Now, I’m really not a morning person (and this isn’t the first time I’ve admitted so on this blog), so the evening golden hour was my target today. I can see enough of the western sky and surrounding landscape from my kitchen window to get a rough feel for what photographic opportunities might prevail, and so it was that I left Buxton at a quarter-to-seven this evening, for the 20-minute drive over to Hayfield.

By the time I’d parked at the Bowden Bridge car park and stomped my way over to Kinder Reservoir, it was clear that I needed to up the pace a bit if I was to get up onto Kinder Scout in time for that precious golden light. In the end, I was probably a little late (and knackered — I stopped probably 100 vertical feet short of the Kinder plateau), but was treated to an interesting sunset over Manchester.

So, some pics…

Kinder Reservoir.

South Head from near Sandy Heys on Kinder Scout.

First quarter was at 19:19 according to my ephemeris (40 minutes before I took this photo).

It's all systems go again in UK airspace, now Eyjafjallajökull's emissions have been deemed benign.

Beetham Tower's easy to pick out in a distant Greater Manchester.

...and so the golden hour draws to a close.

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• Ramblers will recreate history with Kinder ‘mass march’ (grough.co.uk)

I’d had my eye on this one for a while. Looking for a decent local walk (by which I mean something that starts and finishes at my front door in Higher Buxton), the obvious contender for something that would while away a complete morning or afternoon was a bimble southwards over Grin Low (paying a quick visit to Solomon’s Temple) and out to Chrome Hill and Parkhouse Hill.

Now, in spite of its name, the Peak District isn’t especially peaky. There’s much more in the way of sombre expanses of blanket-bog moorland (think Black Hill and Bleaklow) in the Dark Peak, and rolling pastures dissected by miles of dry-stone walls and deep-cut limestone valleys in the White Peak. Which is all very nice, but I do like a well-defined hill. Thus the ancient reef knolls of Chrome and Parkhouse Hill come to the rescue, rearing up quite unexpectedly at the upper end of Dovedale and bringing a little of the Lakes or Snowdonia in miniature to the area.

I’ll let the pictures tell the story (at the end of this post) but am also experimenting with the Ordnance Survey’s “OpenSpace” embedded mapping. The interactive map below shows the route in blue. If you’re reading this through an RSS Reader (e.g. Google Reader), then the embedded map won’t be visible, so you’ll need to read this post directly on the Wild Vista website instead.

But first, a few pertinent observations from this 12-mile, 4-hour circuit (in sequential order, assuming an anticlockwise circuit):

• The view North over Buxton from Solomon’s Temple is great. In fact, it’s good in every direction — even the limestone quarries to the south hold some interest. You’ll be coming back past/through that lot…
• Do this walk during the week, and you’re likely to encounter some loud explosions from said quarries. Livens things up a bit don’t you think? Actually, you may get the same at weekends too — I’m just guessing that blasting operations are probably concentrated during the usual working week.
• Whatever the latest OS maps might say, Stanley Moor Reservoir is disused. Because there’s a bloody great hole in it. Further research indicates that it was built on the junction between gritstone and limestone, and has always leaked badly, so they’ve just given up on it now and knocked a large wedge out of the middle of the eastern embankment.
• Just south of the (not) reservoir, you’ll pass through land owned by the UK Health and Safety Laboratory. Signs warn of sudden loud noises (that’s in addition to quarry blasting operations). Ahh, the peace and quiet of the Derbyshire countryside. Passing various buildings and compounds, it’s fun to try and work out just exactly what they’ve been testing the health and safety of. That sure did look like a burnt-out tube train…
• Bucolic splendour is restored as you head further south, and cross the Peak National Park boundary (which keeps away from Buxton hereabouts due to the quarries and HSL site). Be careful not to let the horses out of their paddock as you pass through Thirkelow Farm!
• Between Booth Farm and Stoop Farm, Chrome Hill hoves into view, and will probably stop you in your tracks momentarily. Most un-Peak District-like. Fortunately, it’s much smaller than it looks.
• A concessionary path (not marked on the latest 1:25 000 OS Explorer Map) passes Tor Rock, then descends sharply to the foot of the northwest ridge of Chrome Hill, taking you to the edge of the Access Land.
• The ridge itself is a delight — take a direct line all the way up, and you’ll even get some little sections of very mild scrambling. And, as a bonus, cross a natural arch that’s bored all the way through the ridgeline. Take that Utah!
• If you thought Chrome Hill was steep, wait till you see Parkhouse Hill. Shorter but sharper — I took a route up the south side of the west ridge, and was just barely hanging on by my eyebrows at one point. Cracking section of ridge near the top though.
• Glutton Grange marks the far point of the walk, with a return back through Dowel Dale being particularly scenic.
• Passing round Greensides Farm, then skimming the edge of Hillhead Quarry (watch out for that blasting), and it’s down into Harpur Hill, and a quick jaunt back into Buxton beneath Grin Low. Lovely!

And now, here are some photos…

Chrome Hill and Hollins Hill from Stoop Farm.

Chrome Hill from Stoop Farm.

Chrome Hill and Tor Rock.

Descending to the northwest ridge of Chrome Hill.

Parkhouse Hill from the foot of Chrome Hill.

Chrome Hill from the top of Parkhouse Hill.

Dowel Dale.

Parkhouse Hill and Chrome Hill.

Chrome Hill from Dowel Dale.

So, for your viewing pleasure(?), here are a bunch. To invest this post with a little more utility, I’ve geotagged the location each image was taken from in a Picasa Web Album. So, if you fancy taking in the same view yourself (supine position optional), you’ll know where to go!

On the Padjelanta Trail ('Padjelantaleden'), Swedish Arctic.

Sgorr Dhonuill from Sgorr Dhearg, Beinn a' Bheithir, Scottish Highlands.

Near An Cliseam (Clisham), Harris, Outer Hebrides.

Lake Castalia, Wilkin North Branch, Aspiring, New Zealand.

Lake Crucible, Siberia Valley, Aspiring, New Zealand.

A distant Puig Campana, Alicante Region, Spain.

Mam Tor and the Upper Hope Valley from near Hollins Cross.

Back Tor from Backtor Nook.

Mam Tor and the Vale of Edale from Back Tor.

Lone tree near Back Tor.

Looking south-west along the ridge from Lose Hill.

Mam Tor from near Odin Mine.

This is the first time I’ve lived with what I’d consider “my sort” of walking country on the doorstep. Mam Nick is about 20 minutes’ drive away, and the hugely popular track along the ridge to Lose Hill was most enjoyable. Quiet too. I rarely get out walking mid-week, and there were distinctly fewer pedestrians and aviators about than I’m used to in these parts. Mostly dog walkers, and a couple of distinctly lackadaisical paraglider pilots (though back at the car, a hang-glider pilot was clearly enjoying the view over the Mam Tor landslip).

I returned from Lose Hill via Brockett Booth plantation — crossed via a short-lived but impressive balcony path reminiscent of some of the contouring paths I’ve come across in the forests of the Alps — then down the Hollowford Road to Castleton, and back up to Mam Nick via the old A625 road, now substantially buckled and broken my Mam Tor’s active landslip.

It’s looking as though the weather might be half-decent again on Sunday, so, provided I’ve made enough progress unpacking and sorting the flat out, I’m looking forward to getting out and exploring a little more of my new surroundings!

Clear blue skies and moderate temperatures compared to those we’ve had of late — possibly even pushing double figures — augured well for a riverside stroll along the Cam. I suppose I slightly underestimated exactly how far it was; including a mile-and-a-bit from my house out to the river, and a bit of faffing in town to get to the bank, over 10½ miles there and back.

River Cam near Milton (from Flickr user hchalkley, CC by-nc-nd 2.0)

The Cam’s running high at the moment. Indeed, passing under Victoria Avenue, shortly after the Fort St. George, the river was a good foot in depth over the footpath. Not that that deterred the locals and a couple of posties on their rounds. I just hope their panniers are waterproof…

Not as high as yesterday though. The river’s clearly dropping rapidly following the recent heavy rains, evidenced by the caretaker at one of the University boathouses at work with a hosepipe, sluicing away the silt deposited by the river, high up the slipways.

With a move back up to the Midlands planned, it’s nice to have some time over the next week or so to revisit the countryside on my doorstep. But, before the move, my eyes are on the forecasts and hill conditions up in Badenoch. I’m heading for Newtonmore next weekend, and am pleased to see that nothing like last week’s deluge of the white stuff is forecast at present. Being able to get there is quite important!

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• Cambridge punts face super tax (telegraph.co.uk)

Heading out towards Knoydart, near the eastern dam on Loch Quoich.

Good on ‘em. Though an impressive application, using Street View to virtually browse the High Streets of “Anytown, UK” was always going to pale pretty quickly. About as interesting as today’s news that Cheryl Cole has separated from some footballer or other. Cheryl who? (A story which, incidentally, is currently occupying third position in the BBC News website headlines — five places above the news of a car bomb in Newry, NI. WTF?)

Anyway — have you not been able to get up into the Highlands for a bit? No probs. Here’s an embedded Street View window. Just click once in the window below, then keep hitting the “up arrow” key for a grand tour of one of the finest stretches of road in the UK. You might also want to click that icon top-right for some full-screen goodness.

View Larger Map

So, what next for the Street View team. Baggers’ paths?

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• National Trust on Google Street View (telegraph.co.uk)

St Ives from Hemingford Meadow (by hchalkley on Flickr, CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

Heading out across Hemingford Meadow, the cold had transformed a marshy splosh across flood meadows into a straightforward march atop an icy mirror. Blades of grass pierced the carapace, giving boots decent purchase on what would otherwise have made for an excellent curling sheet. Continuing on through The Hemingfords, with a pub stop at Houghton (the old watermill here is well worth a visit), we returned to St Ives along the other side of the Ouse, and then repaired to the Old Ferry Boat Inn at Holywell.

A cracking spot at any time, but today with its roaring log fires, convivial patrons, friendly and efficient bar staff, delicious carvery, and sumptuous comfy chairs — well, let’s just say I could still be there now at closing time, well-oiled and in no hurry to move on, were it not for the small matter of having to drive back home and put in an appearance at the office tomorrow.

Now, to that list referenced in the title. You see, The Ferry Boat lays claim to being the oldest such establishment in Britain. As do a handful of other British pubs. Having spent a goodly number of years living in Nottingham, I’m well aware that Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem is also one of that select group of ale houses. So, as of today, I’m bagging “oldest pubs in Britain”. In lieu of anything better, I’ll be taking the list on this page, as definitive. Eight’s a handy number too.

Two down, six to go. And now I have good reason to visit St. Albans, Abergavenny, Loch Lomond, Bardsey, Stow-on-the-Wold and Bolton. All will have a hard job to shift my favourite pub from its prime position though. That’s the Square and Compass, in the tiny village of Worth Matravers, Dorset — and worthy of a post all to itself…

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• 20 great spring walks: five top pub walks (telegraph.co.uk)

Take me straight to the photos!

I promised then that I’d write up that trip, having found little other coverage on the web. Then, the other day, I came across this blog post by Tim Farley that brought back memories of those couple of days on Mt. Titiroa in early 2003. It’s a really good read, and includes some great photos (there’s a Flickr set too).

Climbing Mount Titiroa from Manapouri gave me an inkling of what New Zealand has to offer beyond the Great Walks, or indeed anything off the extensive network of marked tracks. The only other similar trip I made was the Upper Shotover—Dart traverse (via Lochnagar and Snowy Creek). On that occasion too, the going was notably more difficult than any marked route I’d attempted previously.

Increased difficulty and seriousness is attended by more intense solitude, “purer” wilderness, and a tangible sense of exploration and discovery. It’s worth bearing in mind that most of the New Zealand back country is like this. The Great Walks keep the vast majority of visitors who fancy a multi-day trek confined to a tiny proportion of the marked trails that are out there. Most of the remainder stick to the track network, leaving huge scope for anyone with appropriate skills and experience to embark on genuinely serious expeditions into vast areas of wilderness that are rarely visited. That such ventures are possible in a First World country with a such a small landmass, still astounds me.

As I mentioned in my earlier post, Moir’s Guide ( North and South [Amazon links – marked as unavailable as of Jan. 2010, but widely distributed in NZ] ) remains the classic tramping reference for the Southern Alps. One continually comes across passages that intimate just how rarely visited much of this land is. Here’s a paragraph from the Arawhata Valley section of Moir’s Guide North:

A bivvy rock on Williamson Flat is reported at roughly E39/512323 which does not seem to have been used recently. In the 1950’s there was a blazed track through the bush to it, taking about 5 mins from the edge of the last clearing up the Joe. It was said to be fairly dark but good shelter, and about 30m above the clearing. The editor would appreciate confirmation of this bivvy rock and its position. In 1965 a stretcher was carried down the true right of the Arawhata, from Arawhata Rock to Williamson Flat.

[ The above extract is from Moir's Guide North, edited by Geoff Spearpoint. Copyright 1998 Geoff Spearpoint and the New Zealand Alpine Club ]

Climbing Mount Titiroa from Manapouri is an ideal introduction to the world of serious tramping expeditions. Much of the 2½-day trip is on marked tracks. However, the bit that matters — the climb up the mountain itself — is off-track. You’ll need to bush-whack your way onto the upper slopes, and most likely wild camp quite high on the mountain.

In lieu of my own trip report, I’ve dug out some slides. I hope you enjoy them. And don’t forget to read Tim’s post for more inspiration.

Blue skies and quartz sand on Mt. Titiroa.

Wild camp high on Mt. Titiroa (tent bottom-right), looking out over Lake Manapouri.

Extensive views from the upper slopes of Mt. Titiroa.

Rock formations on Mt. Titiroa.

Approaching the summit slopes of Mt. Titiroa.

Looking out over Lake Manapouri and toward Lake Te Anau, from Mt. Titiroa.

Rock formations on Mt. Titiroa.

Starting the descent from Mt. Titiroa.

Checking the map beneath Mt. Awful, Aspiring National Park, New Zealand.

I’m rather fond of this image. To me it sums up the best part of 6 months’ travelling around New Zealand, trekking for extended periods, getting to know the wild side of the country intimately.

All it takes is a map, and a thirst for adventure. What follows is completely down to you…

I came across this one, taken on day 4, of Cerro Paine Grande, the high point of the massif. This peak is renowned for the ice mushroom at its summit, a feature specific to this and a few other Patagonian peaks. As alluded to by the title, there also seems to be considerable uncertainty as to the mountain’s height. Irrespective, it’s an awesome sight, looking up from the shores of Lago Grey…

Cerro Paine Grande.

It was Friday 8th November, 2002, and I was part of a group of 10, making our way out of Bolivia, crossing the Andes into the Atacama Desert in northern Chile. Overlanding with Exodus, a UK-based travel company, home on the road for the preceding three weeks had been a purpose-built Mercedes-Benz truck. We’d camped out on the Altiplano the preceding night, and today was the “up-and-over” into Chile, reaching over 5000m, then thankfully returning to more sensible altitudes after three days up high.

I’ll let my diary from the time continue the story.

8th November, 2002

A really early start today (5 am), and I struggled to get up. Roads were pretty bad again from the outset, but the scenery was wonderful. Stopped for breakfast after an hour or so, in a small valley just off the road. Excellent pancakes! Lots more rough driving across the Altiplano eventually brought us to Lago Colorado, a large soda lake with an obvious red tinge to it. The margins of the lake were dotted with flamingoes, and we stopped at one point to carefully wander over to the lakeshore.

Lago Colorado.

To reach the water, we had to crunch over a graveyard of desiccated flamingo skeletons. Got some nice shots of the lake and mountains, and a few of the flamingoes as they took off in various groups. Then it was back on the bus, and further into the National Park (“Reserva Nacional de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaroa“).

The truck soon started climbing again, and eventually we reached a geothermal area that was decorated with industrial plant. Apparently, they make sulphuric acid here, and will sometimes allow a tour of the facilities — not on this occasion though.

We went back down the hill a bit, and stopped briefly next to a natural vent that was noisily expelling steam. Then it was on to a larger area of boiling mud pools and steam vents; Sol de Mañana. We stopped here for 15 minutes or so, exploring an extensive area of warm ground, with bubbling mud and sulphurous steam in various different pools. One was particularly active, throwing mud a good 20 feet into the air on occasion.

We then drove even higher before stopping for lunch at around 5000 metres (no running about!). We lunched next to some ice formations (penitentes) that we’d already seen a little earlier at a distance — spikes of ice grouped together on the otherwise barren terrain.

Penitentes at 5000m in south-west Bolivia.

After lunch, the landscape got even more impressive. We drove past another coloured lake (green this time), surrounded by volcanoes, before crossing a stunning section of Altiplano. The arid, gravelly plain was sporadically sprinkled with boulders, with incongruent outcrops on the distant hillside (painted by Salvador Dalí apparently), all backed by alien-looking mountains draped in multi-coloured screes.

Dalí Desert, south-west Bolivia.

This magestic yet bizarre landscape continued for some time, as we gradually climbed again towards the international border. We passed the “Republico de Chile” sign with a tooting of horns and manic waving at the border guards. Almost immediately after entering Chile we started noticing road signs again (a rare sight over the last two days), though we were still driving on the same poor quality dirt road. However, this shortly joined a tarmacced road — quite a sight after what we’d recently been across, and become used to.

It was now a long 2000-metre descent down the steep western slope of the Andes, towards the Pacific coast. Rob took it very slowly; looking at the various holes in the crash barriers and the subsequent truck wrecks, that seemed a sensible approach! The volcanoes and strange cloud formations to the north made for a memorable farewell to Bolivia.

Volcan Licancabur (left — 5920m) and Volcan Juriques (5704m).

After a protracted descent, we eventually reached an organised campsite on the desert plain, just outside the town of San Pedro de Atacama.

If you’re looking for links to the best English-language content on the ‘net about the Kepler Track, this post should see you right.

No more waffle thanks — take me straight to the links!

The Kepler Track and “The Great Walks”

I trekked the Kepler Track in 2003 (see this post) and thoroughly enjoyed this, one of New Zealand’s “Great Walks”. The Great Walk label is applied by the NZ Department of Conservation (DoC) to eight tramping tracks, and one paddling trip. In NZ, the Great Walks are the tracks DoC has identified as offering a particularly fine trekking “experience”, and are heavily promoted, very well maintained, and, in some cases, booked up well in advance.

On the alpine section of the Kepler Track.

It would be all too easy to come away with the impression that trekking in New Zealand begins and ends with the Great Walks. That would, in fact, be akin to deciding that The West Highland Way, and the tourist route up Ben Nevis, constituted the sum of Scotland’s hillwalking and backpacking opportunities. That said, one needs to start somewhere, and the Kepler Track fits the bill in many ways.

If you don’t have long in New Zealand, have little experience of multi-day backpacking trips, or if trekking is just one among many activities you’ve got planned, than a 3- to 4-day track like the Kepler is ideal. In season (roughly late October to late April), the conveniently spaced and comfortable huts are provided with gas burners for cooking, reducing the weight you have to carry yourself. The trail itself is impeccably maintained, and takes you through magnificent country.

On the other hand, if you’re a seasoned trekker with the skills to look after yourself in the back country, but have never visited New Zealand before, the Kepler Track is a good warm-up — not so much in terms of physical exertion, but as a way to get a feel for the form and structure of the mountains, their flora and fauna, the weather — before moving on to bigger and more challenging tracks.

More importantly, whether you’re coming at it as a novice, or with years of trekking in remote parts of the world under your belt, accept the Kepler Track for what it is — a made pathway through a magnificent landscape. You won’t be alone (by any means), and you’ll probably have to book at least a couple of days in advance, whether you’re camping or staying in the huts.

Hardcore tramping it ain’t. But a magical journey on the bounds of one of the most pristine and beautiful landscapes to be found on the planet? Absolutely…

Kepler Track Resources — quality links to help you plan your trip

• NZ Department of Conservation (DoC) page on the Kepler Track: This should be your first port of call for current information on the Kepler Track, including track conditions, and online booking. Masses of useful information to help you plan your trip.
• Wikipedia Kepler Track article: It must be true, it’s on Wikipedia! To be fair, this is a well-structured article — to the point, and a good overview. If the DoC page (linked to above) has brought on information overload, this Wikipedia page should prove more palatable.
• Kepler Track description by Mark Moxon: Mark’s personal account of his Kepler Track walk is engaging and well written, and also includes lots of useful information. Be sure to check out the other articles on Mark’s site too. Inspiring stuff!
• The Kepler Track according to Tourism New Zealand: This is the official tourist board’s take on the Kepler Track. A mildly irritating audio commentary shouldn’t distract you from the basic information provided, and links through to additional resources. Destination Fiordland is a similar outfit (but in this case, the regional tourism organisation) and provides a page of useful information and links.
• Tracknet — Kepler Track Shuttle: One of the big plus points for the Kepler Track, is that it follows a circular route, starting and finishing very close to the town of Te Anau. So, unlike many other trekking routes in New Zealand, you don’t actually need additional transport to get you to and from the trailhead. That said, if you’re short on time, these guys can shuttle you between Te Anau and the Control Gates/Rainbow Reach. Their web page includes a timetable, and pricing information.
• Intensive Share — a personal account of the Kepler Track: A nice account of the Kepler Track by a first-timer (first NZ multi-day trek that is). Lots of pics to give you a good feel for the route; and a recommendation to stay at Moturau Hut rather than walk all the way out to Rainbow Reach! There’s an introduction, then separate entries for day 1, day 2 and day 3.
• Blue Gum Pictures — Kepler Track Gallery: High quality photographs taken from the Kepler Track. This sort of weather can’t be guaranteed, unfortunately!
• Exploring New Zealand — Kepler Track page: A useful overview of the track, including wildlife notes. I’d recommend exploring this site further. There’s extensive coverage of the other Great Walks, and a good overview of what to expect from a Great Walk, here.
• Tramping the land of the long white cloud – Kepler Track photo-diary: A really nice write-up of a 4-day Kepler Track trip, with a broad variety of photos. Pray that you get weather like this! An intriguing 3D-Maps page too.
• NZ Wanderings – Another Kepler Track blog post: Short and sweet this one, but well worth a read — gives you a good idea of the sort of weather you can get in midsummer!
• Don’t shake the Koala tree! – Ridge walking in Fiordland: Another personal account — mixed weather for this trip. Some great photos too.
• The Kepler Challenge: Something a little different for these links. 3 to 4 days for the Kepler Track? More like 10½ hours in John Lindsay’s case. Or a little over five hours as described in Galen’s entertaining report (which includes this impressive 3D map of the route). The Kepler Challenge mountain race event is held annually (official website here).
• [PDF link - 1MB download] Keeping Track of the Kepler, by Rob Greenaway: An illustrated article that presents some of the interesting history behind the Kepler Track, as well as commentary on the impact of events like the Kepler Challange.
• Stunning image from day one of the Kepler Track: One day, if I’m really lucky, I might capture such a moment half as well as this. The rest of Eric Hemphill’s New Zealand Gallery includes further images from the Kepler Track, as well as from many other areas.
• Kepler Track page from New Zealand Tramper: This is an extensive, community-driven site, with masses of information regarding tramping all over New Zealand. If you’re planning trips that are rather more adventurous after you’ve completed the Kepler, a while spent exploring New Zealand Tramper should provide plenty of inspiration.
• Accultured Robot — Kepler Track Diary: A different approach for these hikers, who completed a clockwise round of the track (most folk do it anticlockwise), and camped rather than staying in the huts.

Day one was a fairly gentle introduction with, as it happens, the worst weather of the trip. Overhearing many other travellers’ tales, it seems we were incredibly lucky, experiencing a great deal of dry, calm weather.

Anyway, onto the diary…

4th December 2002 — Setting Off on the Torres Circuit

Up quite early today, for the first day of the Paine circuit. A week’s trekking lies ahead of us! Had a pretty shitty breakfast, got everything packed up, and struck camp. My rucksac wasn’t ridiculously heavy, which I was pleasantly surprised by, and glad of. It’s still going to take some getting used to though! The good weather is holding for now, though it is quite windy.

The track left via the Refugio, and worked its way up and down hill through lovely countryside — a mixture of open plain, and wooded areas. Loads of birdlife. After a flat section, we reached Campamento Seron, a fairly basic campsite, but staffed, and with a small shop, shower and toilets. Bought a bottle of coke here, and we stopped for lunch. The forecast for tomorrow wasn’t clear, but it seemed that things may not be getting any better. We left Seron after 40 minutes or so, and continued on our way.

There was a short, sharp climb around a spur, and then we had our first views round the back of the massif. We could see some spectacular mountains in the distance, and a view of the lake (at the end of which is tonight’s campsite — Coiron). It got much windier at this point, with some rain in the air, but it was still fairly pleasant walking.

Not long after lunch, and the rain and wind starts.

I was surprised by how far it was before we finally got to Coiron, but we got there eventually! This is a very basic campsite (consisting in its entirety of a sign — “Campamento Coiron”), which is great as far as I’m concerned. A beautiful spot to camp, overlooked by spectacular mountains. We found some vaguely flat ground for the tents, pitched, and prepared tea. I finished all my pasta, unbelievably; must be working hard! Had a fairly early night.

Follow these links for day 2 and day 3 of the diary.

Yes, it’s another diary entry, and in direct contravention of how these blog thingummies are supposed to work (allowing, of course, for the fact that I’m already 2602 days late publishing) this post concerns the day prior to that covered by yesterday’s offering. Or something.

Anyhoo… one day into “The Circuit” in Patagonia’s Parque Nacional Torres del Paine, and my four trekking companions and I are setting ourselves up for an eyeful of icefall.

4th December 2002 — Meadows, forests and an ice-fall…

Up at a reasonable hour today. There’s been considerable discussion as to whether we should do a “half-day” (as far as Refugio Lago Dickson — only 3 hours’ walk from here), or continue on as far as Los Perros (another four hours) for a full day’s trekking.

Breakfast was cooked with minimal faff, but I was the last to be ready after we’d struck camp. Martin then had some problems with his rucksac, which entailed some waiting about. The other three carried on in front, as far as the first river. This first section today comprised sections of undulating open ground, interspersed with forested stretches — very pleasant trekking.

Second day — Campamento Coiron to Lago Dickson/Los Perros

It was only 5 minutes from camp that we had a tricky’ish river crossing, and there was at least one other tricky crossing before Lago Dickson. I really got into taking macro photos of the wild flowers this morning.

Wildflowers on the Torres Circuit (I'd be very grateful if some kind soul reading this could help me identify them!)

I suspect that bending down and getting back up again with the big rucksac probably led me to pull a muscle in my thigh. This didn’t happen suddenly, but came on gradually. This was very worrying, as it felt very much like the lateral ligament problem I’ve had before with my knee, which would leave me completely shafted as far as this trek goes (only a day-and-a-half into a week-long trip). In spite of this (or perhaps, belligerently, because of it), I pushed on quite hard after catching up with the others, and gradually left them behind.

The terrain grew more undulating, and gradually rounded a spur that was hiding the Refugio. The final approach was along a low ridge, and then steeply down some scree onto the plain on which the Refugio sat. I collapsed at the door to the main building — very glad to get my boots and pack off — then headed inside to buy a coke. It was about another 15 minutes before the others turned up — I’m definitely walking too fast! We sat around outside the hut for quite a while, eating lunch, and pretty much decided to carry on to Los Perros today.

The route from Refugio Lago Dickson was excellent, pretty much from the start. Most of it was through lovely forest. This seemed pretty wild, following a contorted track that was often blocked by fallen trees. There were also a few “interesting” river crossings! At about the half-way point to Los Perros, there was a fairly impressive cascade.

By the time we reached the foot of the morraines below Los Perros, we were all pretty knackered. A distinctly dodgy looking bridge saw us safely across the main river draining Lago Perros, and then it was onward and upward over the morraines.

This bridge had seen better days...

At the top of the final slope of choss, a wonderful sight was revealed — a rich reward for a hard day’s trekking. The Glacier Perros plunged down in an icefall, into the small lake just below us, which was filled with icebergs.

Icefall at Lago Perros.

From here, it was but a 10-minute walk across flattish ground to the Los Perros campsite. This was in the woods, and not quite what I was expecting, but better than it at first appeared, with toilets, a “shop” and a cooking shelter. Bought some beers (after putting the tents up) and cooked tea. Then headed to bed after a long, but excellent day. Definitely the best single day’s trekking I’ve done, to date!

Follow these links for day 1 and day 3 of the diary.

I recently came across the diary I wrote at the time. Though blogging was pretty much mainstream by then, I’d scarcely dabbled with internet publishing, preferring to keep a limited number of folk updated with my news via regular emails.

And so, I present an illustrated account of the goings-on of Thursday December 5th, 2002, which I hope may provide some inspiration for those considering a trip to Paine, or rekindle fond memories if you’ve already been there. Three days into the seven-day circuit then, and it’s time for the highlight of the trip, as me and my four companions (Brad, Martin, Martin, and Helen) prepare to cross the Paso John Garner, and come face-to-face with the Southern Icefield.

5th December 2002 — Ice as far as the eye can see…

Quite late up this morning, a consequence no doubt of the length of yesterday’s walk. Prepared breakfast in the cooking shelter (loads of porridge — Yum!) and then packed up. I was last to be ready (again).

Leaving camp, it wasn’t long before we came across what had been described to us earlier by an American girl as an “unavoidable knee-deep bog”. She’s obviously never walked over Brown Knoll. It wasn’t particularly pleasant, but neither was it unavoidable (or knee-deep for that matter) — it did drag on for a bit though; probably an hour-and-a-half before we were totally done with the boggy stuff, and had climbed above the tree line. From here we got our first look at the route to Paso John Garner.

Scoping out Paso John Garner.

We now needed to cross the Rio Paso (unbridged). Brad attempted a dry-shod crossing at one point, and promptly filled one boot. Martin balanced across further downstream, using a wire for assistance, but the rest of us just decided to wade across. Mmmm — wet feet for the rest of the day.

Once across the river, it wasn’t long before we hit the first snow slopes leading up to Paso John Garner. This side of the pass was much easier than I’d expected, not too steep, and the snow was very soft.

Climbing towards Paso John Garner.

At the summit of the pass, we got our first view of Glacier Grey, the peaks on the far side, and part of the great Southern Patagonian Ice Field (Campo de Hielo Sur). This was all the more spectacular for having been revealed so suddenly as we crested the pass.

Looking across Glacier Grey, and right to the Southern Icefield.

Glacier Grey — a sea of crevassed ice.

I continued down the other side of the pass, stopping at an obvious shelf, where I could get a better view of the glacier. The others caught up a bit later, having stopped at the pass proper for a while. Shortly after we regrouped, a condor flew practically overhead.

A condor flying above Paso John Garner.

We then started the descent, which soon took us back below the tree line, and degenerated into a steep slither down towards the glacier.

Descending towards Glacier Grey.

This was very hard on the legs, and my left thigh really started complaining. Martin and Brad got ahead somewhat, whilst I raided Helen’s first-aid kit for some Ibuprofen cream, and my own for some painkillers. Not long after stopping to patch myself up, I came across an unopened packet of spaghetti lying on the track, which I picked up and shoved in my sac. Someone ahead had been very careless, losing part of their food supply along the way!

Once the steep section was done with, the track ambled up and down, in and out, through the forest, including numerous diversions over and around fallen trees. Eventually, we bumped into Brad, who’d stopped on the track, and he explained that Martin had gone on ahead (having dumped his sac), in order to see where the hell the camping ground had got to (we’d expected to have reached it by now — according to the map). Martin was soon back, with the news that El Paso camp was 10-minutes away, at a fast pace (this info. having been passed on by some other trekkers Martin had met along the way).

So it was that 15-minutes later we arrived at El Paso. It was a pretty rough spot (in terms of ground where you’d want to pitch a tent), but there was a cooking shelter, and a “hole-in-the ground” toilet. We managed to find a couple of barely adequate spots for the tents, and we were soon pitched and moved over to the shelter to cook (having reunited a grateful trekker with her pasta).

Turned-in quite late.

Follow these links for day 1 and day 2 of the diary.

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With a WAMP stack now running on my netbook, and a repeatable process for copying my live blog contents across from the host, I can play around to my heart’s content with PHP scripts and CSS files, without worrying about wrecking the live site.

The most obvious changes over the last week are the return of a header image (more about that in a future post — all being well, the image should change automatically from day to day), and date “badges” against post excerpts on the home page, rather than plain text.

All of which has bog-all to do with the title of this post, “Dreamy winter days…”. With the mountains, UK-wide, mantled in snow and ice to an extent not seen in recent years, my thoughts have been turning to what I’m missing, particularly on the sharp, clear days that we’ve had so many of over the last week or two.

I’m not complaining. I’ve had my fair share of magical winter days on the hills, and hope to have many more. While this exquisitely beautiful but uncompromising land is out of my reach, I’m fondly remembering some of those days. Here’s one from December 1995. These were very similar conditions to those the country’s experiencing now (though even colder then, if not as prolonged).

In case you’re wondering — no, we didn’t get off the hill before it went dark! (Always carry a decent torch peeps!)

Descending Carn Liath (Meagaidh, Laggan), Scottish Highlands.

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The closest I’d come to this locality before was some eight years earlier, though under rather different circumstances. Back then, above Abergwyngregyn, perhaps five miles from the hostel as the crow flies, I’d sat shivering in a parked car with my walking companion, Chris, listening to the rain bouncing off the roof. For over an hour. At 04:30 in the morning. The only vaguely sane explanation for such behaviour is that we were on a mission to do the Welsh 3000s — a mission which never got off the ground due to the appalling weather from the get go.

As it happens, last October, the weekend at Rowen YHA didn’t get off to a brilliant start either. Having driven 214¾ of the 215 miles from Cambridge to Rowen without incident, the final ¼-mile to the hostel proved too much for the Pug. I’d have found it hard to believe that there was a surfaced road in the UK which was physically too steep to drive up for an average road car, but this proved to be the case. It’s more than a little disconcerting to find oneself gradually moving backwards downhill, whilst simultaneously stamping on the footbrake, and ratcheting up the handbrake to the max. I blame a combination of rain, wet leaves, and a gradient in excess of 1:3 on the inside of the hairpins.

Having inadvertently backed the car into a ditch while trying to reverse back down the hill in the dark, I abandoned it there for the night (this was going to need a tow, or at least the combined efforts of most of the other folk expected that weekend, to push it out), and walked the final 400 yards to the hostel. Everyone else had arrived within an hour, with at least one other car becoming stuck on the hill and having to execute a careful retreat. Still, nothing a couple of beers couldn’t help me forget about.

The following day, we all enjoyed a walk from the hostel, up over Drum and onto Foel-Fras. Though a little windy and dreich on the way up, the clouds cleared to give us some great views as we descended back to Rowen by the same route.

Back at the hostel, relaxing before we headed down the hill to the pub for the evening, I was fetching a bag of coal for the fire when the second sting-in-the-tail for the weekend caught me out. None too pleased at being disturbed from her hibernation among the coal sacks, a queen wasp stung me on the cuticle as I hefted a bag from the pile.

Queen wasp (from Flickr, user bramblejungle, CC-BY-NC-2 license)

I was too surprised to have the wherewithall to dispatch the creature and merely flicked it away. So, if you’re up at Rowen YHA during summer 2010, and are being bothered by a wasp nest, then I apologise in advance. It’s astonishing how such a little thing can inflict so much pain. After an initially eye-watering five-minute period where my finger felt as though it was being held in the fire that I’d been retrieving the coal for, it settled down somewhat. Imagine having your hand slammed in a door every few minutes for a couple of hours and you’ve got the idea. Beer didn’t help this time around.

There was one more unforeseen and unwelcome incident that weekend, when the hostel fire alarm malfunctioned at some ungodly hour on Sunday morning, and, having been silenced, proceeded to bleat about a fault until we eventually left on Sunday morning. At this point, the water had run out too. We’d been warned about this earlier in the week by the warden, and so had brought a fair amount of bottled water along. Talk about coals to Newcastle…

Overall though, this was a very enjoyable weekend, despite a few mishaps. The next time the travel instructions warn of an extremely steep hill that one may well be better parking at the bottom of, I might just do as they say…

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In a few of the national weather forecasts during the festive season, the central belt of Scotland was singled out with particularly low night-time temperatures — dropping to −16°C for several nights.

“Pah!”, was my reaction. Little dimmed are my memories of several days based in a cottage just outside Roybridge in Glen Spean, between Christmas and New Year 1995. For three nights in succession, the temperature dropped to −25°C. At the same time, Altnaharra recorded the joint lowest recorded UK temperature of -27.2°C (previously reached in 1895, and 1982). I got a frost-nipped nose walking the 1km to the pub one evening, and the following day discovered what happens to “Works down to −15°C” de-icer, when the ambient temperature is considerably lower. (For the record, it curled up in to a little ball, and rolled off the windscreen.) Two days later, after things had warmed up considerably, it felt positively tropical in Fort William with the daytime temperature soaring to −3°C.

Of course, in many parts of the world, such temperatures wouldn’t be worthy of any special mention. I recently re-read Jack London’s famous short story, “To Build a Fire” (full text) chronicling a traveller’s battle with the cold on a trail in the Yukon. Worth 15 minutes of anyone’s time.

I’ll end with an image from that bitter few days in Scotland at the close of ‘95. Daytime temperatures were more reasonable. Indeed, it was warmer on the hills than in the frigid depths of the valleys. Mercifully, there was no wind to speak of, and it was a joy to travel through this winter wonderland. Here’s hoping for more like this before the spring kicks in.

Frosted Spruce, Glen Spean (December 1995).

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Preparing for the Llanberis Track, near Llyn Padarn.

As it happens I managed all of the above (well, minus the open fire — the two-bar variety just doesn’t cut it), and, quite unexpectedly, managed to fit two memorable days’ mountain walking in too. For the first time in months, I completely ignored the weather forecasts. My usual forays to the Mountain Weather Information Service and their excellent forecasts tailored to us hill folk, were absent. The drive up from Cambridge on the Friday evening — via Nottingham to pick up two friends — was trouble free. As always happens (no, really, this always happens), the skies stayed dry until just after we crossed the border into Wales, whereupon the rain started. Unbeknownst to my passengers and I, this same rain was falling as heavy snow on the mountains.

Waking the next morning (with a slight hangover — the Theakstons Old Peculiar hadn’t settled terribly well), the skies were leaden, and there was a biting wind blowing the plastic recycling boxes around in the courtyard. A hint of rain in the air too. Of late, I’ve been succumbing to the temptation of low-level bimbles and tea-shop bagging when faced with, if not exactly inclement, then decidedly unfriendly weather.

Not this time though. I had a plan. Snowdon via the Llanberis track.

I think the Llanberis track has an undeserved reputation as a monotonous, second-rate route up the mountain. It’s really not all that bad. Agreed, in direct comparison to the Snowdon Horseshoe, or a more accessible route like the Pyg or Rhyd Ddu tracks, the Llanberis Track doesn’t shine. With the first dump of heavy snow of the winter mantling the hill from 400m though, the Llanberis Track gains some teeth.

A good dump of snow makes things a lot quieter for a start. No trains, and a much reduced stream of potential summiteers gives one more room to breathe. Of course, the final section along the summit ridge (above the Pyg track) is the usual circus — I wonder how many days a year, on average, the summit of Snowdon sees no visitors at all? I’d bet it’s in single figures.

Chilly views from the summit building.

We got quite chilly on top, taking lunch on the summit station platform, in the lee of the new summit building (Hafod Eryri), but were lucky to have the clouds break up as we were there.

Heading back down one can appreciate this route much more. Sweeping views over Mynydd Mawr, the Nantlle Ridge, and out across Anglesey are complemented by more intimate views of the climbers’ mecca — Clogwyn Du’r Arddu — reflected perfectly in its attendant lake. Crib Goch and the Glyders put in an appearance as well.

Crib Goch and the Glyders, from near Snowdon summit.

Here, too, near Clogwyn station, is a notorious convex slope that, sadly, seems to dispatch ill-equipped and unobservant hillgoers over the cliffs of Clogwyn Coch all too frequently.

But the snow was far too soft for that to be a serious danger this time round. Good thing too given some of the attire in evidence among the multitudes…

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