and gave him sugary food. He perked up a little with some Kendal mint cake, but was hazy and incoherent. He looked in a bad way, but knowing that calling a rescue immediately would guarantee Jim could become seriously cold and ill in the long wait for help, trying to get him moving seemed like a good idea. George and Meg volunteered to descend a little with him.  I suggested that if he showed no sign of improvement in 10 minutes, they call the emergency services. In the event, Jim was able to walk off under his own steam after being fed and watered extensively.  It later emerged that he was diabetic and had not eaten sufficiently for the ascent. I believe he owes his life to George and Meg. 

On the Summit of the Ben!

Meanwhile, Michael was nearing the summit of Ben Nevis.  The final undulating plateau seemed to drag on interminably, but eventually at around 1pm the ruins of the observatory loomed in to view through the cloud. It was an emotional moment, with photos and phone calls home. We were even treated to a view, as the mist parted to briefly reveal the magnificent North Face of the mountain.

The descent was as hard as we knew it would be. Every single one of us was feeling the pain as the afternoon wore on in to evening. Michael seemed to have more energy than the rest of us put together.  At dusk, the midges descended hungrily.  We couldn’t escape them so plodded on regardless. Eventually, at half past ten, we crossed the bridge in to the visitors centre car park. For me this was a wonderful moment, tinged with relief and a huge sense of achievement. Michael had climbed Ben Nevis, and in doing so, had become the first fully blind and deaf man to stand on Britain’s highest mountain. 

Congratulations to Michael, and a huge well done to the entire team.  I’m looking forward to walking with you all again and eagerly waiting to hear what Michael’s next challenge will be!

To find out more about the work of Deafblind Scotland and the many other fundraising events they organise visit the website: http://www.deafblindscotland.org.uk/

You can support his incredible effort by donating to Deafblind Scotland on Justgiving.com: http://www.justgiving.com/teams/deafblindclimb

Walking on the Wild Side: Granite Highway

This is the fourth of a series of articles that I am writing for the Voice for Arran about Walking and Wildlife on Arran. This article appeared in June 2011. Hope you enjoy!

“Granite….” The name rolls around my gritted teeth. I’m a lover of granite, and just saying the word makes me want to climb mountains and feel rough crystals against my palms.   If geologists are interested in how rocks are formed, mountaineers obsess about how a rock feels to feet and fingers. Granite is a rock for the tactile. Formed deep in the bosoms of volcanoes, a geologist will tell you that the main constituents of granite are quartz, feldspar and various forms of mica. The sizes of the crystals define its texture. It is featureless, massive, and hard.

            My love affair with granite began with wrestling the gymnastic crags of the Cornish coast, before it flourished on the warm rosy slabs of the Alps. Here on Arran it has matured in to a slow burning passion that draws endless delight from perfect pockets, biting cracks and wind sculpted hollows.  At the end of a hard day in the Northern Hills, my hands are stinging from hours of happy tussling with an unforgiving but eternally intriguing rock.

            Today Arran is shining like a jewel in the sea. I’m looking forward to a day walking a tightrope of granite that hangs from the sky like a twinkling curtain from Sannox to Brodick. I will climb quickly, and then hardly descend until I reach Goatfell, my feet treading a highway in the heavens hewn of solid rock.

            Leaving the main path in Glen Sannox I cut up above the glen towards the Devil’s Punchbowl. Shadowy sunless cliffs loom above me, their mood in keeping with the sinister name. Just below the coire rim, a rough deer track cuts under the slopes of Cioch na h’Oighe.  A loose path weaves between steeper sections of scrambling, and I seek the direct route on bare rock wherever possible. I feel my way up creased slabs of cold granite. Thousands of years of rain and seeping vegetation have worn the slabs smooth and I search out grooves and hidden edges for my boots. Already my hands feel sore and black peat is rammed under my fingernails. The way is steep. 

            Breathing heavily, at last I crest the wave of rock, and I’m perched on the summit of the Cioch that curls upwards in to the heavens. A cold wind hits my face and the sudden sunlight dazzles me. My hands look pink and raw. It is time to hunker down between the summit blocks to refuel for the next stage.  I lie back against a boulder and look up at the blue sky. Briefly, the sickle shape of a soaring kestrel arcs overhead before diving in to the rocks far below.

            Beyond the Cioch, a narrow ridge of jumbled blocks and heathery notches forms a bridge to the massive bulk of Mullach Buidhe. Most of the difficulties can be avoided, but it is more fun I think to pick my way over the tottering blocks balanced against each other on the crest. They look improbable, but the colossal friction of hard crystals and their sheer tonnage mean that they have come to an enduring rest in these positions. In between, the wind and the rain have eroded softer sections of the ridge, leaving treacherous scoops of golden gravel, ready to sweep the unwary into Glen Sannox.

            Before long, I’m labouring my way up the slopes of Mullach Buidhe.  The ridge widens, and, the heather gives way to a miniature rock garden of mosses that cling to the loose slopes in the wildest of weather. Mullach Buidhe itself is a broad peak with several craggy tops and a steep west face. A lone raven sits on the highest, and as I approach, the bird flings itself in to the abyss, before shooting back in to view with a raucous cry on an updraft as if fired from a cannon. On this sunny day, Mullach Buidhe itself feels like a rocky meadow floating high above the world.  The grass here is soft and short, and the gentle gradient gives my hands and legs a rest. Looking down and left towards the sea, I can see the village of Corrie shining in the sunlight on the shore, further out, the Caledonian Isles is emerging from Brodick Bay. It is breezy, and even from here I can see the whitecaps skipping past her.

I drop down from Mullach Buidhe, and begin the climb up to the summit of North Goatfell.  Here I get my first glimpse in to Glen Rosa, and the scrambling begins again.   From North Goatfell there is an escape path that runs along the east side of the ridge towards Goatfell. This is a useful route for those who don’t like heights or in poor weather.  The scramble over the top of Stacach ridge itself although short, involves serious situations and one or two “technical” moves.

            I slither down from North Goatfell over granite slabs and turn my attention to the ridge.  A series of blocky tors bar my way and I must seek out the easiest way up, over and down each one. The largest, involves a series of shelves above a huge drop, known as the “Giant’s Steps”. Climbing these is like getting out of a swimming pool over and over again, and I inelegantly heave my way on to each shelf. The rock here is fantastic. Rough slabs grip the soles of my boots reassuringly while I grapple with coarse blocks and flakes. I get a few grazed knuckles, but it is a small price to pay. I take my time, savouring each moment, as Goatfell looms in to view.

            At the highest point on Arran a magnificent panorama unfolds before me. The deep defile of Glen Rosa drops away suddenly, and each of the buckled peaks of the Goatfell Range rises up to meet me. A ribbon of ocean encircles the island, and beyond I pick out Ben Lomond, the Arrochar Alps, and the Paps of Jura.  I know that I can see Glencoe from this point, having spotted Goatfell in a reverse view, but it is impossible to identify the individual peaks amongst the tangle in the north. To the south, I can see Ailsa Craig like a distant cone floating on the sea, and the shadowy shape of Northern Ireland against the sun.

            At last from here my way is down, and I stick to the natural line of my journey taking the bouldery South Ridge of Goatfell for as long as possible.  Finally, I say goodbye to this fine granite highway just before it plunges steeply to Glenshant Hill, and I turn east down a heathery flank towards the main path, that takes me safely to Brodick.  

Tips for enjoying Arran’s Hills:

• Make sure you are properly equipped for changeable mountain weather.
• Always carry a map and compass and know how to use them.
• Take your litter home with you
• Leave a route card with your estimated return time.

Walking on the Wild Side: John Muir- The Call of the Wild

This is the third of a series of articles that I am writing for the Voice for Arran about Walking and Wildlife on Arran. This article appeared in April 2011 to celebrate the birthday on the 21st April of wilderness visionary John Muir. 

My first encounter with John Muir was just two years ago, though he had already been dead for 94 years. While working on the Arran Wildlife Festival, an email dropped in to my jam-packed inbox from Dan Sealy, of the US National Park Service’s Centre for Urban Ecology.  “Ranger Dan” was coming to Scotland, on a pilgrimage to the birth place of his champion.  We welcomed Dan to the festival, and arranged for this unassuming man to hijack a bat detecting evening to deliver a talk to the unsuspecting audience on the life and legacy of an American hero from Dunbar, Scotland. 

Muir was born on the 21st April 1838, and at the age of eleven immigrated with his father to Wisconsin.  His early years were filled with bone breaking labour on the family farm, but he showed signs of genius and eventually found a place aged 23 at Wisconsin University.  Here Muir was set upon the scientific path that would allow him to record and write about the wild places that he visited, but it was his years living rough in the mountains in the 1870s that set his soul on fire. He is lauded in America as the father of the National Parks and it is surprising that he is a relatively unknown figure in his native home of Scotland. The John Muir Trust has done much to re-dress this balance and now owns several remote Scottish estates, working as an advocate for the enjoyment and protection of wild land and promoting outdoor education for the young.  However, most people in this country are unaware of the man or his role in the birth of the worldwide conservation movement.  Inspired by Ranger Dan, I began to read Muir’s writing. What I have found inscribed within those pages is arresting and enlightening.

Muir the visionary

Muir was driven by a compulsion to understand, experience and endure the wild in all its forms. He kept detailed records of the habitats he explored, and sought out extreme and dangerous encounters that brought him closer to the wild nature that he admired. A committed Christian, Muir’s passion was fuelled by an evangelical natural mysticism. He did not see man as the God-given custodian of the landscape, instead he regarded the wild places and their inhabitants as teachers, and he strove to learn by their example.  He wrote often of nature’s “loving lessons[1]”, and compared them to the harsh religious schooling he had received at home. In the complex and miraculous web of nature, he saw the hand of God in action. 

Marvelling at the Sierra forests after a violent storm, he wrote: “But though to the outer ear these trees are now silent, their songs never cease. Every hidden cell is throbbing with music and life, every fibre thrilling like harp strings, while incense is ever flowing from the balsam bells and leaves. No wonder the hills and groves were God’s first temples, and the more they are cut down and hewn in to cathedrals and churches the farther off and dimmer seems the Lord himself.[2]”

Muir the conservationist

Muir’s unique spiritual perspective combined with scientific method and exceptional recording skills allowed him to see complex relationships in the natural world.  Way ahead of his time, his writing is a rallying call for ecologists: “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe.[3]”  Although he married and settled with a family, Muir felt most at home in the wilderness.  He understood the healing power of nature for the body and the soul. He wrote of the importance of wild places for society; “Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity; and that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains of life.[4]”  This formed the basis of his argument for protecting wild landscapes that ultimately gave rise to the American National Parks movement.

Muir for the modern world

Muir writes about nature in a way that articulates what many who love the outdoors feel, but struggle to express.  We know instinctively that our brushes with the wild are rejuvenating experiences. Most of us who live on Arran have chosen to do so and those that came from outside were drawn here in part by the magnificent natural environment. Nowhere on Arran is untouched by human influence, and yet in the high places, and on the ragged coastlines, nature’s power and intricate splendour thrives in a way that is moving to all who pause to enjoy it.  For me, the joy of living here has been getting to know the details, and like Muir, observing the lives and characters of the island’s wild residents. As each season passes, the delicate piping of the winter redshanks, or the tireless exuberance of meadow pipits in spring, lifts my spirits and roots me in the present.

Muir’s language is luminous, passionate, and fiery. It is a paean to a wildness already long gone from much of America, and it is heartbreaking to imagine what he would make of his native Scotland in modern times. But his work has an even greater relevance to our urbanised world than ever before. There is so little left of wild Britain that we must treasure it. We can begin here on Arran by recognising the value of our natural environment not only to us, but the thousands of tourists who come here each year to experience the healing power of a different pace of life.  If we can go further, as Muir did, and recognise the sanctity and substance of life no matter how small, woody or fierce, we stand to benefit immeasurably from the simple pleasure of finding our own place woven in to this astonishing world. 

Reading Muir: Journeys in the Wilderness:  A John Muir Reader is a paperback containing the selected works of John Muir, with an introduction by Graham White.

John Muir Trust: For more information about the work of the JMT visit the website: www.jmt.org.uk

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[1] The Story of My Boyhood and My Youth.

[2] My First Summer in the Sierra

[3] My First Summer in the Sierra

[4] Our National Parks

Walking on the Wild Side: Magical Machrie Moor

This is the second of a series of articles that I am writing for the Voice for Arran about Walking and Wildlife on Arran.

 

 I love getting to know the layers of a landscape. For me, walking on Arran is an ongoing study in the composition and history of a place. Footpaths and structures are knitted into the land like bones and blood vessels. The walk from roadside to Machrie Stone Circles, for example, passes through five thousand years of human endeavour, lovingly erected from the rock of ages in just a couple of miles of rutted farm track.

My favourite time to arrive at the moor is late in the day as the sun’s rays are at a low angle. I wait until the car park has begun to empty, and cross the stile opposite. The track to the Stones cuts across meadows and skirts the wooded river bank above the Machrie Water. The track shortly bends away from the river and I pass the mysterious “Moss Farm Road Cairn”. This cairn looks for all the world like a stone circle, but is believed to be a kerbed cairn, encircled by a rim of lumpy boulders marking its outer edge.

The track rises through rough pasture and sweet gorse, until I’m at the fringes of the moor. I briefly turn off the path, to pay a visit to a favourite place, a hut circle some twenty feet in diameter, hidden amongst the soft rushes and heather. This was once the dwelling place for a Bronze Age family. Similar structures have been excavated all over Britain. The inhabitants herded their animals and steadfastly tilled the land. Theirs was a time of great cultural flowering, when stone monuments sprung up all over the country. Populations were expanding, settling new places now abandoned even by modern farmers. Today, a raised ring of rushes marks all that is left of their home. In summer, spotted heath orchids grow proudly in the boggy centre of the hut where I imagine there was once a hearth.

Returning to the track, it isn’t long before I reach the first of the stone circles, a double ring of granite boulders. Sixty five million years ago, the rock swirled and heaved in the bosom of a huge volcano. The magma cooled, and the outer crust of lava was slowly eroded to reveal the granite core. Boulders were dragged down from the hills by ancient glaciers, which in turn faltered and melted more than ten thousand years ago, leaving rocks marooned in the landscape, ready for humans to trundle the last few metres into place. This circle is known as Fingal’s Cauldron Seat, and it is said that the celtic giant tethered his great dog Bran to one of the boulders while he boiled water for his supper. The derelict buildings of Moss Farm sit opposite. The crumbling walls are home to starlings and swallows in the summer.

I go through the gate and on to the moor itself. The setting sun is reflected by the orange glow of the sandstone pillars that stand erect like bare tree trunks. The circle builders chose a combination of granite boulders and quarried sandstone. Where sandstone was used, there is a sense that this was with a purpose, now hidden. Six circles have been discovered and of these, four include sandstone as well as granite. All have been excavated, with varying degrees of care. The most recent excavations by Alison Haggarty were published in 1991. It was Haggarty who made the last circle discovery, a sixth secret buried beneath the peat. Who knows if there are more?

Today the moor is a wet and inhospitable place for humans. Crisscrossed by ditches, dense birch and willow scrub, and pocked with hidden mires, the moor is home to fearsome adders and birds of prey. Lines of broken fences confirm sporadic sheep grazing, but the moor feels like a wild place.

It was not always like this. The land of the circle builders used to be rich and ripe. Below the peat and beneath the stones have been found the marks of ploughs etched into an old and fertile soil. Older still are the posts and pits that tell the true age of the site. Haggarty’s excavations revealed that the first circles on the moor were wrought of timber four and a half thousand years ago. Even earlier are fragments of pottery and rough pits left behind by early pastoralists, Neolithic people living five thousand years ago. The story of the moor is of a thousand years of population growth and intensification. Settlements sprang up, and with them sacred places for people to gather together, built first of wood, and then stone. The site reached its zenith some time in the beginning of the second millennium BC, when the people carefully buried the cremated remains of their kin inside the circles with precious implements and hand crafted earthenware.

Eventually, the climate began to sour and the moor became a less friendly place. The weather deteriorated and the peat grew and deepened. The people retreated to the margins of the land, farming the fertile strip between coast and hill. The moor was left alone and the black bog took hold, in places reaching a depth of three metres.

I sit with my back to sun-warmed sandstone and try to imagine how the moor would have felt all those years ago. I picture a settled scene, small hamlets surrounding an area of common land, quilted with a patchwork of crops and pasture. Wooden stakes mark out animal enclosures, and circles of stone stand neatly in the centre of a hive of activity. For a moment I can hear the homely songs of the farmers, but they are lost in the fluting calls of curlews carried on the wind. Machrie moor still brims with life, but it belongs to wilder inhabitants now.
Things to look out for on Machrie Moor:

• Moorland birds including curlew, wheatear, meadow pipit, hen harrier, buzzard, short eared owl and kestrel
• A hole in a boulder in the first circle where Fingal is said to have tethered his dog, Bran.
• Two half-finished mill stones, fashioned in recent centuries from granite standing stones.

Take Care:

• The moor is a working sheep farm. Keep dogs on a lead at all times.
• Stick to the main path to avoid getting bogged down or disturbing wildlife.

Walking on the Wild Side: Winters Coastline

When winter bites the Isle of Arran is a haven for wildlife.  This article is the first of a series that I am writing for the Voice for Arran about walking and wildlife on Arran.

It is a dark blustery day on Arran and I’m walking along a rocky shore. A wet wind stings my face and finds its way through all my layers of clothing. Cold is not the word, bitter seems closer to the mark.  I’m determined to endure this harsh salty world for as long as possible- it’s a daily reality to the birds and mammals that forage along our coastlines.  I’d like to catch a glimpse of the animals that thrive on the bounty our wild coast provides in winter.

I crouch amongst a jumbled rib of rocks separating two sandy bays. On the beach either side I spot groups of bold oystercatchers.  Oystercatchers can be found everywhere along the coast of Arran, with their unmistakeable black and white plumage, long red bill and legs. In spring their indignant cries can be heard up and down the island, as they defend their territories from each other, marauding gulls and careless humans.  Today, they are conserving energy, and my presence raises barely a flutter. They forage in the piles of seaweed strewn across the beach, using their beaks to root through the fronds, hunting soft creatures and molluscs.

Further down the beach, redshanks scurry amongst the foam.  Their little grey bodies tip back and forth in the surf like toy boats. They stab their delicate beaks in to the surging waves. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of their long legs in crimson stockings. I wonder how such a slight and impractically dressed bird can find a living at the waters edge on a day like today.

Concentrating harder, I can see small birds that move like clockwork pebbles amongst the redshanks. Ringed plovers are tiny reminders of the toughness that lies beneath nature’s beauty.  Close up, their striped heads and orange beaks make them look like minuscule clowns.  From a distance, they are almost invisible.

Suddenly they lift up in a flash of barred wings. Alarm spreads up the beach as a female sparrowhawk darts amongst the boulders. She tests first the oystercatchers, then the smaller birds in the surf.  Angry cries are carried on the wind.  She retreats, hunt unsuccessful, to a hollow bank at the back of the beach.  I can see her beady eye watching intently from the dark cover. She will try her luck again. What she is doing away from her usual woodland and hedgerow haunts I can’t say, but perhaps when the weather is cold she too finds easiest pickings on the beach.

When winter bites Arran is a haven for wildfowl and other birds. The temperatures are milder at the coast, and even the blackbirds and the pipits know there is food to be found amongst the rotting seaweed. Many of the birds along the shore are winter visitors. Some like the redshank, come from as far away as Iceland.

My eye is drawn out to sea. A pair of eiders sit amongst the waves.  There is a determined hunch to their backs as they weather the storm. The female is dark like her mallard cousins, but her powerful shape betrays a tough marine existence. She is a true sea duck. The male is dressed in gaudy black and white. Later in the year he will gather with other males in a sheltered bay up the coast to show off his flashy feathers but right now he seems happy to hunker down between the breakers.

Beyond the eiders, I glimpse a strange conical shape. It’s the nose of a seal, protruding out of the water. Unable or unwilling to haul out on to the rocks in this wild weather, the seal is bobbing like a cork in the ocean. Just its nose protrudes, and it will lounge about this way for hours. In calmer weather, seals prefer to sleep on land, and the large boulders that jut out of the sea become luxury couches at low tide. From the snub shape of this seal’s nose, I can see that it is a harbour seal.  Often called common seals, they are anything but. There is a small population here on Arran, but elsewhere their numbers are falling. We also get regular visits from the larger grey seal, and the two will often haul out together.  They can be told apart by the shape of their noses- harbour seals have charming “spaniel” like faces, while grey seals have regal “roman” noses. At 300kg, an adult male grey seal is a very noble beast indeed. 

I’m getting really cold now, my clothes are soaked and I’m ready to go. Just before I turn away, I catch a hint of something- a flick of a long pointed tail. There is another, and a low humped back that rolls through the water. Focussing now, I see more, and a pattern of tails and humps that flow like liquid… one… two… three… A mother otter and her two cubs are on the move. A small, pale face appears and dives.  She catches a wave, and I see a row of brown sausages surfing the breakers. Barely breathing, I watch them, heading west along the coast, until they disappear from view in the gloomy light.

Warmed by the fleeting glimpse of the otter family, I finally stumble to my feet. Time to get out of the wind and rain where luckily for me, a warm fire and hot drink await.

Tips for enjoying coastal wildlife:

• Keep your distance and use binoculars to get a better view.
• Take your time, keep your voice down and dogs on a lead.
• Keep an eye on the behaviour of your subjects- are you affecting them?
• Never disturb or follow animals and birds with young.
• Take your litter home and don’t light fires.
• Look for otter and bird tracks in the sand.

For more information about guided walks with Lucy, visit her website www.arranwildwalks.co.uk or email info@arranwildwalks.co.uk