More 'The Joy of Wild Camping'

This time it's an article by Chris Townsend on wild camping and why anyone should ever want to to it.

I like his references to childhood, the creation of dens and camps. As a young child I used to make tents from my parents' towels - much to their annoyance no doubt - tying my father's garden twine onto the corners to attach homemade wooden tent pegs, all held aloft by my mother's washing line.  I think my influences for this came from the 1974 Swallows and Amazons film, and my father's reading of The Hobbit by Tolkien to me.

I can also relate to the references to our nomadic past. Seeing the happiness of my 18 month old son as he sat under a tarpaulin that I rigged for him in the sitting room on a recent rainy Sunday got me thinking. We'd never done that before, but as he sat covereded by his duvet with his toy dinner/cook set he seemed most comfortable. I wondered if the experience of being in a shelter with a cover over ones head, was maybe hard wired deep into our psyche or subconscious harking back to our ancient nomadic past.

Anyway, enough of my musings - here is Chris's article

Click Here

The Joy of Winter Wild Camping

The Telegraph published this piece by Rob Cowen on the Winter Wild Camping experience, and why we might want to do it.

To paraphrase someone more  well known for their outdoor exploits than me.....

"Because its there, duhhh.'

Well, there is a bit more to it than that.  Read on HERE

Trailstar - A Lake District Baptism

So over the last three days, I have at last baptised my Trailstar.

For this auspicious occasion I returned to one of my favourite places in the Lakes, and this morning I was blessed with overnight snow on the high fells, along with blue skies and a golden sun - the stuff of which dreams are truly made of.

I'll post some more text soon, but here are some of my favourite photographs from the trip, from under the shadow of Scafell and Scafell Pike.

UPDATE

My journey lasted for three days and two nights. I will begin with an admission that I didn’t quite cover the distance that I thought I would. This was due to a late start on day one, not getting onto the hill till gone 11amand I never quite made up the ground.

My route took me from Chapel Stile climbing steeply onto the ridge behind. From there I ventured around the Langdale Pikes and pitched camp by Stake Beck about a kilometre from High White Stones. In truth my first wild camp under the Trailstar was an unremarkable affair, waking after a night of rain and strong winds to a calm and misty morning with grey cloud hanging like a veil over the hills.

The sun began to break through after breaking camp as I walked along the ridge towards Angle Tarn. This afforded beautiful views down  Mickleden and Langdale. The sun punched through the clouds and it’s rays dappled the road and hills in the distance by  Blea Tarn.

I stopped to reminisce about wild camps at Angle Tarn some 15 years before when I was last that way. From there I walked with my memories up to Esk Hause, and then followed  the River Esk from  its source down onto Great Moss, where all the photographs were taken.

My return to Great Moss was again a step back into my past, as this was the site of my first ever wild camp under the shadow of Ill Crag maybe 20 years before. My recollection of that adventure was as if it was yesterday; the walk up the  River Esk from Brotherilkeld in growing wonder as I reached the packhorse bridge. And  then up the narrow gorge as the river cut waterfall after waterfall down  into plunging green pools. Then out onto Great Moss itself in 25 degree heat as I picked my way over cotton grass and bog to follow the river as it meandered through the peat. I thought I had discovered paradise back then as I pitched a tent there under cobalt skies.

My return now was under different conditions,  lowering clouds shrouding  the ridges and concealing the tops. I pitched the Trailstar as the light began to fail. As soon as the last guy was pegged rain began to beat urgently upon the fabric. I dozed in the dark as my stove purred as it heated dinner. A few hours later I heard the unmistakeable sound of  rain turning to sleet and finally snow. Every now and then I banged the sides of the trailstar to dislodge the wet snow as it accumulated on the sides. During the night the wind swung around to blow wet snow onto my face as I slept. I pegged the door loosely down. Later I opened my eyes in the darkness and saw the silver light of a near full moon filtering through the fabric. I couldn’t resist it’s draw and donned my wet boots to  emerged into a silver world of  thin damp snow covering grasses and reeds, lit by the silver ball of the moon. The river chattered it’s  never-ending way over the stones of the Moss.

Dawn light broke my dreams and I woke to discover that much of the snow of the previous night had vanished. However the surrounding hills still wore their mantle of white. I stood and watched the sky turn to pink and coral with the return of the sun as my stove began to boil.

The minutes that followed were truly a gift from the gods as the sun ranged over the landscape, giving it shape and dimension as it turned to gold. I packed away my kit and shouldered my pack with a happy heart. Over the years I have spent several nights on Great Moss , and this dawn my rank as one of the best. I followed the river down the valley and cut over the ridge to Lingcove Beck and struggled up through boulders and deepening wet snow to Three Tarns under Bow Fell. From there it was down the Band into Langdale and paths back to Chapel Stile.

For now I have more than enough memories to sustain my Trailstar dreams through the coming days and weeks until I can return again to those empty spaces to feed those dreams once more.